Image courtesy of Simon Howden at FreeDigitalPhotos.net Exquisite Hands by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy
She adored his slender hands, skillful with a brush or pen. Although large, his hands moved with a steady and gentle grace whether he painted on canvas or caressed her. Macy had never known anyone like the artist. He possessed a talent beyond the common weekend would-be artist and delivered a deep abiding kindness she’d never known. From the first time she’d watched him in the park, intent on his canvas, Macy saw the inner man, looked beyond the graying hair and lines which marked his face with age.
He’d marked her out though she hadn’t been aware then and if she hadn’t struck up a conversation, offered a compliment, she might never have known.
They had shared frozen lemonade from a nearby stand and when he asked if he could paint her, she’d agreed. His studio, located in a barren and otherwise empty upstairs bedroom in his Edwardian home, had no window coverings so light flooded it. Macy had stripped for him, without embarrassment and he’d painted her. Then he loved her in every way possible.
Then and now he used his exquisite hands to love her, to touch and please. She yielded to the artist and sighed when he entered her, his cock as skilled as his hands. Every time they made love she called it art and soon she would tell him about the child within, no bigger than a plum, the child which would be his lasting masterpiece.
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The Lesson by Melissa Keir
I’m going to kill my friends for setting me up at this swinging singles resort. Their hearts were in the right place but after the death of my husband, this wasn’t what I wanted. I thought they had given me a quiet vacation. They’d wanted to help me after the death of my husband, but this place wasn’t my style.
Picking up a brochure on the table, I flipped through it looking at the various activities offered. Yoga? No…not my style. Hmm…A painting class. That sounds like a wonderful creative outlet.
***
Entering the art studio, I noticed plump pillows laying on a stage in the center of the room. Only one easel and paint brushes were standing off to the side. Impatient to begin, I fingered the brushes. Soft to the touch.
A dark-haired man walked in. His smile lit up his whole face, showing two dimples in his cheeks. Startled by his appearance, I didn’t know what to say when he began to strip. “What’s going on?”
“I’m your subject and canvas today.”
“Canvas?” My voice squeeked when I got a good luck at his sculputured body with a dusting of dark hair across his chest.
The tantilizing man walked over toward me, bent over and kissed my hand, lightly running his tongue along my palm. His gaze met mine, filled with desire.
“Yes. We won’t be using regular paints but edible ones. You will paint my body. Feel free to taste to your pleasure.”
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Brush Strokes of Death by Barbara Watkins
Carlos tilted his head from right to left as he glared at his painting on the twelve by twelve canvas mounted on the decrepit easel. His soul, dead for so long, is now resurrected and jubilation replaces despair as he marvels his creation.
The scent of walnut oil paint lingering in the air arouses his senses, and with each stroke of the brush he captures the essence of his undying, twisted love for Maria. His brush follows the outline of her naked body lying still on a carpet of red roses, eyes wide-open and gazing out onto the unknown, legs slightly bent back toward her voluptuous hips, her hands taking on a prayerful stance.
Carlos suddenly realized many hours had passed when he looked down at the dried paint and blood on the bristles of his brush. The stench of death hovered over him like a blanket of dense fog.
His vivid contrasts of darkness and light had enhanced Maria’s natural beauty, and the tiniest of flaws vanished into the background of what would become his masterpiece of madness.
A portrait that started out to be one of love, beauty, and ecstasy now mirrored the reflection of agony, despair, and death - if only she had not denied him her love.
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Sea Scape By Suzzana C Ryan
She sat on a rock, as the small fish swam around the pond. It was her turn to mind the newborns. Vanna hated being responsible, she liked the swimming, the basking in the sun, she wanted to be a newborn, but she’d past that time.
So she did as instructed and sat on her damp rock keeping vigil. Two young lollygags came up from the water with a case for her.
“Thank little ones, my paints.” She now sprang forth and spread her wings and landed on the soft grass beside the pond.
She pushed hard and her legs emerged taking a firm stand she set up her small easel. Vanna mixed her paints with pond water and began her new masterpiece. The small excited new ones came to the surface to watch her fingers sway as she let the colors flow from her small colored pots.
Vanna relaxed, let her mind open and beauty appeared on her canvas. Her eyes opened wide, what kind of beauty was this? She’d painted the portrait of a young man his blue eyes told a tale, one she wanted to decipher.
A hand touched her shoulder softly causing her to turn. When she faced the owner of the hand the same blue eyes she’d painted met hers.
“Vanna?” His voice was now light and cheery.
“She knew him on sight, her chosen mate. It was said the creators of visions would soon meet their soul mates, some would conger them up in oils, others in water colors.
“Come join me my love,” he said wooing her from the padded grass.
The newborns rushed behind them, eager to see another day emerge, filled with light, love and life.
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Painted Kisses, by Lynn Chantel
The canvas was exceptional. Smooth and supple, Tialoc couldn’t ask for a better surface to create his masterpiece. He settled a brush and dabbed it into the creamy blob of paint on his board. His subject, a mocha-skinned beauty with long coils of curls piled atop her head, wiggled.
“CJ, be still,” he admonished.
She giggled. “I’m trying, but the total look of concentration on your face is adorable.”
“You won’t be say that when I tie you to the bed.”
CJ lifted her bound wrists. “You’ve already started.”
He grinned and rolled the bristles into the color the same hue as her creamy flesh. “Indeed. Now hold still.” He applied the brush in wide strokes, dragging the soft bristles along the gentle swell of her breasts, up the slope of her neck to her pouty mouth.
Tialoc set the brush aside, leaned forward and followed the same path with his tongue. She trembled beneath his touch, but did not move. He smiled against her skin and continued his journey upward, not missing one swipe of the chocolate paint. His hands followed, reveling in the warmth and softness of her flesh.
His lips touched hers nipping and licking the sweetness from her mouth and sharing the decadence with her. She offered a sigh and he accepted, giving a moan in return.
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She adored his slender hands, skillful with a brush or pen. Although large, his hands moved with a steady and gentle grace whether he painted on canvas or caressed her. Macy had never known anyone like the artist. He possessed a talent beyond the common weekend would-be artist and delivered a deep abiding kindness she’d never known. From the first time she’d watched him in the park, intent on his canvas, Macy saw the inner man, looked beyond the graying hair and lines which marked his face with age.
He’d marked her out though she hadn’t been aware then and if she hadn’t struck up a conversation, offered a compliment, she might never have known.
They had shared frozen lemonade from a nearby stand and when he asked if he could paint her, she’d agreed. His studio, located in a barren and otherwise empty upstairs bedroom in his Edwardian home, had no window coverings so light flooded it. Macy had stripped for him, without embarrassment and he’d painted her. Then he loved her in every way possible.
Then and now he used his exquisite hands to love her, to touch and please. She yielded to the artist and sighed when he entered her, his cock as skilled as his hands. Every time they made love she called it art and soon she would tell him about the child within, no bigger than a plum, the child which would be his lasting masterpiece.
Follow Lee Ann
The Lesson by Melissa Keir
I’m going to kill my friends for setting me up at this swinging singles resort. Their hearts were in the right place but after the death of my husband, this wasn’t what I wanted. I thought they had given me a quiet vacation. They’d wanted to help me after the death of my husband, but this place wasn’t my style.
Picking up a brochure on the table, I flipped through it looking at the various activities offered. Yoga? No…not my style. Hmm…A painting class. That sounds like a wonderful creative outlet.
***
Entering the art studio, I noticed plump pillows laying on a stage in the center of the room. Only one easel and paint brushes were standing off to the side. Impatient to begin, I fingered the brushes. Soft to the touch.
A dark-haired man walked in. His smile lit up his whole face, showing two dimples in his cheeks. Startled by his appearance, I didn’t know what to say when he began to strip. “What’s going on?”
“I’m your subject and canvas today.”
“Canvas?” My voice squeeked when I got a good luck at his sculputured body with a dusting of dark hair across his chest.
The tantilizing man walked over toward me, bent over and kissed my hand, lightly running his tongue along my palm. His gaze met mine, filled with desire.
“Yes. We won’t be using regular paints but edible ones. You will paint my body. Feel free to taste to your pleasure.”
Follow Melissa
Brush Strokes of Death by Barbara Watkins
Carlos tilted his head from right to left as he glared at his painting on the twelve by twelve canvas mounted on the decrepit easel. His soul, dead for so long, is now resurrected and jubilation replaces despair as he marvels his creation.
The scent of walnut oil paint lingering in the air arouses his senses, and with each stroke of the brush he captures the essence of his undying, twisted love for Maria. His brush follows the outline of her naked body lying still on a carpet of red roses, eyes wide-open and gazing out onto the unknown, legs slightly bent back toward her voluptuous hips, her hands taking on a prayerful stance.
Carlos suddenly realized many hours had passed when he looked down at the dried paint and blood on the bristles of his brush. The stench of death hovered over him like a blanket of dense fog.
His vivid contrasts of darkness and light had enhanced Maria’s natural beauty, and the tiniest of flaws vanished into the background of what would become his masterpiece of madness.
A portrait that started out to be one of love, beauty, and ecstasy now mirrored the reflection of agony, despair, and death - if only she had not denied him her love.
Follow Barbara
Sea Scape By Suzzana C Ryan
She sat on a rock, as the small fish swam around the pond. It was her turn to mind the newborns. Vanna hated being responsible, she liked the swimming, the basking in the sun, she wanted to be a newborn, but she’d past that time.
So she did as instructed and sat on her damp rock keeping vigil. Two young lollygags came up from the water with a case for her.
“Thank little ones, my paints.” She now sprang forth and spread her wings and landed on the soft grass beside the pond.
She pushed hard and her legs emerged taking a firm stand she set up her small easel. Vanna mixed her paints with pond water and began her new masterpiece. The small excited new ones came to the surface to watch her fingers sway as she let the colors flow from her small colored pots.
Vanna relaxed, let her mind open and beauty appeared on her canvas. Her eyes opened wide, what kind of beauty was this? She’d painted the portrait of a young man his blue eyes told a tale, one she wanted to decipher.
A hand touched her shoulder softly causing her to turn. When she faced the owner of the hand the same blue eyes she’d painted met hers.
“Vanna?” His voice was now light and cheery.
“She knew him on sight, her chosen mate. It was said the creators of visions would soon meet their soul mates, some would conger them up in oils, others in water colors.
“Come join me my love,” he said wooing her from the padded grass.
The newborns rushed behind them, eager to see another day emerge, filled with light, love and life.
Follow Suzzana
Painted Kisses, by Lynn Chantel
The canvas was exceptional. Smooth and supple, Tialoc couldn’t ask for a better surface to create his masterpiece. He settled a brush and dabbed it into the creamy blob of paint on his board. His subject, a mocha-skinned beauty with long coils of curls piled atop her head, wiggled.
“CJ, be still,” he admonished.
She giggled. “I’m trying, but the total look of concentration on your face is adorable.”
“You won’t be say that when I tie you to the bed.”
CJ lifted her bound wrists. “You’ve already started.”
He grinned and rolled the bristles into the color the same hue as her creamy flesh. “Indeed. Now hold still.” He applied the brush in wide strokes, dragging the soft bristles along the gentle swell of her breasts, up the slope of her neck to her pouty mouth.
Tialoc set the brush aside, leaned forward and followed the same path with his tongue. She trembled beneath his touch, but did not move. He smiled against her skin and continued his journey upward, not missing one swipe of the chocolate paint. His hands followed, reveling in the warmth and softness of her flesh.
His lips touched hers nipping and licking the sweetness from her mouth and sharing the decadence with her. She offered a sigh and he accepted, giving a moan in return.
Follow Lynn
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