Page 56 of Me Three
Then they start creating the shape of the body by using a deep beige and adding lighter touches stroke by stroke.
Watching them work is soothing and relaxing, but also kinda magical.
Everything they do is so effortless, their focus so undivided, their movements so delicate. I don’t even know how they manage to create the basic shading of the body in such a short amount of time, but the painting starts to take shape, a life of its own in front of my very eyes.
Then they move onto the background and start mixing red and blue with white to create violets.
“Boop,” they say and dab their brush on my nose all of a sudden.
The wet patch cools my face and puts my whole body on alert. I shake my head and try to focus my eyes on Tru who’s standing there, paintbrush in hand, waiting for my reaction.
“Hey,” I groan.
“Welcome, Dr. Spencer. Where have you been?” They laugh.
“Uhm… here. Watching you,” I say.
“Creep.”
I raise an eyebrow at them, and they dab the brush on my nose again.
“You’re so cute when you’re focusing,” they say.
I use the back of my hand to wipe the paint off my nose.
“You’re cuter,” I say. “And what’s this for?”
“What?” Tru chuckles. “You were looking so serious. I had to make it stop.”
They try to attack me with the brush again, but I turn my head trying to avoid it and they end up painting my cheek and side of my neck instead.
“Oops,” they say.
I gasp.
“Oops? Oops?” I ask.
Tru bites down both their lips, trying—and failing—to conceal their laughter. And while I’m waiting for an adequate response for getting my face dirty, they poke at me with the brush again.
I use my hands to stop them from getting any closer. Not that it works. They double down on their efforts, and before I know it, the bristles of their brush dab at my checkered shirt.
Tru’s eyes widen and my jaw hits the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” they say.
“You’re going to pay for this,” I say and put my entire hand on the palette scraping the paint and slapping it onto Tru’s face.
“You didn’t,” they shriek. “No, you didn’t.”
“You ruined my shirt,” I say.
Instead of answering, they rub the brush on the palette and touch it on top of my head. Then they pull it down my face, drop it down to my exposed chest and all the way down to my stomach, ruining more of the shirt with acrylic.
“You. Are dead,” I yell and use both hands to spread the paint all over their face, and down to their neck.
Tru grabs my shirt and pulls it apart in their hands so they can paint over my chest and abdomen, and I reciprocate by smearing more of the paint on their camisole top, the feel of their nipples hard under my palm, their skin warm.
One second we’re fighting, the next we’re kissing like all hell and I’m taking off their top. Tru pulls me onto their hips and our erections rub together.
