Today, I’m doing something a little radical for me: I’m posting a piece of erotic fiction that’s been written by a guest author. It’s something of a cheat, having someone filling in for me. Nevertheless, I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I did.
She stood naked on a small dais in the middle of the bustling, brightly lit room. The man in front of her – a makeup artist – had a tin of non-toxic body paint in his left hand and held a brush in his right hand, poised to begin covering her exposed skin in gold. She was accustomed to such public nudity; as a figure model and artists’ muse, she had stood naked in busier places than this. Her task this day was to have her body completely covered in gold, and then to be filmed as a living statue for a movie being made here in her hometown. Other girls in the room were being painted similarly, so she didn’t feel at all out of place or nervous.
The makeup artist sat on a small stool at her feet. He looked up at her, the statuesque beauty in front of him, and he thought that today he had the best job in the world. He managed to keep his hand from trembling as he wetted his brush in the paint, and then prepared to apply it to her long, lush, sweetly curving frame.
“Are you ready for me to start?” he asked, more to prepare himself than for any worries he had for her.
She shrugged, held her arms slightly away from her body and said, “Ready when you are.”
He had already decided where to begin; he would work from the top down, and so got to his feet and stepped up on her dais, to get access to her neck. Her long auburn hair was piled upon her head: it would be covered in a gold wig later, but for now the glorious flames of her tresses gleamed and sparked under the bright lights. His brush stroked her neck, the place just under her hairline in back to the nape, and then swept the metallic liquid around behind her ears and under her jaw line. The brush was quite fine and rather narrow, and he wondered from an artistic perspective if perhaps it should have been wider for better coverage and less visible brush strokes.
She gasped slightly and breathed, “It’s cold!”
A surreptitious glance around the side of her body showed him that her nipples had already hardened from the sensation. Small goose bumps appeared on her arms, and her hairs rose just so slightly.
He paused in his ministrations.
“Would you mind if I used my hands instead of the brush? It’s just … the brush is quite small, and the strokes are showing. My hands might warm the paint. We could get this done in half the time.”
She looked at him, at his hands, at the brush. “OK, if you think it will give better coverage.”
He put down the brush and dipped his fingers directly into the viscous, metallic fluid in the tin. It dripped off them in slick rivulets, and he rubbed it around to warm it a bit. His hand touched her warm, soft skin and began stroking the paint onto her. She looked at him as his hands began to sweep over her, then transferred her gaze over his shoulder, focusing on something behind him.
The makeup artist turned around. There was a man there, seated about fifteen feet away, watching them intently. He nodded at the artist, and gestured at him as if to say, ‘You may continue.’ The man was well-dressed in a dark suit and expensive shoes; he was impassive, yet there was a quiet sense of power, of possessive control, about him. It was clear that he knew the model.
The makeup artist turned back to his work, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. She switched her jade gaze back from the man watching to the artist, and imperiously raised her chin in a movement that said, Yes, carry on.
Oh God, she felt marvelous. Fuck she was gorgeous. Her skin was smooth and velvet soft, and the paint slid onto her like the finest exotic oil. Using his hands was so much faster than the brush, and he worked quickly to smooth and refine the gold so that it glittered on her in a solid, smooth coating. His hands moved from her neck to her shoulders, down her arms, front and back. She giggled a little when he did her underarms.
“I’m ticklish,” she said, charmingly.
From her arms he moved behind her, to her long, smooth back, to the delicate swoop where her backbone met her arse, to the dimples on either side of her spine, and the tattoo just above her tailbone. It was black; tribal, simple, elegant. It set off her back beautifully, emphasizing her lean lines and the curve of her hips. He used extra paint to cover it, wishing instead that he could leave it exposed, a black beauty mark in all that glaring metal.
He couldn’t help admiring her shape, his hands firmly guiding the paint onto her, stroking and massaging her into a golden goddess. He worked lower, under her buttocks, down the back of her legs. Her thighs were firm. So warm. He couldn’t quite work up the nerve to go to her inner thighs, into her secret crevices, not yet. He kept his ministrations on the outer, less intimate places, until he felt a little calmer at having her under his hands in such a sensual manner.
He continued along the backs of her legs, down to her feet, and then he realized that he had done her whole back with the exception of her arse crack. He went back up her legs and slowly, carefully, worked from the outside of her buttocks inwards, so that she could feel which way he was going. He glanced around her hip to the man watching, her voyeur, his eyes dark and glittering. He merely nodded as before.
Ok, then, the artist thought. His hand slid between her cheeks. He felt her buttocks tense and then release, ever so subtly, as he carefully rubbed the oily paint from the top of the valley to just below her anus. He stopped short of her perineum, paused ever so slightly, took a breath, and – still standing behind her – whisked a single finger ever so gently lower.
He heard the merest exhalation of breath escape her, and his finger was met with the white-hot, wet heat of a woman very much aroused. He withdrew it quickly, shocked. Shocked but instantaneously and intensely turned on.
Oh fuck, he thought. Oh Jesus God. How was he going to be able to finish this without her seeing the marble-hard erection that sprang up the instant he felt her excitement? He could not untuck his shirt to conceal his desire with his hands covered in paint. He hoped his jeans would hold him tight.
Still behind her, to give himself a moment, he cleared his throat and said “That’s the back done. We’ll start on the front now”.
He walked around her. Her green eyes blazed into his, her pupils dilated, her lids slightly lowered. Her lips were half open, and her nipples were hard nubs on her chest, erect and pink. She did not say a word. She merely stood there looking at him, directly into his eyes, and then she spread her legs a few inches apart. She switched her emerald gaze back to the voyeur.
Suddenly, the artist’s throat was very dry.
The artist resumed his painting, working down her upper chest to the gentle slopes of her firm breasts. The tautness of her nipples caught the paint greedily, which he then re-smoothed, slowly circling them, catching the droplets that gathered at the tips. The rosiness of her nipples added an extra layer of color and glow to the paint … very subtle, but very, very alluring. Her breasts shivered and shimmered. It was unbearably erotic for him; he wanted to suck those rosy tips until she cried out, but he knew he could not, that he had to carry on, the detached professional. For a moment, he thought he noticed her subtly pressing her breasts into his hands, but no sign of pleasure showed on her face, except for the fire in her icy green eyes, which remained fixed upon the voyeur in his throne.
Her nipples were so hard, so distended, they required a second application of paint as they had cracked the first coat. He re-circled her aureoles and her aching buds (they had to be aching; he had never seen nipples quite so at attention). He pulled slightly on her nipples – he could not resist doing so any longer – and saw her mouth offer a tiny, barely visible moue of pleasure.
He worked down to her flat, firm belly, stroking and smoothing the sides of her narrow waist, her belly button and her hips, then around and down the fronts of her thighs and her shins until he reached her feet.
He stood up and regarded her. Her entire body was gold, except for the vividly roseate flesh nestled between her thighs. It was the single most erotic thing he had ever seen.
He re-dipped his hand in the paint. Now it seemed like oil, like lubricant, and he felt the sexual tension thick and hot around him. The people bustling about the room receded until they were nothing but background noise, inconsequential. The interplay between the three of them … the artist, the controlled voyeur and this glorious creature and her maddeningly exciting impassivity and professionalism … they were a triumvirate of sexual play and power. The artist glanced back at the voyeur. The man was leaning forward, watching intently. The artist turned back to the model, and her unwavering gaze bore into the voyeur. It said: Watch. Watch what happens. Watch this man touch me, excite me. Imagine yourself touching me like this. Feel my arousal.
The makeup artist moved his hand slowly up her inner thigh. He could feel her heat well before he touched her sex. He quickly dipped his other hand in the paint and ran it up her other leg, both hands moving up to barely nudge her labia. His hands slid into the furrows between her legs and her sex, making sure that he got the paint all the way to where her thighs became her arse. Her legs moved apart infinitesimally more. He looked up her body, and slowly, gently, slid his golden, oiled fingers into her innermost cleft.
She was so wet, so swollen, so hot. Her inner lips surrounded his fingers, drawing him in, drawing him to her cunt, to that burning wet door to her passion, a door he longed to enter more fully, more thoroughly. Her eyes darkened, but besides a slight flaring of her nostrils as she inhaled, and the merest tremble in her belly, she showed no other sign of the obviously intense arousal she felt. He re-gilded his fingers and daintily stroked the paint onto her, into her. Her was clit so hard and flared, he could not avoid it if he tried. He stroked it avariciously. Slowly, carefully, he kept stroking her, rubbing her in a gentle rhythm, watching the pulse in her throat beating wildly. The makeup artist wondered what the voyeur was thinking, if he was jealous of the artist’s hands right now, the hands stroking this magnificent, silently pulsing beauty to pleasure, while he could only watch. The artist could see the woman looking at the voyeur, daring him to say something, to react, to desire her.
The model’s inner thighs shook slightly. The artist worked faster, but with softly insinuating, measured strokes, as if he was merely massaging in the paint, no more. He left his stroking, slowly ran his fingers along the enveloping path of her dripping cleft, and slid a finger into her. He could feel the waves of ultimate pleasure start, could feel her cunt beginning its rhythmic clenching, so he came back to her clit and applied slightly more pressure, though no faster than he had before. Her orgasm erupted; he felt it, his hand upon the epicenter, the source … intense, powerful, silent. The only obvious evidence of her climax was a small sigh, a slight upward curve of her lip and a brief tremor than ran the length of her. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed back at the voyeur, as she exhaled, as she came, as her heart tumbled.
The makeup artist dipped his hand once more in the paint, then cupped her whole sex intimately and performed one last, comforting, soothing sweep of paint. It was his final chance to feel her juices, her softly swollen lust, to have her hot femininity within his grasp.
The model was entirely golden now; all that remained was for the matching mask and wig to be applied. His work was done. The artist turned to look at the voyeur, his hand still somewhat possessively between the model’s legs.
The voyeur was gone.