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“Does it feel good?”
“Yes,” she groans greedily.
“Do you know what would feel better?” I purr, and when she shakes her head, I drag the brush across her bare pussy. She gasps and shifts in the chair before stilling. I slowly nudge her shirt up to expose her pink, gleaming wet pussy. My dirty love seems to be enjoying her distraction.
“Is this what you needed? For me to make you come? To fuck you with my brushes until you can’t think? To eat this pussy of ours until there is no more sadness in those eyes?” I ask, twisting the brush and dragging the tiny wooden handle down her glistening lips until she moans for me. “Is it, Blair?”
“I don’t know, but I’m willing to try,” she teases, spreading her legs wider.
“A good muse is naked,” I murmur, looking at her shirt pointedly. “I need to see every curve and dip of my model.”
Sitting forward, she grabs the hem of her shirt, and with a knowing grin, she tugs it off and tosses it away. Just like the first time I saw her in all her nude glory, she steals my breath. I scan every inch of her soft, perfect skin, memorising her tattoos, scars, and marks. Poets would write sonnets for her. Painters would paint until their hands broke. Sculptors would model clay, and still, it would not epitomise her beauty.
Cupping my face, she drags my eyes back to hers. “Just going to stare?” she purrs before leaning down and kissing me. “Or are you going to do just as you promised?” Licking my lips, she swallows my groan before nipping and jolting me back to life.
With a solid hand between her breasts, I push her back into the chair. Chuckling, she leans back and throws one leg over my shoulder like I’m her disciple, and maybe I am. My eyes go to her exposed core, seeing her wet pussy waiting for me.
Me.
No one else. My girl is giving me control and asking me to help, and I plan to do just that. I drag my hands up her soft, buttery thighs. My cock jerks, begging for her attention, but I refuse. I would wait thousands of years in agony just to get a taste of her cunt.
Seeing her come apart for me? Tasting it?
It’s better than sex or even my own release.
My hands nearly tremble against her skin as I sweep the brush down her pussy, circling her hole as she groans. Her eyes are locked on my every movement, and her body is so attuned to my touch, it almost shakes with her desire. It’s heady, the power she is giving me.
I want this to be perfect, to prolong it until her cries echo around our house. I use the hard edge of the brush and drag it up her pussy, catching her clit before sliding down to her puckered asshole over and over. She wiggles in frustration, her cream covering her thighs and dripping to the chair below.
“Please, Ash,” she begs, reaching down to anchor her fingers in my short hair. She pulls on the strands as she tries to get me where she wants me, but I resist, having my own ideas. In punishment—or pleasure, I’m not sure which—I flip the brush and, with featherlight touches, drag it across her engorged clit.
She moans and sides down in the chair until more of her weight is on my shoulder, her legs opening wider. My other hand keeps her steady, gripping her skin so hard it will leave marks, which I know she loves. I do too. Seeing my marks on her skin gives me a sick sense of pleasure.
“Oh fuck,” she groans as I brush her clit like I would a canvas with circling, soft touches. When I know she is going to come, I move away, ignoring her protests and clenching, needy hole. Instead, I dip my brush in her cream and paint across her pussy teasingly until she calms, withholding her release until I am good and ready.
She grumbles about dicks and filling my pillows with Bray’s dirty boxers, but I ignore her and continue my masterpiece. Slowly dragging back up and over her clit, I build her back up until her voice is hoarse from her cries, and only when she begs, her voice high and whiny, do I let her come.
“Please, Asher!” she shouts, so I twist the brush and tap her clit with the wooden end, and with another yell, she comes.
It’s a beautiful sight.
I guide her through it with soft touches, and when she slumps, I continue my painting. I pull the brush away and swipe her cream down the wooden handle as she watches. With my other hand, I cup her pussy and grind, covering it in her release before pulling away and stroking the handle like I would my cock, watching as she whimpers.
“Stay still, and I’ll let you come again,” I promise as I press the wooden end to her hole, and when she opens her mouth to sass me, I slam it inside of her.
She cries out as I work the skinny wooden handle into her cunt before pulling out and pushing back in. I fuck her with it in quick, hard thrusts, knowing it won’t be enough to set her off but will wind her up and keep her on edge. Her hips gyrate, lifting to meet my thrusts as she whimpers.
“More,” she demands.
“When I’m ready,” I murmur, watching the wooden handle that I have spent months painting with disappear inside my love’s dripping pussy.
I tilt it and drag it along her nerves as she moans, and only when she stops begging and just takes what I’m offering do I pull the handle out slowly. She whimpers again, but I place the paintbrush carefully on her thigh and pick up the thicker one—thick enough that she can fuck it as I watch. Her eyes are closed, so she doesn’t see me, but she jumps when I rub the cool, hard wood across her cunt. I twist it and rub, wetting every inch of the handle.
“Fucking hell,” she rasps as I finally press the wider handle to her hole, and when she inhales, I impale her on it. She cries out as I start to fuck her with it.
I watch as a thin sheen of sweat covers her incredible curves. Her hips roll desperately, taking the paintbrush deeper and deeper.
“Good girl,” I praise. “Get it nice and wet for me, I want it dripping. I’m going to mix it with my paint and fill my canvas.” That has her moaning loudly.
