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Everywhere but my nipples, and the dry paint on them becomes unbearable compared to the thick wetness he’s playing with all over my body.
“Xi,” I whimper against the brushes in my mouth. “Please.”
I need him to touch my tits. I need him to lick them better, to play with them. My body is hypersensitive, my pussy sodden.
“Shh,” he reassures me. A hand comes to rest against my cheek. It’s wet, and I feel him smear some paint over my jaw. “You wanted me to paint you again.”
He takes the last brush from my mouth and puts back the thick one.
My eyes flutter open only to be met with the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. His hair is disheveled, smudges of paint on his t-shirt and his face, his gaze focused on the pink color covering my body.
When his eyes flick up to mine, his lip curls up. “Bad girl,” he sneers. He grabs something next to me, and before I know what’s going on, he’s pressing a cloth to my eyes and knotting it behind my head.
It smells of him. It smells of turpentine and paint.
And it feels like everything else is heightened. It’s not the same as closing my eyes. It’sbetter.
So much better.
This time, the brush has no paint when it comes to touch me. And it grazes theonlyplace that hasn’t been getting any attention this whole time.
“Oh,” I moan around the wooden sticks in my mouth. It was so delicate I barely felt it, even as it lit my entire body on fire.
I wait, unsure if I made it up or not.
But then it comes back.
Soft, delicate bristles going from just above my clit, descending on it, and ending at my wet entrance.
It’s gone as fast as it came, and I push my hips forward, seeking the mind-blowing feeling.
“Settle down,” he tells me.
I inhale a ragged breath through my nose, and it’s back. Slower this time, making me moan low in my throat. My body electrifies, but it’s gone too soon.
A whimper escapes me. I want to cry. This is pure torture.
My heavy breathing is turning loud, whiny. I’m trembling while I wait for the next indulgence that I know will only last a second.
“You’re so wet,” he rasps. “I can paint your little clit with your wetness over and over again while you tremble under my brush.”
And he does it.
Over.
And over.
Again.
I writhe, I chase, I strain and tense, and finally, I break.
“Please,” I sob. It’s muffled by the brushes in my mouth, but my desperation is apparent anyway.
I can barely take another breath when he ignores my plea and drags the soft brush again.
“Why?” I cry out. I don’t understand. Didn’t he say he would give me orgasms if I was good? If I did what he said? If I let him gag me by doing something as simple as biting two paintbrushes between my teeth?
“You’re going to come, baby. Be patient.”
