Paul
This is a really bad idea, and I know it before I ever step a foot into her bedroom. “Close the door behind you,” she says. Her voice quivers, and I f*cking love that she’s this torn up over me painting her body.
“Nobody else is here,” I remind her.
“Someone is always here, or on their way here, or thinking about coming here.”
She’s right, so I close the door. She has transfer sheets spread all over her bed. They’re arranged in a weird pattern, and I can’t quite make out what it is. “What are you going to be?” I ask.
She smiles and shakes her head. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
“What am I painting you with?” I ask, as she pulls her shirt over her head. My mouth falls open, but she just clutches her shirt to her chest and turns her back to me. She pulls her hair to the side.
“It’s that really thick latex paint. It’ll be like plastic when it’s dry.” She points to a sheet on the bed. “Let’s start transferring.”
This part I know how to do. She used the same transfer sheets we use for tattoos. So, I lay them on her body at her instruction, and then move on to the next one. I do her rib cage while she holds tightly to the shirt.
“Turn around,” she says, making a rolling motion with her finger pointed down.
“Do I have to?” I pretend to sulk.
“Turn,” she says again, more forcefully this time. I turn away from her and look toward her dresser. But she doesn’t realize that I’m facing the mirror. She drops the shirt and lays the transfers over her breasts.
My mouth goes dry. I know I shouldn’t watch her, but I can’t f*cking help it. She’s perfect. Her breasts are big for her small frame but firm. Her nipples are hard and pointing directly out in front of her. Her areolas are as big as silver dollars and round and I want so badly to go to her and take one in my mouth. I want to hear her cry out.
She looks up, and I jerk my eyes from the mirror. “You can turn around now,” she says. She lifts the shirt back to her chest. Such a shame. I swallow hard and try to push down the lust that’s clouding my brain. She needs for me to paint her, not to f*ck her.
Her brow furrows. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I choke out. I clear my throat because my voice sounds gravelly. “Fine,” I say again.
She shakes her head and turns her back to me. “All the spaces with a one in the center will be this fiery orange.” She holds a tray of paint in her hand until she sets it on a stool right beside us. “Are you sure you have time for this? It’s going to take a really long time.”
“I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.” Friday is almost naked with me in her bedroom. I could stay here for days. I dip the brush and get it close to her back. It’s almost a shame to cover up the phoenix tattoo. It’s purple and gray and rising from the ashes. “Did you draw this tattoo?” I ask, as I start to swipe.
“Yes.”
I keep painting. At least doing this, I get to explore all of her art. “It’s pretty. And moving.”
“It’s me right after I met you,” she says. Her voice is soft and curvy, just like her body. “Having a job and a family, even one that wasn’t mine, made me stronger. I felt like I could finally carry on.”
I explore the rest of her back as I paint all the ones. Then I move on to the two’s, and they’re purple. She smiles at me over her shoulder.
“You’re doing great,” she says.
“What’s this one?” I ask. I point to a deck of cards with a clown on the front. There’s a full house showing on the card faces.
“Life’s a gamble.”
“And this one?” I start to paint over her sailboat.
“Someday,” she says quietly, “I’ll sail into the sunset.”
“There are wedding rings on the sail?”
“Yes.”
“You want to be married.”
“Yes.”
My heart kicks in my chest.
“My back is my hopes and dreams. My front is my reality as I saw it at the time. Because I can face anything, as long as I let what happened to me push me forward.”
Damn. I don’t even know how to respond.
When her back is all covered, I scoot my chair to the side and she lifts her arm. “Just do the side. I can do the front.”
I don’t respond, because I’m not stopping.
She has a crashed sailboat on the front side of her belly. And right beside her pierced belly button is a deck of cards with a full house showing on the card faces. She had words like faith, hope and charity written on her back. And on her front, she has words like loss and a big F like you would see on a school paper. I don’t comment on those because she’s starting to squirm and I’m afraid she’ll make me stop.
I hover over an empty bassinette. I look up at her and see that she has closed her eyes, so I paint over it.
“I can’t figure out what we’re drawing.”
She grins. “I know. Isn’t it great?”
I chuckle. “If you say so.”
I paint up the side of her neck, where there’s a turtle and skulls and other crazy shit that is so Friday.
When there’s nothing left but her boobs, which are still covered by her shirt, she says, “My legs are going to be black.”
“You’re not walking out on the stage naked,” I say. No way in hell.
“No, I’m wearing black bathing suit bottoms.” She picks up a roller.
“Good.” I’d hate to have to tie her to the bedpost. Well, actually, I’d love to tie her to the bedpost.
“I need to take my pants off,” she says. Her face colors, and it’s so damn pretty.
I set the paintbrush down and start to hum to myself as I reach for the button of her pants. She lets me, still clutching onto that shirt. She’s wearing skimpy black bathing suit bottoms, and I whistle when I see them. She giggles, and the sound shoots straight to my heart. I shove her pants down, and she steps out of them.
I squat down in front of her, put one knee on the floor, and rest my elbow on the other. I look up and grin. “The view is nice from down here.”
She grins and looks away.
She doesn’t have a lot of art on her outer thighs except for a baby rattle that’s encased in a spider web. It sweeps across her knee. I know what that one is about. I roll over it with black paint, and then cover all the way down to her toes. She giggles when I do the inside of her foot. “Ticklish?” I ask.
“Hypersensitive right now,” she whispers.
“I need to get below your bottoms,” I tell her, “in case they shift.”
“Can you pull them down just a little?” she asks. “Not far.”
I hook my thumbs in the hips of her bottoms and tug them down. She makes a whispery noise, and I look up to find her talking to herself. It sounds like she’s saying, Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, don’t pass out, but I can’t be sure. I paint around her hips and her waistband and leave her bottoms turned down so it can dry for a minute. I lift her leg and rest her foot on my knee. I can see the inside of her thigh where her son’s footprints are, along with his date of birth. I lean forward and kiss her there. I linger, taking in the sweet feel of her soft skin against my lips, and I stop to smell the overwhelming scent that’s all Friday. Her leg starts to tremble so I roll it really quickly and lower it to the floor. I roll all the way up her thigh again, and then I look up at her and grin.
“Forgive me in advance for what I’m about to do,” I say. I pull her bottoms to the side so I can swipe the brush up the crease of her thigh.
Holy Christ. She doesn’t have a stitch of hair down there. Of course, I can only see the edge, but it’s cleanly shaven, and I have to reach down and adjust my junk. I want to pull the suit back farther so I can look for her * piercing, but I haven’t been invited that far. Hell, I haven’t been invited this far, either, but I’m here. Thank God, I’m here.
“You still okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I croak.
“Just checking, because your hand is shaking a little.” Her voice trembles just about as much as my hand does.
“You’re making me f*cking crazy,” I admit.
She sucks in a breath. “Sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t be. It’s a good kind of crazy.” I grin up at her.
“I love those f*cking dimples,” she says. Then she presses her lips together like she said too much, which makes me grin even more.
“Don’t say the word love around me yet,” I warn playfully.
“Why not?”
“Because you make me hopeful,” I say.
She steps back from me and looks down. “I think we’re done,” she says. She smiles at me.
“No, we’re not.”
I step toward her.
She takes a step back. “Yes, we are.”
“No, we’re not.” I grab the edge of the shirt. “Drop the shirt,” I say.
“I can do that part.”
“I just spent two f*cking hours painting your body, and you won’t grant me the privilege of painting your boobs?” I ask, trying to look as dejected as possible. I lean close to her ear. “I just painted the left and right side of your p-ssy,” I tell her. “I can paint your boobs.” I tug the shirt, and she lets it drop. Her hands fall to her sides, and she closes her eyes.
“Go ahead,” she says through clenched teeth.
I smile and start to paint. I work my way around her breasts until I get to the crest of the left one. I stop and roll her piercing in my fingers. Her breath hitches, and she looks down, her mouth falling open. She gasps out something I can’t understand.
“We need to change these for something plastic,” I tell her.
“On the dresser,” she says. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Can I do it?” I ask.
I do this all the time when I pierce people. Or when they need to take a piercing out for some reason. I replace the metal with something like fishing line that holds the piercing open until the metal can be put back in.
“You can do it,” she says. She keeps her eyes closed, but she startles when I twist her piercing in my fingers, letting it roll again.
“That’s not very nice,” she says. But her eyes open and she watches me unscrew the end and pull the piercing free. I follow it with the plastic piece and secure it in place. I do the same on the other side, taking a minute to play with it. I can’t help it. It’s a f*cking tit piercing. It begs to be played with.
When I’m done, I pick up my paintbrush and say, “Are you ready?”
She nods.
Then I let the paintbrush drag across her hard nipple. “Shit,” she bites out.
“What?”
“We need to put the pasty things on.”
“Not yet. I’m having fun.”
“Paul,” she protests, but there’s no whine in her voice that’s real. It’s all pretend. Every little bit. I brush back and forth across her nipple. Her head falls forward, and then her mouth opens. She pants. God, she’s going to make me come in my pants.
“I didn’t expect them to be so big,” I admit.
Her eyes fly open. “My boobs?”
I laugh. “No, I knew how big your boobs are. I’ve been staring at them for four years. I mean your nipples. They’re big and perfect.” I can see her pulse beating in her neck, as quick as my tattoo gun, almost.
I keep painting the one on the left and bend my head and slurp her right nipple between my lips. She cries out and reaches for the back of my head. “Careful,” she whispers. “They’re really sensitive right now. I didn’t realize they’d hurt so much.”
“I’m hurting you?” I ask around a mouthful of nipple.
“No, I mean, in general. Just being pregnant makes them hurt. What you’re doing feels really good.” I suckle her boob, plumping it in my palm. If I don’t back up and get out of here, I’m going to disgrace myself. And her, too. “Really, really good,” she whispers.
I stare up into her eyes. When I can’t possibly take anymore, I drop her boob from my lips and paint around the edges and underneath, while I blow on the turgid peak to dry it. Her naked toes wiggle against the floor.
I step back from her, and she turns and puts pasties on, and then we paint over them. I’m glad she’s not going to go out there with her nipples poking out. I wouldn’t like the paint, either—you can see the curve of her boob—but it looks like she’s wearing a latex body suit.
“I think we’re done,” she chirps. She turns to the mirror and raises her arms, spins around, and takes in the work. “You did a really good job.”
I can’t for the life of me figure out what she has designed, and I’m kind of curious what all the oranges and purples will form. “What is it?” I ask.
She grins. “I’m not telling.”
She walks over to me and stands up on her tiptoes. She puckers her lips. I lean down and let her kiss me, and I f*cking love that she initiated it. My heart soars.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome.”
“I need to do a few more things.” She glances around the room like she’s not sure what to do first.
“I’ll wait for you in the living room.” I open the door and go out it as quickly as I can. I stumble directly into Sam. “What the f*ck?” I say. “How long have you been there?”
He throws up his hands. “I just walked in the door. I swear.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.” He looks at Friday’s door. “What were you doing? Do you need a condom?”
I shove him. “No, I don’t need a condom.”
He glances toward my lap. “You sure, ‘cause…” He lets his voice trail off.
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
He grins. “Good.”
“What’s good?”
“You’re protective.” He nods his head. “I like it.”
“So glad you approve.”
I shove him out of my way, and he grumbles. I pay him no mind, though. Instead, I head into the bathroom. I strip down and turn the shower on the coldest setting. I step beneath the spray and let it wash over me. It’s minutes before my dick softens. Minutes before the water becomes uncomfortable. Minutes before I can get the feel of her, the smell of her, and the taste of her off my mind.
But I don’t want any of her gone. I want her here, every single day.
I get dressed and find her waiting in the living room. “Are you ready to go?” she asks. She’s wearing a big button-down shirt and some oversized shorts. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she’s made up softly. She’s definitely wearing makeup because I can’t see her freckles, but it’s not the normal Friday get-up. It’s different.
We get to Bounce with barely any time to spare. I see that Sam and Pete are already there when we arrive, and they’re bouncing tonight. The band Fallen from Zero—the one Emily plays with sometimes—is on stage, and they finish their set. I have to say, they’re not as good when Emily isn’t with them.
They clear the stage, and the club’s owner goes up to the microphone. I lean back against a speaker and watch. Painted people start to walk across the stage. Some are made up to look like they’re wearing bikinis, and others are painted to look like they have on shirts. Some are superheroes and others are characters from books. No one is painted like Friday.
When it’s her turn, I make my way to the front of the room. She walks out onto the stage, and the room goes quiet. The announcer says something about the paint, and she motions for him to wait. She sits down facing the wall, with her back to the audience. She puts one leg out to the side, and bends the other into a funny position. Then she bends her back, and her arm outstretches. And suddenly, I can see it. She’s a butterfly. She’s a butterfly with a broken wing. The purples and oranges are the wings, and one is broken at an odd angle. She flutters her wings, and you can see the f*cking art in the pose. The crowd goes crazy.
She’s so f*cking talented. She stands up and takes a bow, but the crowd is shouting for an encore. Hell, I want to see that beautiful art again, myself. This time, I drag myself out of my crazy stupor and snap a few pictures of her.
She wins, of course, and they hand her a check for five thousand dollars. She looks at me and grins, and then she jumps off the stage and straight into my arms. I squeeze her tightly. She had a wonderful moment, and then she looked for me at the end of it. My heart squeezes almost painfully in my chest as I hug her.
Someone passes her shirt to her, and I help her shrug into it. She’s all smiles, and, I swear, she takes my breath away. My heart is f*cking galloping in my chest. I can’t stop it, and I don’t want to.
She accepts congratulations, and she hands out business cards to people who want to be painted for the next competition.
All I can think about is getting her home so she can wash all that paint off her body. I wonder if she might let me help. There are a lot of places she can’t reach. That’ll be my excuse. But, in reality, I just want to love her. That’s all. I just hope she’ll let me.