Posted for your enjoyment, a bolt of Friday Flash. F. Leonora Solomon hosts and curates a monthly flash fiction collection.Stories are written using an image prompt – this month’s is a woman in a fishnet body stocking. Check out Friday Flash to learn more (and read wonderfully sensual stories submitted by many other writers).
Paint Me by Devi Ansevi
“Lie still,” he said, brush poised, voice patient. “When you move, the light changes.”
“I can’t help it.” I shifted again, whimpered in equal parts pain and pleasure.
“What’s wrong?” He put the brush down. Careful, even in his concern, to keep the bristles away from possible pollutants. I shivered at delicious memories of soft ermine brushes. He plied his instruments with a virtuoso’s skill, whether the canvas consisted of cotton or skin.
“It’s pinching me.” A river of goosebumps puckered my nipples, prickled my belly. The minutest movement tugged at delicate strands, point and sensual counterpoint.
“Where?” He crouched next to the draped divan, placed a warm hand on my knee. Instantly, I wanted to part my thighs further. I held still, mutely begged for surcease. “Your pubic hair?” Eyes warm with regret, with concern, he stroked my knee. “I should have shaved your pussy. I’m sorry, love.”
“Not my hair,” I said, hips canting slightly in subtle offering. Knowing I was being bad, interrupting his work. Knowing his concern might transmute to annoyance or arousal. The thrill of not knowing drove me recklessly onward. “It’s pinching my button.” A hint of a whimper, a damsel in distress siren call he could never resist. Almost never.
“It’s supposed to pinch your button,” he murmured, eyes touching me there, peering into the shadows and the fishnet, studying the bound flesh. “The bit of discomfort swells your labia, stiffens your nub. Emphasizes your lushness.” His voice oozed hot caramel seduction, dripping warmly between my thighs.
“I didn’t know how intense it would be.” My gaze flitted downward to flesh imprisoned behind silken bars. “Help me?” Breathy, pleading.
“Would it help to open yourself wider?” he asked. Did he ask as an artist or a lover? “Try.” The hand on my knee urged. Obediently, web-like strands shifting and teasing and tugging, my thighs parted.
“Ohhhh.” An involuntary sound as cool air caressed wet flesh; as my nub, trapped for so long, thrust between the bars of its prison. Hazy with want, I moved to touch myself. Just one touch, one tiny caress, that was all I needed.
He got there first. “Perhaps we could make this work instead,” he said, preening and petting and arranging to his exacting requirements. “Better?” He seemed unaware of the damp heat under his fingertips, the perfume of arousal in the air. The quickened heartbeat of his lover.
“Mmm,” I agreed, “Better.” My hand pressed over his.
His palm turned, knuckles brushing against sensitive, swollen flesh, capturing my smaller hand in his. “A bit longer, love.” A mellow chuckle. “I’ll paint you afterward.” He rubbed my slit with the back of his hand, taunting me with textures and ridges. I arched my back, and his other hand tapped my knee. “Uh uh. No more moving.”
Simmering in desire, sexual arousal a lusty marinade, I lay back, resigned to my fate. He smiled, brushed a moist knuckle along my cheekbone, and returned to paintbrush and canvas. Once again, in thrall to his muse. Enthralled by light and shadow, flushed flesh and silken net.
At last, he gave a little sigh. My nipples hardened. That sigh meant he was done working on the cotton canvas. Meant he was ready to ply his trade in a different medium. He finished cleaning brushes, set them in a cup to dry. Picked up another cup with four brushes. Lifted the mug to his nose, inhaled the lingering scent of our past dalliance.
Heat flushed through me. “Lover,” I sighed. His loose sweatpants tented at the sound. That sigh meant I was done being a good girl. Meant he had work to do.
He brought the cup with him. Knelt on the floor at the end of the divan and pulled me toward him. Lifted my ankles, placed enmeshed feet on broad shoulders. “You were such a good girl today,” he said. “Now for your reward.” A wide ermine brush tip stroked across a nipple.
He chuckled. The bristles, soft with the barest hint of scratch, flowed down my belly. Leisurely, lazily, slow as the Mississippi, it wandered into tributaries, tickling now left, now right, until I complained.
Again, he chuckled. Then he reached my bud, aching and needsome. He swirled and twirled and stirred, slow then fast, delicate then firm, the rising crescendo of my “oh, oh, ohs” an ode to his talent.
“More,” I demanded, catching my breath. Proficient in his trade, he brought another brush into play, this one wider, stiff bristled, plied against desirous, damp folds. “Stroke me, paint me,” I encouraged, head back to focus on his genius.
Long, firm strokes up and down my slit. Swirling softness over my nub. Not enough to get me to orgasm, just enough to fill my belly with warmth, with want, with love.
Several sighs and sweet pleadings later, he judged his living canvas almost done. Discarding the brushes, he cupped my bottom, raised me to his mouth and sought the succulent nectar within.
“More, more,” I begged.
Magically, he produced a tiny pair of scissors. Warm palm holding me still, he snipped, freeing that part of me which ached for a different captivity.
Relief! Ah, such sweet relief.
“Crotchless stockings now,” he mused, joining me on the divan, joining our bodies, sinking into my wet and wanting channel. Catching me almost instantly in orgasm’s long-delayed net.
He paused, then began again. “Always in such a hurry,” he scolded. “Two hours in this sexy stocking. Gorgeous. Lush. Exotic. Erotic.” Each word accompanied by a deep thrust, by my appreciative sighs. “Worth more than twenty seconds of fucking.”
“Forty seconds?” I teased, muscles clutching tight.
“At least,” he agreed. “I want to paint you.” His pace quickened, face absorbed, hungry, excited at a new idea. “Your pussy. Torn stocking.” He panted. “Oh, God, cum dripping, freshly fucked.” His cock pulsed inside me.
We kissed tenderly. “Yes,” I whispered.