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Trini, an art model, was often nude. Totally nude, as the lustful eyes of young artists gazed upon her firm, supple form with thinly veiled hunger. Yes, Trini was tall and tan, young and lovely, though not from Ipanema. And yet today, Trini was not nude. At least not yet. Trini knew that silky, skimpy lingerie teased not only the viewer, but also the wearer. She felt the appeal of the fabric and colors. She liked the secret power and sexiness just feeling the luxury lingerie beneath her clothes. It provided a concealed, sensual, knowledge, and inclined her mind subtly and daily toward the pleasures of the flesh.
Paul Batiste scowled in distaste at his rendition of his model’s sleeves. The white lawn of fabric was proving difficult to paint. He’d always heard that white was the hardest color of all, to be layered with washes of color so that the undertones gave body to the painting.
Body. Hard. These were words often associated with Trini. She was lithe and entirely luscious. Her lightly tanned legs were hardened by years of dancing and aerobics. Gazing at her firm, seductive body, Paul struggled to concentrate on the task at hand. He tore his mind away from salacious thoughts and thought about one of his favorite works, Renoir’s depiction of a snow-covered Pont Neuf with passersby providing relief from the whiteness. He’d heard that Renoir’s brother engaged pedestrians in conversation so that Renoir could capture them in paint, but Paul felt a paid conversationalist would not only confuse his model, but distract him. There had to be a better solution.
Sure, he could ask Trini to change her shirt, or even put her in a baseball jersey with contrasting sleeves, but where was the attraction of painting a simple joyless red or purple? No, he needed a different strategy to knit up the raveled sleeve of care.
Then Paul recalled John Ruskin’s sneering comment about another Pont Neuf painting. Monet’s. Ruskin abhorred the work. In fact, he said Monet’s subjects were reduced to mere “tongue-lickings” of paint. Hummmm…it could work. Not that he would actually dip his tongue in the tempera, but perhaps a difference canvas. If he painted on actual skin, the natural luscious cafe-au-lait color of Trini’s skin would show through and forget the layers of washes.
Ah, that skin. His professionalism lapsed whenever he gazed upon it. Like coffee lightened just so, Trini’s skin glowed in the light streaming through the studio windows. Pausing to admire her skin, Paul felt a certain rigidity begin. But this was work. Like Elvis, Paul wore a ring with “TCB” on it. Taking Care of Business, that was Paul’s approach. He sought bahis firmaları to separate lust from business. Alas, his business involved long stretches of time looking at lovely models clad in very little. To hide any erectile activity, Paul had taken to wearing chambray work shirts with the tails out.
Trini had been almost asleep in her pose, the sunlight of the studio and airy Mozart playing softly to induce a looseness of limb Paul felt necessary for the painting. As she idly watched the dust motes dancing in the brightness, she almost dozed off, and her eyes closed, only to fly open as she felt the silky tip of the sable brush against her tan skin. The cool liquidity of the paint was barely perceptible, but tickled slightly as Paul drew the brush in a wide arc just under her breasts.
Paul’s fingers pulled up her blouse and brushed her ribs. She arched her back slightly, feeling a sudden warmth while savoring the slippery wash of paint over her skin. She squirmed slightly as her pulse began to throb. The sensation changed, becoming even more slippery and she realized that he had, after all, exchanged the brush for his tongue. What kind of work was he going for exactly? Was he doing minimalism? Could she be reduced to a mere cone, a sphere, a cube? Trini found the idea curiously satisfying, and immediately became amenable to artistic innovation.
As Paul’s tongue moved back and forth over her tummy, Trini noticed that her sighs were growing to a crescendo in counterpoint to the Mozart. This distressed Trini because she did not want to become personally involved in the act of artistic creation. She viewed her work as a model as part and parcel of the process of getting her Ph.D. in art history. Throughout her studies, though, Trini had wrestled with the question of her passion. For her, art was life itself. She appreciated artists like Picasso in almost a visceral fashion. And so Trini felt that being a model was an inherently active endeavor, not merely a passive time of being viewed and painted.
Because of her educational and vocational goals, Trini wanted to assure that her passion for artists did not overwhelm her need to maintain a scholarly demeanor. Thus, Trini found that a long, sensual shower before a posing session tended to lessen her own personal tension and make her a more professional model, one less inclined to be drawn into the intrinsic passion of posing. That particular morning, however, Trini had overslept. Upon arising, Trini realized that she simply lacked the time to enjoy her customary morning orgasm before meeting the artist. Thus, Trini felt a bit more vulnerable to desire that morning kaçak iddaa as Paul’s tongue ran back and forth over her stomach.
For his own part, Paul felt strongly both ways. On the one hand, he wanted to pursue his artistic vision. On the other hand, he could understand why applying paint to a lovely young woman with his tongue could lead to other distractions. Still, he remained confident of his professionalism as he asked Trini to unbutton her blouse and remove it so that his experiment in oral paint application could continue.
As she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, and her firm breasts became visible, Paul could not help but notice that her nipples were swollen. However, determined to proceed apace with his novel method of application, Paul began to tongue-apply paint to the sides of Trini’s neck. She gasped as his tongue found her ear, her throat. Relentless in his artistic quest, Paul put more paint on his tongue and began to lave her breasts. Trini felt, and then saw, that her nipples had become engorged as Paul’s tongue gently lashed her breasts.
Just as Trini’s back began to arch, her body involuntarily rising up to seek his questing tongue, Paul’s tongue moved downward, along her sides, and then over her stomach again. His tongue traced a path along the top of Trini’s sarong, causing her to gasp repeatedly. She felt the hair on his head lightly tickling her lower abdomen as he licked paint onto her body. For the sake of art, it became clear that Trini would have to remove her sarong.
With fingers deft and strong from hours of stretching canvas, cleaning brushes, and daubing paint, Paul untied the knot of her sarong. She shivered at his touch and let the sarong fall to the floor. The play of shadow and light on her hipbones made him think simultaneously of shading and sex, but he was, after all, a tortured artist, so he grabbed his brush, dipped it into the paint, and began to stipple just under Trini’s navel and above the line of her Rococco Cocoa lace thong. The repeated motion of the paintbrush tip touching her sensitive skin again and again teased her relentlessly — a tap, then a pause, then another tap, then another pause.
Lord a mighty, Trini felt her temperature rising. Suddenly, the stippling stopped, and Trini waited with eyes closed, sensing the artist’s dissatisfaction with the controlled pattern he’d created. She heard him walk to the easel and pick up something, then heard a faint metallic click as he set something heavy down.
As Paul walked, he noticed that his erection was rigid. Well, perhaps that was redundant. He was rigid. Even with the tails of his shirt, he found kaçak bahis it hard, er difficult, to hide the stiffness. Having a utilitarian cast of mind, Paul hung a towel on his rock-hard erection, grabbed some paint supplies, and turned back to Trini.
Coolness dribbled on her sleek, tight thighs and she looked down to see them splashed in cobalt blue. Immediately, Paul began to dip complementary yellow on top, creating a vibrant Pollack-y pattern. He added a tracery of chartreuse, then turned to a roll of canvas leaning against the wall, swiftly unrolling several yards on the floor. He beckoned to her, and she realized he wanted her to roll on the canvas. In the grip of her own elemental passion, she could but obey. She writhed on the canvas, leaving her textures on the rough surface in supple, undulating patterns.
As the harsh canvas fabric touched her nipples, as the slippery paint covered them, Trini felt as warm as the heat wave that swept Paris. When she had covered the fabric, she lifted her eyes to Paul’s and saw naked desire lurking there. As her eyes moved down his body, this impression was confirmed by the erection his shirt could not conceal. She stretched on the art her sensual body had created, reveling in the way his eyes raked over her curves now pulsating with color. Ripping off his bohemian chambray shirt, he upended a container of cerise over his shoulders and joined her on the canvas. He seized her wrists, kisssed her roughly, and turned her, leaving long feathery strokes of crimson on the canvas, shading into purple where it overlapped with her blue.
Suddenly, Paul stood up and cried out “Wait a second.” She watched his quadriceps flex as he sprang to the CD player to put on Ute Lemper’s “Punishing Kiss.” Just before he returned to join her on the TGV to ecstasy, Trini wondered if the explosive passion that had created the painting would be immediately evident to viewers. She pondered a title. Ecstasy in Cobalt and Cerise? Violet Interlude? Jambes d’une Femme?
She stood up to discuss possible titles, but he turned and sank to his knees before her. He kissed her stomach, then the outside of a thigh, then a knee. And then she felt she felt him moving her, felt his kisses falling her hips, exposed by the thong, felt him turning her again, felt the kisses on her thighs. She gasped as his kisses burned through the thin fabric of her panties. She felt his tongue licking along the edges of her thong.
Then, almost unconsciously, she was assisting him in the removal of the thong. He grasped it in his teeth and slowly, slowly removed it. Then his hands reached around to fondle her hips as he kissed her thighs. Then, with a shock, she felt his lips tracing the tiny triangle she had shaven far above her clitoris, her self-control vanished, and the day dissolved in violent sweetness like pigment in universal solvent.
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