Page 116 of The Painter and His Poet

We lock gazes as the last line of the song settles around us, and then with feline grace, she rises to her hands and knees, and crawls to the end of the bed.

“Stay where you are,” she commands softly as she climbs off the bed, her hips swaying seductively as she walks towards me.

“Harlow, it’s not finished,” I say, flicking my gaze to the painting.

“I won’t look until it’s done,” she promises, her hair framing her face as she looks down at me.

“Then what are you doing?” I ask, my brain short-circuiting as she drops to her knees before me and presses her palms against my thighs. “Make room for me.”

“Fuck, Harlow,” I murmur, finally catching up as I widen my legs, and she smooths her hands over my jean-clad thighs.

“I want to taste you,” she whispers, reaching for my cock, her fingers grazing briefly over my hand before I let her take me in her hold.

Gently gripping the base of my cock, she leans forward, licking the crown, and I swear to fuck I’m so sensitive, so turned on, that I almost come there and then. My hips jolt, my cock slipping into her mouth as she hums around me.

“It won’t take much for me to come,” I admit, my cock leaking pre-cum, my heart pounding at the sight of her naked and kneeling before me.

“Hmm,” she hums, her lips sliding down my cock as she takes me deeper into her mouth.

My hands fly to her hair, a low moan ripping from my lips as my stomach muscles clench and release. She doesn’t ease me in, licking and sucking slowly. No, Harlow deepthroats my cock until I hit the back of her throat.

“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!” I exclaim, my eyes rolling into the back of my head from the sensation of her throat and tongue wrapped so tightly around my engorged length.

She pulls back slightly, the ridges of my cock slip over her tongue. The heat of her mouth, the slippery warmth and the cascade of sensation making dark spots dance in front of my eyes. I’m fucking wrecked, in all of the best possible ways, and I don’t try to control her movements. Instead, I simply cup the back of her head, watching with wide eyes as she slips up and down my cock, coaxing out an orgasm.

With every dip and rise of her head, my breaths become more laboured, my stomach muscles tensing as my balls lift high and tight against my body. “Harlow, I’m going to come,” I warn her, and she simply lifts her gaze, her eyes meeting mine as her tongue lashes around the sensitive crown of my cock.

“Fuuuuuccckkkkk!” I roar, my hips jerking as my orgasm rips out of me and I come in Harlow’s mouth, the colours that lingers still shimmering and sparkling behind my closed eyelids.

I drag in a few tremulous breaths as Harlow pulls back, looking up at me with watery eyes.

“That was incredible…” I say, my voice trailing off as Harlow opens her mouth and slides out her tongue, offering me my release.

Fuck. Me.

“You want me to paint my cum into your image?” I ask.

She nods once, and I slip two of my fingers inside her mouth, scooping up some of my cum, then lean over her and swipe it across her breasts and stomach that I’ve painstakingly painted onto canvas. “There.”

“Good,” she murmurs, before pushing up onto her feet, making sure to avert her gaze as she steps towards the bed. With heavy-lidded eyes I watch her climb onto the bed, her slit glistening before she turns back around and settles onto the bed.

“Make love to me,” she whispers.

“Every fucking day, forevermore,” I reply hoarsely, as I climb to my feet and strip for Harlow. Taking my time, I revel in the way she watches me, her hand slipping towards her pussy as her legs spread.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs, her fingers slipping between her folds as she touches herself. “Everything about you is so beautiful to me.”

“Ditto, my little poet,” I reply, my gaze drifting from her sweet pussy to the unused paintbrushes still lined up on the table. I reach for the one with the rounded beavertail handle, it’s bristles soft to touch. Grasping it in my fist, I climb onto the bed, kneeling between her spread thighs.

“Did you know that paintbrushes were used by man as early as the stone age?” I ask, lightly trailing the bristles up the inside of her leg.

She shakes her head, her eyelids drooping in pleasure as she swirls her finger around her clit. “No, I didn't,” she breathes.

“Imagine that, the earliest forms of humankind used pigment to paint scenes on the walls of caves as a way to record their experiences. It’s incredible, no?”

“It is,” she agrees, her breath hitching as I continue to gently trail the soft bristles upwards, drawing circles against her thighs, and over her stomach until finally reaching her peaked nipple.

Leaning forward on my knees I press my hand into the mattress beside her head, coasting the bristles over her nipple as I gaze down at her. She shudders, her back arching as I tenderly paint the colours that I still see into her skin.

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