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I shake my head, wanting to explode in tears. I want to see him. I want to let go of my arms so I can grab him. I want to spit the brushes on the floor.
But I want to come more.
“Relax. You will come slowly. Like this.”
“No,” I mumble between two sobs. I need more pressure, more speed.
“Shh,” he insists. He rubs his thumb against my nipple covered in dry paint, making me cry out some more. “It’ll come.”
One slow, torturing stroke after another, he keeps going. His pace slow and erotic. The pressure is so light I tremble every time. And just like he promised, my orgasm ripples over me gradually. It’s sensual and gentle, but it breaks everything inside me.
I bite on the brushes. I shake.
And I cry.
Real tears fall down my eyes from the leisurely release. He doesn’t stop because I’m not overstimulated. I keep chasing for more, and he gives it to me at the same speed.
A deliberate slow stroke.
A long beat.
The sound of his soft movement.
Another gradual stroke.
And the whole time, I feel it all exploding inside me. A rush of adrenaline like never before.
I wonder how long it lasts and how many times I come. Time is a concept of the past. It’s weak and ineffective. My life is not measured by the ticks of a clock anymore. It’s measured by the strokes of a brush against the most intimate part of me.
When I’m so weak my entire body is shaking, the brush he was using is added to the two in my mouth, and he rips the blindfold off me.
His lips crash against mine, and I moan into his mouth. “You’re so beautiful,” he growls against me. “You’re so perfect.”
He grabs his dick and lines it with my swollen entrance. He rubs the tip in the wetness and groans, “You’re so mine, baby. It’s you and me, right? Just you and me.”
I nod.
“Say. It.”
“It’s you and me,” I gargle around brushes.
“That’s right.”
He pushes into me so intensely I cry out and everything falls out of my mouth. But it’s good, so freaking good I don’t dare stop any of the noises that come out of me.
I moan and sob and call out his name like the god he is.
I pray at his damn altar while he pounds into me and curves his hips to hit the perfect spot. I grab his shirt, then his neck and his hair. I beg him to make me come again.
He flips me around and presses my upper body to a canvas next to me, the paint smearing on there.
And he makes me come again. Enough times that when everything has ultimately detonated inside me and set fire to my soul, all he has to do is pick up the ashes and attempt to put me back together.
He showers me and puts me to bed, whispering the sweetest things I’ve ever heard.
I’m his special girl.
I’m his muse.
