Page 6 of Cruel Debts
If I hada dollar for every time I got pressured into doing something I had no interest in, only to find out I was wrong about my enjoyment, I’d be broke.
But I’d have a dollar now, so there was that.
My exhibitionism was no secret—the guys teased me about the late-night walks through the apartment with no clothes on. I did it back when we were in barracks, too, much to the frustration of my squadmates in various units. Occasionally, when I did decide to go out and get laid, there were public spaces involved—fucking on a balcony in the midday sun, a quick blowjob behind the movie theatre during shift change, hell, even a visit to one of those random sex booths in the adult stores where someone could pay to watch you fuck a stranger—or yourself. But this was different. Sure, it was a turn-on to have a hundred or so people standing around watching a stranger paint my body with latex colors and designs.
But the girl at work on my body was the one I wanted to look at me.
Her brushes glided over me like the softest caress, leaving behind tangible evidence of where she’d been, what parts of meshe’d used as her canvas. I could feel her eyes on me as she circled, her smile growing with every pass she made.
Hell, when the girl handed me a paintbrush and told me to hold it, I simply held out my hand and gripped the thin, fragile wood calmly, patiently waiting for her to demand it back.
“So, are you from around here, or are you in town for the club?”
Was she really trying to make small talk right now?
Her paintbrush was an inch away from my asscheek. “Ah, yeah, born and raised in Port Wylde, actually,” I replied, proud when my voice didn’t crack, when there was no hesitation in my words. “You?”
“Not born and raised here,” she replied smoothly, though I watched her brows draw together, her cute nose scrunching up in anger, or perhaps frustration. “Hopefully, I won’t be here long, either. But who knows?”
I sensed some deeper source of rage and let it slide, preferring not to have a stranger dump her whole life of drama on me, another stranger. “What are you painting on me?” I switched gears, trying desperately to look over my shoulder. “Better not be something dumb.”
Even the act of her rolling her eyes was enough to make my blood heat up. “It’s not.” Her brush dragged slowly between the blades of my shoulders, bristles tickling the sensitive skin along my spine. “But if you keep moving, you’ll fuck it up. So maybe stand still, soldier.”
As if jerked right back into the days of deployment, I straightened unconsciously, heels snapped together as I looked forward with a stoic determination. I had to literally bite my tongue to keep from shouting‘yes, ma’am’in response, like I had so many times.
I wasn’t in the military anymore. And this little girl certainly wasn’t my fucking commander.
“How did you know I was a soldier?”
“I didn’t,” she muttered, her brush hesitating as it trailed to the cleft between my asscheeks. “It’s just a saying I picked up somewhere.”
“You have family in the military?” I asked suddenly, hating that I was so interested in her. It made no sense, this intrigue, this curiosity. This was nothing more than a lucky way to pass the time. I was here on business.
So why did it matter where she’d learned the phrase?
Her petite shoulders rose and fell as she reached for another tube of paint. “Used to. But that’s not where I learned it.”
She said nothing more, choosing instead to clam up like an oyster in the summer sun. The conversation, it seemed, was now over, and there was no room for more discussion.
I stood still as a statue as she coated my torso and now my legs with a layer of black paint, so dark it was like being swallowed by the night. When she had erased the existence of a majority of me, she broke out another brush, this one tiny in comparison to her original one. Long, slender fingers curled over the bright white paint tube, squeezing it onto the palette on the stool beside her.
I watched in fascination as she added color after color, some in larger quantities, some just a drop or two, her eyes carefully measuring each one as if her life depended on getting it just right.
“There we go,” she said suddenly, and then, without warning, she stuck the tip of her brush in her mouth and tried to wet the bristles. Frowning at her lack of saliva, she looked to me with a hopeful expression, her baleful eyes wide as saucers as the corners of her mouth curled up playfully. “Would you mind? I need the brush to be wet for this part.”
Absolutely not. No way in hell. Not on your fucking life?—
My lips parted, and I stuck my tongue out, inviting her wordlessly to stick the same brush that had just been between her lips, in her mouth, now into mine.
Who the fuck was I?
I let my tongue swirl around the soft, slightly damp bristles as she gathered my spit on the tip, making the whole process far more erotic than it had a right to be. My cock twitched in answer to the move, eliciting a few giggles and murmurs of approval from the crowd I’d all but forgotten about.
“What do you plan to do with my spit on that brush?”
Her eyebrows just waggled as she dabbed it in the white paint and then dipped it in purple for a millisecond. “Just wait. You’ll see soon enough.”
She was right, too. That manicured nail on her thumb curled over the tip of the paint-saturated bristles and flicked them in my direction, creating a soft, misty spray that spattered across my torso and limbs. When you looked at it objectively, it almost resembled?—
