“You’re wasting time. Where do you want me?”
With zero hesitation, she points behind her. “On the couch.”
She runs to the kitchen, gets a chair, and puts it next to her easel and small table. She picks up a small wooden box I recognize. That box that contains the burned fingers of her ex, now charcoal. When she opens the box to reveal the burned bone, my cock jumps, ready to fuck when she runs her finger over the fingers I removed one by one while he begged for his life. Two of them are smaller, well-used sticks. She plucks out one and rests it on the tray of her easel. “What are these?” I ask, touching the side of the box I carved from a tree on my property. A cedar coffin for his digits.
“These?” She picks it up and smiles, tracing the carvings I made with my knife. “It’s the weirdest thing. They were a gift.”
“From who?” I ask to be perverse. The fact that she has no idea it was me is another part of my sick and twisted enjoyment. I love stalking her, doing things for her that she has no idea about.
“And these?” I touch the watercolor pallets of grays and blacks.
Her sexy lips tilt up. “No clue either. They came with the charcoal. I thought they were from my friend Kingsley, but she swears it wasn’t her. I think maybe someone gifted them to me from the art studio, but I never did find a card, and I don’t care. It’s some of the best charcoal and watercolors I’ve ever used.” She shrugs and takes a seat.
It makes me savagely happy that she’s been using my gift to create her art. Maybe Reed Spencer wasn’t so useless after all. Worthless bastard’s burned remains are being used to illustrate me fucking her pussy, her ass, and her mouth. It’s a thing of beauty. He didn’t satisfy her. He hurt her, and now she’s mine. It’s divine justice if you ask me. I would thank him for his negligence if he weren’t buried in some random grave. “I want you to use them tonight when you draw me,” I command, secretly smiling about the fact that his fingers will essentially be drawing my dick. Her eyebrows raise, but she shrugs, setting up her supplies.
Smirking, I walk to her small couch and sit, shifting it so I can see her. Her back is elegant. Her form is beautiful. The large shirt hangs off her shoulder. And I realize I want to see her like this more, sex mussed, my cum all over her body while she uses those slender, regal fingers to hold charcoal or a paintbrush while she sketches.
Her face is filled with intensity; ferocious concentration. I stroke myself, ready to come, while she draws. Her feet are arched on tiptoe as she sits on her stool. Scratching sounds come from where she is sketching, and her breathing is getting faster. She tears off a page from her large sketchbook, dropping it to the ground. When she looks at me, licking her lips, my eyes move down to her nipples. They bead against the underside of the shirt. She moves frantically, sketching furiously. She’s aroused, breathing heavily as I stroke my cock, still sticky from when I came inside her earlier.
“Lay down.”
Not taking my eyes off her, I swivel and lie on her couch.
“Put your hand behind your head and bend your left knee.”
I do as she says, my eyes fixed on the concentration on her face. A fine sheen of sweat coats her body. I’m dying to taste it, to lick her from top to bottom, but I promised her this, and she’s making it damn hard when those green eyes look at me every few seconds, before refocusing on her pad.
“Hand down on your stomach. Don’t touch your cock.”
My jaw clenches, and my muscles lock. I do as she says. Every command she makes is strong, aggressive, just like she was earlier when she took control of me, sucking my cock, pulling me under her spell.
Paper after paper from her sketch book flies to the ground. My cock is tight with the need to come. She’s edged me until the point of pain. I need her. Getting up, I walk to her, glancing down at the rough sketches. Even unfinished and raw, they are a thing of artistic beauty. She’s made me into something majestic, something I am unworthy of, but right now I don’t give a fuck.
I stand behind her and reach out. I trace what she created. It’s me lying on her couch, knee bent. It’s a moment that hasn’t happened yet. The moment right after I come. My hand is around my cock. My face is relaxed, and my hand is coated in drips of my cum. Rivulets of it are drawn, seeping through the tight manacle of fingers I have around my shaft. My cum covers my rings, my knuckles, beading down over my wrist and onto my forearm. The shading is incredible. Some of the best I’ve ever seen. I help her up and take the vacant seat, putting her on my lap, wrapping my arm around her waist. My cock is wedged between her crack and the slit of her pussy. She moans and wiggles on my lap.
“It’s beautiful.” I pick up her hand, smudged with charcoal and ink. I bring them to my mouth, running her fingers along mylips and under my nose, smelling the acridness of the charcoal and the chemical scent of the ink. Nipping at the fleshy pad of her finger, I suck two fingers into my mouth, tasting her unique honeysuckle scent and the items she used. I lift her shirt and bring her saliva-covered hand to her nipples. I swirl her wet fingers around her hard buds. I cover her hand with mine, entwining our fingers, helping her pinch the tips. She arches her back, leaning onto me.
She turns her face into my neck, her breathy voice wafting on my skin. “You make me feel so good, Stone.”
“I’ll make you feel even better in a minute.” I remove her hands from her breast and look down at her stained palm in mine. “Open your legs, Countess. As wide as you can.” She rocks side to side and moves her legs wider over my thighs. I can feel the heat from her pussy, the warmth calling to my fingers. Touching her, I sigh when I feel her wet, slippery heat. Using my free hand, I rip the sheet with my portrait from her large sketchbook, dropping it to the floor with the others. “Your turn, Countess. I want you to draw yourself coming. I want you to draw this moment. The moment when you come on my fingers.”
She whimpers, pushing her hand down to meet my fingers. We play in her moisture. I slip a finger inside her, and she moans, long and loud, rocking against my invasion.
“Pick up your pencil. Draw. Feel me, feel how wet you are. How beautiful this pussy is. How beautiful you sound when you explode.”
Her fingers tremble when she reaches for the pencil. I help her sit up, keeping my two fingers inside her.
“Stone. Oh my god. This is–”
“Perfection,” I interrupt her.
With my help, she leans forward slightly. Her fingers fly across the blank paper, and soon a rough outline of two figures on a chair appears. My fingers slowly work her pussy, and shemoans. One hand joins mine as she fingers her clit, our fingers working harmoniously. More details are added to her drawing. My form materializes. A thick forearm is rendered. Her ass slowly grinds on my dick. I keep pace with her movements, working faster as she scrapes the pencil across the paper. The complete drawing materializes. The image perfectly displays her open legs, me behind her, her T-shirt being held up by my arm.Some of the lines are not as neat as her usual strokes, but I love them. I love the chaos. I love the way it highlights that she can’t control herself. The turbulence in her work is a signal of her pleasure.I love every fucking thing about her like this.
“Fucking amazing, Countess. Look at how well you did. I can see how deep my fingers are in your pussy.”
“Yes. Yes!”
She lets go of the pencil and reaches down to hold my hand, to push my fingers deeper, but I keep them still. “No. I want you to finish the drawing, Countess. Keep going.” Her orgasm is starting, and her strokes become more erratic, more undisciplined.Eventually, she drops the pencil, bowing her head and grips the easel, shaking it while she fucks my fingers, calling my name. Pencils drop and roll across the floor. I ease her back, letting her lean on my body. I lift her arm and put it around my neck.
