Teach Me Dirty (35 page)

“I like messy,” I said, and his smile was infectious.

He left me naked in the firelight while he grabbed some cushions and arranged them on the floor. He patted the sheet. “Come here, please.”

I dropped to my knees and he coaxed me onto my back, propped my head so gently onto one of the cushions and then lifted me up by my legs to prop another couple under my ass. My thighs fell open naturally and he ran a thumb over my clit. I closed my eyes to his touch, relaxed onto it, but he pulled away.

“Please don’t stop. Please, I really need this.”

“Patience,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

I heard him in the kitchen, footsteps and clattering, and when he came back it was with a towel over his shoulder and a bowl in his hands. He positioned himself on his knees between my legs, and I didn’t get chance to ask any questions before he held up a razor.

“May I?”

I felt my cheeks burning. “You want to shave me?
There
?”

“If I may.”

“Ok,” I felt so young then, inexperienced and clumsy. “You may.”

“I’ll be very careful.” He smiled.

“I’m not worried,” I said.

He flicked on a lamp at his side, and I felt so exposed, but it didn’t feel unpleasant. It didn’t feel unpleasant at all.

The water was hot, it felt amazing against my skin, but not as amazing as his fingers did as they lathered me with soap. It made me squirm.

“Please try to keep still,” he said. “At least for the next bit.”

I nodded.

It felt so weird. More weird than I’d expected. The thrill of the razor against my skin was quite something. His concentration was addictive, too, treating me like a delicate flower, so gently, so carefully.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I said.

“Yes,” he replied. “But this is different.”

“It is?” My brain skittered through potential differences. Was I weird? Did I have weird…

“It’s with
you
.” He swirled the razor in the bowl. “That makes it a different experience altogether.” He read my mind. “A
good
experience, Helen.”

I closed my eyes as he spread me open, the razor kissing my most sensitive of places. I’d never felt quite so exposed as I did then, and there was a thrill to it, an excitement.

“You have the most delightful little pussy, Helen. It’s really beautiful.”

I grinned like an idiot. “Thank you.”

He ran a thumb over me and it felt so different, so tender. It felt incredible.

“Do you like how it feels?”

I nodded. “Yes, I like it a lot.”

He took his time, moving my pussy lips so gently, this way and that. Stopping to tease, stopping to tempt, just enough to make me quiver. The heat of a wet sponge made my breath hitch. Water trickled down over my ass and it tickled. Everything was hot and wet, and needy.
I
was needy. “All done,” he said. “Beautiful.” He took my fingers and placed them between my legs. “Feel how pretty you are, Helen. How soft.”

It was so tingly. So different. “Wow.”

“Nice, yes?”

“Intense… it feels… so tender…”

“Exposed, vulnerable. Perfect, Helen, you look perfect.”

My eyes met his. “You like it?”

“I love it.” He reached to his side and held up a paintbrush. “Makes a much better canvas, too.”

My heart hammered at the realisation. “You’re going to paint my pussy?”

He laughed. “I’m going to paint
you
. Not just your pussy. Although I have to say I’m looking particularly forward to that bit.”

I couldn’t stop feeling my newly exposed skin. It was addictive, the sensations were addictive.

He watched my fingers, and his eyes darkened. “Don’t stop,” he said, and shifted position.

His hands gripped my thighs, and his breath tickled tender skin and I moaned.

He kissed my fingers between my legs, and followed them with his tongue. It set me on fire, turned me into a squirming hot mess.

A week had been too long. I reached down for him, grabbed at his hair.

“Please…” I spread myself with my fingers. “Mark, please…”

His breath was hot on me. His words gravelly and breathless.

“Since you ask so nicely…”

***

Mark

The girl was a stunning siren, the call of her flesh was divinity itself. She was a sweet and innocent temptress, soaking in every delight and pulling me ever-deeper. She hitched her pussy, demanding more, her fingers spreading herself so urgently. Her pussy was velvet soft, a ripe peach, her clit swollen and begging to be touched. I gripped her thighs, spread them wide, and the low moan that escaped her as I pressed my tongue to her clit made my cock pulse.

I breathed onto her, slowly, with purpose, and she squirmed and moaned some more.

“Please…” she whispered. “Suck my clit…”

Fuck
.

The urge to consume her and take her and bury myself in the beautiful sweet pink heart of her battled the muse and threatened the whole endeavour. She whimpered as my tongue circled her clit, and her fingers gripped my hair as I sucked her between my lips.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She was borderline delirious, lost in the sensation, and it thrilled me. Her pleasure thrilled me.

I sucked until she thrashed, her thighs squeezing me, her hands tugging at my hair. I sucked until she mewled and shuddered, until I felt her hold her breath and tip over the edge. I sucked her until she’d soaked me with the beautiful taste of her. I sucked her until she was panting and gasping. Until her hands were pulling me higher, pulling me to her.

She folded me in her arms and it was like coming home. Her face was clammy in the firelight, her hair damp to her brow, her mouth hungry as she sought out my tongue. Her ankles wrapped around my calves and moved higher, gripping me as she bucked, instinct consuming her. But I wasn’t ready. Not by a long shot.

I pinned her arms above her head and my lips smiled against hers. “Steady,” I breathed.

“But I want you. I need you.”

“You’ll have me. Just relax.”

I broke the contact and she took a breath.

Her eyes widened as I reached for a palette, watching as I set out my colours.

“This is going to take a little while, Helen.” I smiled. “Breathe.”

She took a deep breath, and then she giggled. The sound was perfect, sweet and mischievous all in one. She watched me as I wiped her down with the towel, and hitched her ass so I could dry underneath, then closed her eyes as I pressed the towel against her pussy and patted her dry.

“That’s nice… so nice,” she said, and I loved her for it, loved her so much.

I placed myself at her side, surveying my bare canvas, and it was perfect. Just perfect. She started as the brush made contact with her hip. The first stroke was soft and light, a thin line of purple, curling across to her belly.

“Tickles,” she said.

I smiled up at her, and her beauty captured me, all damp and flushed and nipples puckered.

She closed her eyes and I watched the shadows of the fire play across her breasts, taking my time before continuing my pattern. My brush moved with precise abandon, controlled freedom, seeking out the contours and the curves of Helen’s perfect form.

“That feels amazing,” she whispered, and her fingers reached for me, rested on my thigh. Her eyes were hazy when they opened and her smile was enough to condemn me to any fate. And I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all.

Colour on colour, bleeding and curling. Spirals of perfection kissing her skin, the brush nothing but a silent caress, an extension of my very soul as I decorated that girl’s perfect body. She watched me, not my brush, her eyes soaking in my choice of colours.

“
The Starry Night,
” she said.

“Loosely.” I smiled. “Very loosely.”

The brush loved Helen’s breasts almost as much as I did. Her nipples pebbled at the contact, stiffening to sweet little peaks that made my mouth water. I watched the rise and fall of her chest, matching the finer brush strokes so perfectly, our breathing in sync, as one.

“I love you so much,” she whispered, and her fingers tightened on my leg. “I never want this to end. Never.”

“Me neither, Helen. Me neither.”

I layered paint on paint, highlights on darker hues, and she was transformed. Her breath turned shallow as I positioned myself between her thighs.

“Be still,” I said.

“Yes, sir.” Her eyes twinkled.

I raised her knees and my canvas opened up for me. I had to take a steadying breath before my brush made contact, and Helen let out the softest moan.

I dropped the brush for the most delicate aspects, smoothing colour onto her with my fingers. One solid flick of yellow for her clit, and she moaned but didn’t move an inch, not an inch as I painted her pussy lips the most delicate blue, not an inch as I spread her open and painted her tenderness pink.

My palette was splattered, paint on paint, ultramarine, and cobalt blue, and Indian yellow.

Dark pigment for the cypress tree, and it grew tall under my brush, right the way up her left side to consume the curve of her breast.

White swirls, and I was a man possessed, no longer just me, the muse on my shoulder guiding and demanding and laughing with joy.

I caught my breath before filling in the detail of the landscape, and Helen reclined easily, the softest smile on her lips.

I smoothed her damp hair from her forehead, leaving a smear of paint behind me.

“Comfortable?”

She nodded. “You’re amazing. I want to do this all the time.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think it’s one for the classroom somehow.”

She giggled. “Shame.”

I loved that timeless space. The gentle bliss of Helen’s body laid so willingly for me. The urge of the creative unconscious. The fine concentration of brushwork.

The candles had burned out by the time I filled in the last of the detail, and the fire was merely a glow.

I soaked in my work, and Helen, the perfect canvas. She looked otherworldly, a beautiful creature from the deep.

I reached for my camera, and she teased her hair around her head, a messy halo that worked real magic.

I captured the memory, then dropped to my knees.

“Can I see?” she asked, but I shook my head.

And she knew, her eyes reflected mine.

She raised herself from the floor, and her fingers were at my shirt, her mouth on mine. My hands tangled in her hair, holding her tight as I kissed her, and she moaned as she flattened her chest to mine. I pushed her down into the cushions, and pressed my body to hers, and the paint was hot and clammy, smearing against my clothes, and it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

Between us we pulled off my shirt, and I wriggled out of my jeans and sunk into her with the most natural movement.

The universe blurred and warped, and the beginning and the end was all in Helen Palmer.

I found it all there. I felt it. I felt it all.

Her fingers slipped onto the palette, and with a smile she trailed wet paint down my cheek.

Her hips bucked against mine, and her breath was hot in my face, and when I filled her the world disappeared.

And I was free.

***

Helen

I couldn’t stop laughing. Not at us, covered in smeared paint, and not at the mess underneath us, either. The palette had slipped under my ass in the throes, and my whole backside was awash with paint, as was everything else around us. The sheets had caught most of it, but the cushions, were… different now.

We were messy, and euphoric, and happy, and brilliant. We were us.

Just us.

And fear couldn’t touch me here.

Mark wasn’t doing much better than me for paint coverage, which was ironic, since I was the one who’d been a human canvas for the last few hours.

He scowled but his eyes betrayed his humour.

“You have ruined that painting, Helen, ruined it.”

I poked out my tongue. “I think you ruined it. I wanted to see it first, before we got all… smeary.”

“Let’s just hope the picture comes out then, hey?”

I laughed. “What’s next? Can I do you?”

He brushed his cheek and his fingertips turned from blue to green. “I think that’s quite enough paint for one day.” He pointed to the stairs. “Get your lovely blue backside upstairs, please. Shower.”

Paint doesn’t come off all that easily. Especially not when you’re more interested in kissing than soaping.

“It’s not even midnight,” he said. “And we’ve painted, fucked and now we’re all showered for bed. What a disgrace.”