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I open it, and he puts two paintbrushes in my outstretched mouth, sideways. “Bite.”
Closing my mouth, I hold the wooden brushes between my teeth. “Not too hard,” he adds.
I nod to show him I understand.
He grabs a third one and dips it in the paint he just mixed. It’s a bright pink, and my questioning eyes dart to his confident ones.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers.
They flutter closed.
“Put your hands behind your back, push your tits out.”
My shaky hands go behind my back, and I grab my wrists to hold them there. It forces me to push my breasts out, although I push them further anyway.
“Good girl. Don’t move. And, Alex…do not drop those brushes in your mouth, or you can kiss your orgasms goodbye.”
I inhale sharply through my nose.
Not orgasm. Orgasms.
I startle when I feel the wet bristle of a brush on my right nipple. He strokes me once, twice, and that’s it before he moves on to the other one. I squirm on his desk, moaning through the wood I’m biting.
It’s rough and smooth. It’s cold against my burning skin. It’s the exact amount of friction I need against my hard buds.
I chase the feeling when he pulls the brush away. The paint is thick, wet.
“Relax your jaw.” His lustful voice makes me press my thighs together. “And keep those legs spread.”
He grabs a brush from my mouth, replacing it with another.
This time it’s bigger. The bristles are thicker, and there are more of them. He proceeds to paint me with broad strokes.
The brush caresses my hips, kneading the flesh of my love handles before following the curve to my waist. He pauses, then he’s back on my stomach, dripping more paint and creating goosebumps wherever he goes. He spreads the thick liquid all over me. My chest, the curves of my breasts, my legs, my arms. More, and more. The smell takes me by surprise. I’m coated in it everywhere except in two places.
My dripping pussy and my nipples.
The hard buds only have those two layers he painted that are slowly drying.
And the more they dry, the more the paint hardens and pinches them.
I moan when he flicks one of them with his fingers.
“How does that feel?” he whispers.
He pinches one.
“Sensitive,” I whimper. I’m not sure he hears it with all the paintbrushes in my mouth.
“Mm, it looks like it.” He strokes the thick brush just below my nipple, enhancing the difference between the thick, wet paint and the thin, drying coat.
“I have never had a muse before,” I hear him murmur to himself. It feels forbidden to hear, like I shouldn’t be privy to the artist’s thoughts.
I’m just an object of art, sitting on his desk among the others. A mixing palette, a brush, a bottle of turpentine, and Alexandra Delacroix’s body. All of them are tools he uses as he chooses to create magic.
Silently, he paints some more. He’s lost in the fine piece he’s making, covering me in heavy paint and ignoring that underneath, my body is writhing, desperate for his touch. My pleasure has been forgotten, and his concentration is directed toward art.
It’s everywhere.
