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But the upside to the conference is that it’s being held in Atlantic City at the Wilshire Hotel, and I made sure to get the Presidential Suite, so I’m living in style. The downside is that not a single person at that conference is worth knowing and I was bored to tears, so I left in the middle of one of the sessions. It was either sit there in misery as corporate marketers with their fancy bow-ties tried to put a new spin on old information, or get the hell out of there. So I left.
I haven’t been to this particular art studio in a while, but I like to dabble. As a result, when I saw they were having a figure-painting class, I knew it would be a hell of a lot better than the conference I ran out on. OnDemand is known for its inclusivity, and they love to use beautiful, full-figured women as their models for class. When I stepped foot into the room, I could see that my time was going to be well-spent. The three models are gorgeous, lush, and full-figured. It’s nice to see an art school that understands what a truly beautiful woman looks like.
But then, something weird happened. I positioned myself at one of the open easels when suddenly, something gunky and coconutty shot out and hit me in the face. WTF? I smeared it all over myself while trying to get it off, and the stuff was not bad, actually. Not what I’d select for paint, but then again, there are always new developments in this area.
But when I finally looked up after getting splattered, it was the beautiful woman staring at me that made me do a double take. She has curves I’d love to hold onto while I press her body close to mine. Her hair is a mess of thick, brown curls I’d enjoy tangling my hands in, and her brown eyes are like pools of chocolate luring me in. Who is this siren?
But then someone hands me a towel, and I try to wipe the mess away. Suddenly, looking down at the terrycloth, I realize the substance she squirted on me isn’t paint because it’s clear. My eyes go to her hands, and I can’t stop the small smile that tilts the corner of my mouth when I see what she’s holding. The tube in her hand says COCOSLICK in big block letters, and that is definitely not paint. It’s a coconut scented lube that’s particularly good for some sexy back door play, if I’m not mistaken.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Please, let me, um…” she starts looking around and grabs another cloth from a bag beside her. “Do you need another towel?”
Her cheeks turn an even darker pink, and I wonder just how red they would get if I offered to help her put that Cocoslick to its intended use. I bite my tongue, deciding not to point out her mistake because this isn’t the place. Besides, I don’t want this to be my last interaction with this beautiful woman, so it’s probably best if I don’t embarrass her further in front of this class full of people. Instead, I take the seat at the easel right next to hers and flash her my best smile.
“It’s all gone,” I say. “No harm, no foul. But seeing that I’m a mess now, there is something you could do if you really want to make it up to me.”
Her eyes nervously roam my face and I’m not sure if she’s trying to make sure I got all the lube off my face, or if she’s trying to judge my character and figure out what kind of proposition I might be directing her way before she responds.
“How can I make it up to you?” she murmurs. I grin, flashing my bright whites.
“Come have coffee with me after class.”
Her eyebrows shoot up to her forehead. And look at that: the sweet girl is able to get even redder. “You want to have coffee with me?” she chokes.
“Yes, of course. I mean,” I wink at her, “it’s the least you can do after squirting on my face.”
I swear she stops breathing for a minute at the double entendre, but then the pretty brunette slowly nods her head. “Okay. Coffee it is then.”
I grin. “Good. Hopefully this class will be over soon. I’m Mason Carlisle, by the way. And you are …?”
She blushes before taking my outstretched hand.
“Mimi,” she murmurs. “Mimi Richardson.”
Her touch is soft and gentle, and I feel my body go hard from the tiny palm cocooned in my own. Suddenly, this class can’t be over fast enough because I want to know what Miss Mimi Richardson was doing with a tube of anal lube in her bag.
5
Mimi
My heart is beating so hard in my chest I’m sure everyone in class can hear it. At least the mystery hottie I splattered on the face has turned to the models and is focusing on his work, so I can take a moment to try to collect myself. Carefully, I mix some colors together and dash my brush across the canvas, seeing nothing. Ugh. What a disaster!
