Brush Strokes

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Story of a virgin being body painted.
1.2k words
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If you've never lived with your family inside a military compound, it may be hard to understand the feelings of confinement. Especially for a teenager. Most especially for me, as I grew to crave independence and autonomy.

The fifty homes were surrounded by bob-wire fences, with armed guards on the two gates. We all knew the Filipino guards and even their families who lived in Quezon City just outside our compound -- that didn't mean we liked them, as they were our captors (from the eyes of a barely eighteen year old woman-child). Because they kept us in our approved space and that made us feel imprisoned, we necessarily found other ways to rebel, explore, experiment and grow up. This is the story of one of those nights, 30 years ago this summer.

The adults were all down at the pool -- another party where they blew out their minds with booze. There wasn't much else for them to do. There wasn't much for us to do either. The nights were always long, humid and sweet smelling. We wandered around the compound like lost children, past the basketball court, behind the work shed, where we shared part of the bottle of Jack that we had lifted earlier from the bar at the pool.

Ken and I had held hands a few times when no one was watching. We were in no rush to let anyone else know about our attraction to each other -- our secretive behavior was stirring our desires. When he asked me to come with him to his bedroom, it was such a rush of fear and anticipation. Fear of being caught. Fear of our need to explore our sexuality. Anticipation of being with Ken and what that would lead to. Fear of losing my virginity at just 18. Fear of not being able to control myself and my desires.

His room was typical for the 70's -- posters on the walls of his favorite musicians. Pink Floyd, Aerosmith, Bad Company, all looking down at me. Canvases were stacked against one wall where he had started numerous projects. A black-light lit up the space over his bed and illuminated his tie-dyed pillowcases and white t-shirts thrown casually on the floor. Ken lit a sandalwood cone incense; the smoke swirled lazily toward the ceiling while the heavy sweetness filled the room. He then lit a J and handed the roach clip to me. While I enjoyed the buzz, Neil Young's haunting voice sang to us, and only to us.

I had expected to be held, to be kissed, but I was in for quite a different experience. Ken reached into the chest beside his bed and brought out twelve small jars of florescent body paint and a few small brushes, all of differing sizes and textures. Without saying a word to me, he used the smallest brush to paint an orange peace sign on the inside of my left thigh, with a trailing kite's tail down the back of my leg. He took his time with his initial project, making sure the paint was heavy enough for the circle, and re-dipping the tiny brush back into the jar, over and over. All the while, he kept pausing, catching my eyes with the intensity of his glance, and the soft quirky smile on his face.

Ken was just a month younger than me. At about 5'10" and 150 pounds, he was still lanky, like most teenagers. His soft light-brown curls shaped his baby face. But his hands, he had the hands of an artist with long strong fingers. I had heard about his love of painting, but this was the first I had seen any of his work. I guessed I was to be the canvas.

The color combinations he chose were wild, while the pictures were reminiscent of Peter Max. Rainbows, psychedelic renditions of landscapes, eyes appearing out of the swirls. He finished my left leg from thigh to ankle and then, asking permission with only his eyes, removed my t-shirt. And then my bra. Why was I letting him do this to my body? I was mesmerized with the entire experience. The lighting, the music, the pot, the colors, the sensuality.

On my breasts he painted lily pads with pink flowers swimming in green-blue waters. As he painted my nipples, which he saved for last, with the center of the lily becoming erect, I surrendered to the sexual nature of his brush strokes. I could hardly keep my eyes open as the rush of my passion overcame me; I was close to my orgasm from just the touch of his brush. He knew exactly what I was experiencing, but he only looked deeper into my eyes, locked with his.

He stood me up and unbuttoned my white jean shorts, lowering them and my underwear at the same time. Beginning on my right buttock, he began painting again, but I could only imagine what he was creating. Lying across his bed, he pulled my one knee up so he could continue down the back of my thigh and into the softness of the back of my knee. He kept changing brushes as I felt the textures of the bristles against my skin. Some tiny and fluid while others were bristly or wide and softer -- he exquisitely tickled the skin on my leg.

I was flying so high with the anticipation of what was to come next. Would he use his brushes on my lips and clit? Did I dare open my legs more to encourage him or give him permission? My breathing must have let him know what I needed, as he turned me over and lifted the knee that he had just painted, so to lay out his new canvas before him.

He carefully selected his brush -- with the softest and longest bristles, showing it to me before he dipped it into the vermillion paint. He started painting my labia first, with long slow strokes, moving from bottom to top. Changing paint colors, and teasing me with his obvious delay of the inevitable, he began above my clit, dripping purple beads onto me, and then spreading them together in slow circles.

I was on the edge of ecstasy, breathing harder, not able to watch him any longer. His brush strokes were deliberate, rhythmic, as he brought me to my climax and watched as my hips lifted in the undulations of my orgasm. I was lost in swirls of imaginative colors and textures. As I came down from the pinnacle, Ken held my legs open so as to keep the paint from running off my body. Then he left me alone to rest while he began cleaning his brushes and putting away his paint.

Still surprised that he wanted no more from me than to be his canvas, I reached for him, but he pulled away and just smiled that quirky smile again. It was not to be. How amazing that this young man could take such pleasure in his art and in my delight, and want nothing more from me.

I dressed to leave and he walked me to his front door, gently hugging me before sending me home.

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5 Comments
AnonymousAnonymousover 12 years ago
Hot ;)

Body painting fantasties have always worked for me and this one was perfect. Thank you!

Scotsman69Scotsman69over 12 years ago
A sweet and lovely tale.

Thank you.

AnonymousAnonymousover 12 years ago
Very Erotic!

Don't listen to the idiot below. This is a wonderfully creative and erotic story. Nicely done.

AnonymousAnonymousover 12 years ago
What a Waste!

Wasted paint, wasted words

AnonymousAnonymousover 12 years ago
what a rush!

I can almost feel the brush strokes from here!

Wonderful!

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