Nate sat to one side of the easel, dry paint brush in one hand, color wheel in the other. Dirty sunlight filtered in through the venetian blinds. We had Vivaldi playing on the CD player, just some soft music to set the mood. I had a half eaten BLT on a napkin off to one side, a ginger ale next to that. I was almost done with my painting—a self portrait of him, curly black hair tangled up as if he just rolled out of bed, five o’clock shadow, steely blue eyes that could chip ice.
Oh yeah, and we were both naked.
I’m an artist by trade. My paintings are in art galleries across America and Europe, and I teach classes in the community. For years, I’ve tried to get Nate, the long-suffering husband, into an art class or another.
He’s not an artist.
How we first met is another story. Let’s just say we have enough common interests, inside and outside of the bedroom.
This year, I signed him up for a couples’ class at the local community college. I love learning new techniques from other painters, so even if he didn’t fully participate, I’d at least get something out of it. To my surprise, he went to every class, and did all the homework, even though he still can’t draw a straight line.
This week’s homework was to draw self-portraits of each other. I asked him how he was doing, and if I needed to pose for him. To inspire, of course. Nate shrugged, said it wouldn’t hurt, but I could tell he was frustrated.
So I spread out on one of the couches in my studio. My red hair covered my breasts, legs crossed to hide the puss, I propped myself on one elbow with my fist under my cheek.
Nate dipped his brush in the red paint, and went to work. Finally, I saw the light click on for him. He worked as if possessed, adding layers of paint, hurriedly and with purpose.
Ten minutes later, he told me it was done.
I went around to see the result. It was almost like a sixth grader’s attempt at playing Picasso, except the kid was also on an acid trip and forgot to take his Ritalin. My breasts were lop-sided wheels with pink dots in the middle. My hair was like a gash of blood weeping through the canvas. Nate got the curve of my hips right.
I told him so, but Nate saw through my encouragement, and understood without saying that I was just being nice. The frustration was electric, I could feel it without laying a hand on him. And so, I was frustrated too, because I knew how much he wanted to impress me, even though he should’ve long figured out he didn’t have to.
“Let’s try something different,” I said, hands on his shoulders and nipples poking him in the back.
Nate half turned his head, a smile chipping away at his frustration. He must’ve smelled something in the air, because his mood became playful. He winked, and asked me what I had in mind.
I kissed him on the forehead, and cradled his head between my breasts. “You’ve mastered some of my curves,” I said. “On the painting, I mean. Like my hips. But you can’t draw a set of boobs to save your life.”
He shrugged, like some bashful schoolboy being scolded for not giving all his effort on his homework. The bashful ruse lasted until he stuck out his tongue and licked my nipple.
“So,” I continued, picking up a bottle of the blue paint, “I want to teach you how to capture my breasts.”
“I always just reached out and grabbed them,” Nate said.
“And that’s how I’m going to teach you.” That got his attention. I squeezed out blue paint on the palette. Then red, pink, and orange. “Paint my breasts!”
Nate picked up the brush, confusion knitting his brows. I spun him around on the stool, told him to put the brush down, and use his fingers. Confusion turned to delight when he took the hint. He took the palette and dipped his fingers in the paint. I waited with my hands behind my back, tits pushed out as far as they’d go.
He smeared blue starting from my shoulder, and followed the curve down the side of my breast, barely missed the nipple, and ran out of paint when he reached the underside. He repeated the same motion on the other. And then matching streaks of blue from my collarbone down the inside of my valley. Red streaks underneath my breasts. And a long orange line following the complete curve. For my nipples, he circled them with pink.
By then, paint was dripping down my skin, to my belly and thighs. Nate layered on yet more, adding purple, white, black, green, yellow, and teal. One later dried, and then he’d add another, perfecting the art of the curve.
Then he painted my stomach in geometric patterns around my navel. He kept going down my hips, my thighs, missing my pussy (thankfully), to my calves.
I was covered in paint from the collarbones down to my ankles. The paint dripped down my curves to the linoleum floor. And then Nate turned me around and painted the backside, mastering the round firmness of my ass and hips. The backs of my legs are ticklish. The cold paint made me squirm in delight.
“Your turn,” I told him. He stood up and I sat down. I took my time, painting each line slow and careful, following the lines of his muscles. Chest, arms, stomach, hips, legs, calves, butt. I didn’t paint his cock. I had plans for that.
By that point, I was worked up. I grabbed him by the shaft and led him to the couch. I made him stand in front of me, and I painted his junk with my tongue. Quick, extra sloppy brush strokes. A dab here and there with the tip of my tongue, and then I swallowed him whole. His salty pre-come juice added to my saliva, and dripped down my chin.
I can always tell when he’s about to blow. I’m a master of bringing him to the edge, right when his panting turns to pleas and he can barely stand. That’s when I pulled away, and smacked him on his paint covered thighs.
I leaned back on the couch and spread my legs wide. Nate doesn’t need any other hints.
He covered my body with his, and shoved himself deep inside me. That cock is curved just right, as if made to fit me and tickle my G-spot. I’m already wet from foreplay and from being naked around him. He started slow, like always. But this time, he doesn’t mess around for long. Soon he’s grinding his hips on me, then pumping. Half wet paint smeared between us, coalescing into a multi-colored palette.
Nate blows the biggest loads of all the men I’ve been with. He pulled out of me, and shot a squirt across my stomach. Then he stroked it for me, and more came out, shooting me in the boobs.
Right when I think he’s done, he blows one last stream, painting my face with his cream. He smeared the jism around on my cheeks and lips, as if practicing at drawing my face. Then he held me close, pressing the wet paint and his load between our bodies.
I doubt I taught him much about painting that afternoon. But I’m always willing to be the canvas for him to make a mess on.
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