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In her mind, for that is where she really lived, she was a swan; lying almost translucent on shadowed bed sheets. A long pale neck, limbs tucked into the center of her body, she lay waiting. He arrived on time; stopping briefly in the foyer to snatch a cream-coloured envelope from its place on the narrow, wooden missionary bench, he knew to be her Great-aunt’s. Three sentences, scratched in black ink on the fine linen paper, set the evenings affairs in order: “You are here to tonight to paint.” His face showed a smack of surprise. “You must not touch me, use only the brushes.” A jagged smile moved his narrow lips. “You are here to paint… me!” His eyes narrowed, not unlike a bird of prey’s after spying its next kill. He liked the thought of all of this. He entered the dimly lit room, letting a line of yellow light fall across the bed. It signaled a shift and she unfolded herself for him. She turned her back on him presenting the parts of herself she liked best. She lay on her sidelong and narrow, knees slightly bent making her rump round and full. Her feet were poised, the sole of one softly kissing the top of the other; the toes flaming red with paint. The valleys created by hip and ribs and turned shoulder were creamy like the notepaper he held in his hand. Indifference turned her head away; offering him the line of her chin, her cheekbone, her high handsome forehead. He dropped his raincoat at the threshold of her room and went to her bedside. The nightstand was crowded with mugs of paint; pigments of red, blue, green, yellow... Black paint erupted from the top of a plastic bottle and ran down its side pooling on the marble table top. This was the thick glossy paint she had instructed him to cover her body with. He shook his head as if to rid himself of the foolish suggestion. She did not move. She did not speak. Her eyes and lips were closed in repose. He chose a brush. What part of her body would he begin with: his favorite or his least favorite? Do men have least favorites? She couldn’t remember his. The room smelt of citrus. The skins of many tangerines lay carelessly among mugs filled with paint. (He will begin with my…) She felt a wand tap at her thigh. The handle of a brush, she thought, and followed his directive tapping until she lay on her back, fully exposed, with her arms folded above her head. Should she keep her eyes closed? Should she watch him work? What would give her more pleasure?the role of a voyeur or anticipating the random surprise of his touch? The wet tongue of bristles lapped long and hard at the triangle of hair at her groin. She was disappointed. She didn’t take him for this. She expected someone who was equal to the task at hand. She closed her eyes tight to shut him out, she felt embarrassed for him. Hadn’t he led her to believe he was in control of himself? This was something a boy would do -- a boy or a novice. A novice, she thought, she didn’t need. He began to stir the paint into the curls of her pubis. Despite herself, she warmed there. He moved the brush up and down, up and down, like a butter churn, she thought, between her closed legs. The rhythm was slow and deliberate. She felt wet and sticky between her legs and she knew that her own juices had begun to mingle with the paint. She bit at her lower lip. He stopped suddenly. She waited. With the handle of a strong, thicker brush he showed her he meant to separate her thighs. He began to paint a line from where his journey began, away from her torso and down the length of one leg. The line moved in a slow spiral down to her ankle. She imagined a vine growing greener and greener as it wound its way around the limb. Now the bristles of a smaller, lighter brush alighted on her skin, barely touching down here and there. He had made his way back up to the tops of her legs. She lay in her darkness, feeling his warm breath on her skin. She longed to reach out to touch him, to identify his location. She didn’t move. Was his face so close to her secret spot that if he dared, he could touch her with his tongue? Nothing was happening. She waited not opening her eyes. The water and steam sounded in the pipes in the wall. What was he doing? Minutes passed and she felt too vulnerable lying there before him. Her arms were numb now above her head. She shifted, bringing each to rest on either side of the mattress. Then he leaned into her and she could feel his weight and what she knew to be his erection. She asked herself: What will he do with it? What color was he smearing on her breasts? Short strokes dabbed cool paint on each areole; he was rolling the brush’s head around and around his target, in a hypnotic fashion. The quick of the brush punctuated each nipple. They began to throb and she found that she was arching her back and lifting herself ever so slightly off the mattress, as if to encourage him to take one in his mouth and suck. She quivered. She groaned in the deep part of her throat. She felt her breathing become more rapid: short, quick breaths puffed through her lips. Would he make her come now? No. He stopped and moved away from the bed. She heard him sit in the armchair near the fireplace. Had he had enough? The paint drew the chill in the room to her skin. Minutes passed and she heard him clear his throat and rise from the leather seat. He came back to the bed and sat at her side. With the handle of a thinner brush, he drummed softly at her bottom lip, till she opened her mouth for him. He ran the tip of the handle along her lips. She knew what to do with it. She flicked her tongue at it -- dueling swords. She took it into her mouth and sucked at it like a stick of hard candy. He moved the handle in and out, in and out, doing her mouth with it. He enjoyed how responsive she was, yet her eagerness for sensation was too much for him. She was always too wanting. He couldn’t understand her not ever tiring of it, not ever being filled, not ever having enough. What would come of all of this? He wondered as he stood to unfasten his belt and trousers. |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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