A Living Canvas

It’s Masturbation Monday…but rather than self-manipulation this fine evening, I’ve opted for a little help in this story. Even though THEY aren’t masturbating…perhaps the characters will inspire YOU to?

Jenna became highly aware of her own skin, as the warm breeze hit places usually covered in public. She and Michael had the backyard to themselves. The kids were gone for the weekend, and, generously, Mother Nature had graced them with a sunny afternoon. Michael took the opportunity to pull Jenna, by the hand, away from her chores and responsibilities. Sometimes he had no choice but to make it a directive. She had a tendency to wind herself up and lose focus on what mattered. And Michael had to cook up something out of the ordinary to really reset her. This afternoon, he had just such a plan in store.

Standing on the soft green grass, Michael spread a blanket. He walked behind her, surprising her by picking her clean up off her feet. She giggled and squealed a bit with the shift of balance from her own feet to his arms. The shift in power was more than symbolic. It was obvious the role she was being asked to assume. And gladly, she began to leave her To Do list behind.

“Close your eyes, Jen. No talking. No moving. I’ll move you as necessary.”

Jenna nodded and sank down into the blanket and the softness of the earth below it, eyes closed, a smile relaxing her features. She could hear Michael moving around her, setting things down, and preparing, for whatever it was he was planning to do.

And then he was above her, unbuttoning her well-loved plaid, cotton shirt, which was rolled up at the sleeves to keep them out of the dish-water…and then her jeans: unbuttoned and unzipped, slowly being pulled off of her body. He turned her just enough to each side to remove her arms from the sleeves of her shirt and then undid her front-clasped bra, peeling it back like wrapping paper, revealing her breasts, nipples already signaling her growing dedication to the moment. Slipping the bra out from under her back, he left her in the sun with the directive to keep her eyes closed.

Within minutes, he returned, setting more things down around her. Jenna could feel him kneel beside her, could feel his warm breath above her left nipple…her right…and then her neck. In her ear, he whispered, “You’re a perfect canvas…that porcelain skin, crying out for the images in my head. These ideas…they’ll find a home here…and here….and here…”

With each “here”, he kissed her, on the side of her breast, on her stomach, and just below the edge of her white cotton panties, which he’d left on her.

And then she felt the cold touch of the paint-dipped brush on her collar bone, as it made a trail between her breasts, to her naval. She sucked in her breath when the brush moved softly back up to circle each of her breasts.

She sighed, and released every other last thought, letting her brain be submerged in the smell (one of her favorites) of freshly cut grass. The swirls and dips of the brush, into and out of the valleys of her torso, took the rest of her bodily concentration, and everything else was pushed outward, into the space around her, and set free.
Jenna had no idea how much time had passed, as she drifted in and out of a light sleep. The warmth of the sun on her skin lulled her back and forth along the edge of a dream that vaguely resembled the scent of a distant memory. But when the brush stopped moving, Jenna was softly roused from herself by Michael’s voice.
“Imagine what he could have done with a canvas such as this…”
She began to open her eyes, but Michael told her to stop.
“I’m not done, Jen. It has to dry. And while it does…”
Michael began to slide Jenna’s panties over her sun-kissed hips and down her thighs. He spread her legs, just a bit, his hands, on either side of her, steadying him as he lowered his face to kiss her softest, sweetest parts. He licked the creases where her inner thighs met her outer labia…and then grazed his tongue from the base of her inner labia, all the way to her clitoris, where he stayed for a moment, collecting himself, as she slowly began to lose herself.
“Jenna, you have to hold still…to let the paint dry. You can’t touch it. You can’t move…unless I move you.”
“Okay, Michael. I promise not to move.” But she wasn’t so sure she could keep her promise.
He licked her, and tasted her, and slipped first one and then two fingers inside of her, knowing just where to touch, with just the right pressure, to bring her complete release. He worked his fingers and tongue in tandem, bringing her just to the edge, every muscle in her lower body taut and her breath held. That is when he stopped. He pulled away, and he watched the swirls of paint move across her flesh, the yellow and blue patterns turning from static to rhythm, like animation…the wind – alive and dancing, just as the artist had intended.


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