AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He will not touch my clit.
He won’t do it.
Frustration heats and boils over. Emerson’s big, strong hand is everywhere but where I need it to be, and look at me, look at me. I’m a naked woman perched on a painting stool with her legs spread wide, practically begging, and he is giving me nothing.
I begged him to wait before. Maybe this is why he’s doing this. I’m electric with nervousness and shame and a twisting desire. How long do I last? Another five minutes? Ten?
“Please,” I hear myself say. “I need to come. I need you to touch me.”
“Not yet, little painter.”
“What are you waiting for? This is mean. This is so mean.”
“I never promised to be nice,” I think he says. I can’t quite hear. My heartbeat is too loud. The emptiness in my pussy is too much. Every breath hurts. Keeping my thighs open like this hurts. The fact that he won’t help me—it hurts.
One tear slips down my cheek, and then a second. I keep the brush on the canvas. Emerson makes a sound behind me. He approves of this. He wants this. He wanted me to cry.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” I gasp.
“Yes,” he agrees. “Does it feel good to cry?”
“No.” It’s a lie. It does feel good to release some of this pressure. “This isn’t what I need.”
He leans close to speak into my ear. “This isn’t about what you need. I wanted to see what this looks like on your face, and your body.”
“This?”
“Emotion. Tears.” Another low laugh. “Desperation.”
A chill runs down my spine. “You built me an art studio,” I argue back, more tears falling, faster now. A sob hitches at my chest. I’m so frustrated. “Give me what I need.”
Emerson groans. “Oh, little painter. The sight of you coming apart.”
I’m not coming apart, I mean to say, but then he pushes two fingers inside me and the paintbrush falls to the floor.
This is what I needed, and it’s also much more than I thought it would be. They feel thick inside me. Almost thicker than I can take. But Emerson fucks me with them like he’s confident in my abilities.
He pulls them out again, sweeps a paintbrush from the table, and puts it back in my hand.
Emerson pushes his fingers in deep and waits.
My hand shakes as I move the bristles back toward the canvas. I have never been touched this way before. Holy Christ.
“That’s it,” he coaxes. “Let me see you, and I’ll give you what you want. Fuck, you’re wet for this.”
More tears drip down to my thighs, each one a hot pinprick.
“This is humiliating,” I whisper. “This is awful.”
“I could take my fingers away. Would that feel better?”
He forces me to admit it. Out loud. “No.”
The brush meets the canvas. Emerson’s fingers move again. Slow, deep strokes.
I add more blue, more white. I am painting dark swirls of power. I am painting secrets, and frustration, and want. I am painting the shame of being finger-fucked while he orders me to paint and the unbelievable sexiness of it. The tips of his fingers are near to reaching the place inside that he’s going to have to break. I’ve lost all sense of the sea. I don’t know how far the surface is. Emerson’s not just holding my throat anymore. I’ve leaned into it, wanting more pressure or unable to hold myself up or both. My hips roll forward onto his fingers. The brush stays on the canvas.
“Is this what you wanted?” I manage to say, the words broken up by my panting. “When you said you wanted more?”
