If you enjoyed Kay Jaybee's naughty artist last week, you might like this excerpt from my short story Wet Paint, which appeared in Nexus Confessions Vol. 6
Our heroine is trying to annoy a painter she's discovered in her favourite sunbathing spot:
I squinted closer at his easel, which had a painting on it of the lake, with the big stems of reed mace and a couple of golden ducks.
‘That’s pretty. Are you using watercolours?’
I gave him a beaming smile. ‘So what sort of birds are they?’
‘Mandarin ducks.’ He looked irritated. I guess curvy young women didn’t make a habit of chatting him up and he didn’t know how to take it. I moved some papers and sat down on the bench right at his shoulder.
‘Go on, keep painting.’
He grunted sourly. Then he turned his attention back to his picture. I let him paint in an area of lake before I spoke up again.
‘Do you like birds especially, or do you just like painting anything?’
‘Well, today I’m painting birds,’ he said quietly. ‘Trying to, anyway.’
‘What about painting a pair of Great Tits?’ I grabbed the hem of my top and hoiked it up, revealing my big firm beasts. Give the man credit; his reaction was more collected than I’d have expected. After a brief hard stare he slapped his paintbrush into the paint on his tray and daubed it onto my left nipple. The paint was thick and cool and stood up in a tiny peak from my flesh..
Cerulean blue, I believe it was.
‘You’ll find they’re just Blue Tits,’ he remarked snarkily. ‘Very common.’
‘Well you could at least even them up,’ said I, pulling my top right off over my head. He saw the delight and the challenge in my face, and something changed in his. His mouth softened.
‘Okay.’ He dipped the brush in water and gathered blue paint again, more carefully this time. He applied it carefully too, swirling the brush-hairs over both my areolae until they puckered, coating my nipples which hardened to stiff nubbins with the pleasure of the cold, soft touch. I sighed in appreciation. He sat back and regarded his work critically.
‘Are you going to-?’ I started. He popped the long brush handle between my lips, sideways, like it was a horse’s bit. Or a gag,
‘Hold this.’ He waited until I’d taken it obediently between my teeth, then instructed me: ‘Lean back.’
Eagerly I adjusted my seat on the bench, straddling it with my legs and leaning back on my arms, so my torso was drawn out and my tits upthrust, wobbling gently with each breath. The painter nodded approval. I wondered how he was going to manage without his brush, but it turned out he wanted a different one anyway; one with fatter shaft and a big square-tipped head, the kind used for putting in big areas of sky. With this he began to paint me, starting with my breasts, and it turned out he had a bit of a talent for abstract art as well as for drawing birds. I became his canvas; a warmer, more rounded one than he was used to maybe, but generously sized. He painted swirling lines of bright colour, following my body contours, mostly in greens and yellows like I was some strange jungle reptile. He painted down the line of my chest and stomach, then turned my navel into the centre of a sunburst. He worked quickly, with an expression of great concentration. I’d never seen an artist in action close up like this, and it was fascinating. The tickle of the brush was tormenting because it was so concentrated when every inch of my skin wanted to feel it at once; it was like a cold wet tongue lapping at me.
I started to mew with arousal around my wooden gag. He ignored me. On top of the background colours he layered paths of spots in blue and white, using a narrower brush and undiluted paint. If I’ve ever seen anything like it, it’s Australian Aboriginal painting.
He got all the way down to the waistband of my skirt. ‘Take this off,’ he ordered, so I shimmied awkwardly out of it before resuming my position. He stared at my tanga briefs. ‘Open your legs.’
I spread my thighs for him.
‘Are you shaved?’
He didn’t even ask me to do it this time. He just took hold of my panties and pulled them down, tossing them aside before crouching to look at my plump bare pussy. His nose twitched as he inhaled the scent of my sex. I could smell myself too: I was wet with anticipation.
He painted my mound, turning it into a madly-coloured tropical flower. He painted my velvety outer lips until the flower began to open all its petals. Then,‘Get your knees up,’ he said: ‘I want to see everything,’ and I did, lying back along the hard wooden bench to do it, bringing my knees up to my chest and hoisting my ankles over my head.
He cleaned his brush and manipulated my swollen pink clit with the cold tuft, making me moan. My pussy was so overflowing with juice that he could wet his brush in me and use it to mix his paints. He dyed my inner lips in bright crimson and then coloured right down my crack to my bum-hole, the brush-tip swirling like a tongue around my puckered little entrance until I squealed, feeling it dilate.
‘Quiet.’ He lifted his brush, showing me. Then he reversed it in his hand. The wooden shaft was, oh, about as thick as a middle finger; he slid it into my arse, jiggling it about to make sure I felt it and groaned at the invasion. Then leaving the brush hanging out of me like a skinny tail, the painter stood. Slipping his trouser-buttons he unzipped his flies to release an erect cock that wasn’t nearly as weedy as you might think from the rest of him.
Nexus Confessions Vol.6 is available on: