I wanted to create something for my husband that was both abstract and sensual and erotic. Everyone I knew was having boudoir pictures done, but I never was the person who followed a trend.
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, under the circumstances that took place, I knew of a man who liked to dabble in the arts. His name was John, and he was the last boyfriend I had before meeting the man who I eventually married.
He seemed like the obvious choice to ask, but I must admit, I was hesitant to reconnect with him considering our past, yet throwing caution to the wind, I gave him a call. He seemed genuinely happy to hear from me, so we set a time and date to meet. He had a private studio, he told me. "Of course you do," was my first thought. Caution flags went up like a video game on every turn I made to his place until I finally knocked on his door.
Let me pause to tell you about our relationship before you make any judgments about me going to meet my ex. He was an attractive man with a magnetic personality that I, quite frankly, couldn't get enough of when we dated. Here's where the judgment comes in; we were inseparable. This was not because we went everywhere together, hand in hand, no. For John and me, being inseparable meant that we spent most of our time together engaged in sexual activities, with his cock inside of my pussy like a key fitting into a lock.
We tried to go on actual dates to movies or even dinner, but we could never seem to leave each other's place when we arrived, always ending up on the couch, or living room floor, or in the bathroom, and even leaning over the railing of my apartment as he viciously pounded his beautifully hard cock into the deepest recesses and heart of my femininity.
Then why would we finally part if sex was so good? You may ask. I think we traded bodily fluids in every room of both of our places, but eventually, I wanted someone to make love to me, not to just fuck me into oblivion every…single…night.
Okay, maybe you can judge me; I was stupid to call him, but there I was, standing in his doorway being asked to come in. My heart started pounding, and my core became a pool of moisture. "Oh, hell," I thought as he closed the door behind me.
The memories came crashing through my defenses like a tidal wave, overwhelming me with emotions that I was unprepared for.
I hadn't had a lot of experience sexually; in fact, John was the man who took my virginity. I hadn't intended to give it up that first night a few years ago. All I remember is him taking me to dinner and, three hours later, being spread-eagle in his bed. My clothes were strewn about the room with his naked body between my thighs as he gently broke through my maidenhood.
He entered me slowly the first round but over time began to slide into me longer and harder until my soul seemed to leave my body. My core clenched and spasmed uncontrollably around his phallus until tears of joy ran down my cheeks. Those cheeks being the ones he held in his hands while he thrust into me, and the tears were the juices that flowed from my sex. There were so many tears.
"I want you to feel every inch, every vein, curve, and contour of my cock as I fuck you," he told me after I asked about a condom. After what must have been forty-five minutes, he finally pulled out for the final time, leaving me not as a girl but as a woman, hungry for more.
"I want you to see the effect you have on me," he told me before pulling out of my drenched center, right before spraying his thick, whitish cream all over my stomach and breasts.
Those memories hit me hard, but I was here for my husband, not him. At first, that is. I had absolutely no intention of going any further than having a conversation, a trading of ideas of what I could do as a gift for my husband.
"Have you ever heard of body printing?" He asked before explaining that it was an art form where the artist uses body imprints to transfer physical presence directly onto surfaces. The more he talked, the more I wanted to do it.
It was like déjà vu all over again. Thirty minutes later, I stood in his studio on a large piece of fabric, completely naked and exposed. To his credit, he was a complete gentleman. "I would be honored to help with a gift to the man who beat me out for your affection," he told me as he smeared paint onto my body. Of course, I didn't hear the hint of sarcasm in his voice.
He had touched my body intimately so many times in the past that it was as if it were a rite of passage to paint mine with his hands. He covered my arms, legs, back, breasts, stomach, and ass with the paint, all the while keeping his composure. He knew I was aroused; how could he not? I was having a hard time breathing, and my nipples were so erect that they hurt. It didn't help that he kept touching them lightly with his fingers.
He had me kneel on the fabric in one spot before having me on my back, so it left a distinct pattern of my ass with imprints of my hands on the sides.
"I don't think this is going to work," he told me as he studied the imprints. "You want intimacy and eroticism, correct?" he then asked. After I told him yes, he did something I didn't expect but was inevitable. He started to undress.
"What are you doing?" I asked, knowing the answer but not stopping him.
"You want erotic? I'm going to fuck you," he told me. As if I were in a trance, I watched as his body came into view. His chiseled chest, muscled arms and back, and strong legs. And then, yes, that. His cock was just as large as I remembered it, hanging between his legs like a weapon, getting stiffer with every moment. He didn't bother with painting himself; there was plenty already on the canvas. He simply knelt between my legs, and like a dog waiting for a treat, I lay down onto my back as he mounted me. He wasn't gentle either as he shoved his cock into my tight, wet pussy and began to thrust forcefully, moving my ass on the canvas. I gasped in pleasure and felt my body respond eagerly to his aggressive dominance.
I was in a state of shocked ecstasy as he moved me to another spot on the canvas and mounted me from behind, leaving prints of my feet, knees, and hands on the canvas. He then pushed me down and imprinted my hanging breasts into place. You could actually see the imprint of my nipples pressing against the canvas.
He fucked my pussy, no. The term "pussy" refers to sex. This experience was about retribution. He fucked my cunt over and over again in doggie, spoon, cowgirl, and prone bone positions, making me orgasm in each. He wanted to make sure I knew who owned my body at that moment.
His staying power was even more impressive than I remembered. When he was finally ready, he pulled out and quickly knelt in front of a spot where you could see my ass and back arched. His knees were positioned between the painted image, and his handprints were on the sides. He stroked his cock, and suddenly, his cum shot out onto the canvas, splattering the form right between the legs of the woman in the painting and onto where my stomach was only moments ago.
He then reached out to me and helped me up. We walked to the shower that was right there, and he washed my body clean of the paint. After cleaning me, he turned me to the wall and pushed his hard cock deep into me again, making me scream like a whore in heat. We ended up in his bed, fucking for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon until he had dumped and soiled me with his virile seed, over and over again, which flowed from my cunt and into his sheets, but not before coating my cervix with millions of his DNA.
When I finally left, I was completely exhausted and dehydrated. I could hardly walk straight, and every step felt as if his cock were still inside of me, thrusting into my depths.
A week later, he called. "Your painting is done; you can come and get it. Let's say, 7am Saturday," he said, with me understanding the double meaning.
When he showed me the painting, it was as if it were only me in the painting. While he moved me around during our sexual encounter, he made sure that I was the only one clearly visible on the canvas, although there were subtle hints. There were two rounded forms located between the painting's legs, right below my ass. It didn't look like much, but I knew what it was. The other telling mark was his dried cum on the portrait that looked like a simple smear, or splotch.
When I finally left around 11:30 that morning, I was soiled and leaking into my panties. I was again walking tentatively, knowing that I would soon return to revisit the second portrait that he had hung over his bed. It clearly was a couple in the throes of sexual activity, with his hands and knees well placed between my legs, among other evidence of a raucous coupling.
My husband loved the artwork and couldn't wait to show it off to all of our friends. One of my female friends who had known me for years before I had met my husband noticed the two splotches, or balls, that were in the artwork along with a few more subtleties. I watched her examine the artwork, and I noticed her turn a shade of red before she looked at me knowingly and whispered, "I see you reconnected with John recently."
