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“Yes, Donnelly,” I reply, stubbornly refusing to give him the title he wants. He smirks knowingly at me and then moves away from the table.
I lean up on my elbows and stare at him. “Where are you going?”
“Did I say you can move?” he snaps.
My back hits the table so fast it hurts, and my arms fly back above my head where he placed them.
When he returns, he’s holding a glass jar full of paintbrushes.
“I hope those are clean,” I mutter.
“Well they would be if someone did their job and cleaned up like a good little maid.”
“I’m no-one’s maid,” I spit, anger rising.
“Then the brushes won’t be clean. And that’s on you, but I’m not about to let it stop me.”
Then, he’s between my legs, spreading them even wider and opening my pussy up to him.
He selects the large, wide brush that I used to paint my canvas black and grins at me. In one long stroke he drags the brush from my décolleté, between my breasts, over my stomach and down to my pubic bone, leaving a wide trail of black paint in his wake. The bristles are scratchy but my nipples still tighten at the sensation.
His grin widens.
“Do you like that?” he asks.
“I… I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “We’ll just keep trying new things until you do.”
Then he takes another long sweep, this time dragging the brush from my outer thigh to my knee. He dips the brush in a nearby pitcher of warm water and then drags it through the wetness on the inside of my thighs. I gasp as it dries. The paint is supposed to stay wet so it can release easily from the canvas, but instead it dries and adheres to my skin.
He takes the wide brush and sets it aside, then selects a finer paintbrush. This one is covered in red paint and I suspect it might be one that he was using to paint the finer details of my hair.
This time he uses it to paint my breasts. I start to squirm, but he pins my torso to the table and continues. He pays special attention to my nipples, painting them one at a time, and I struggle to breathe in the minutes that it takes for him to finish. When he’s done, he leans over me and looks at his work with a critical eye.
I’m sure my skin is as red as the paint when he leans down and gently takes my left nipple between his lips.
“Ahh fuck,” I moan.
He releases my nipple, and then he repeats the action on the other one, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
“Please—”
“Please what, little pet?” He kisses his way up my body, stopping to give each nipple one last kiss.
My mouth is dry so I lick my lips. “More,” I whisper.
“I want to hear you say it,” he says.
I know what he wants me to say, but I can’t do it. That would make it real. It would make me vulnerable.
“No? Not ready to submit? Then I’ll continue.”
He lowers his mouth to my stomach, and then he drags his tongue along my skin in the same path that the paintbrush took. He’s not as gentle, and my skin shivers and dances with the sensation.
“Donnelly, please,” I beg.
“Please what?” he asks, kissing my body like he’s worshipping it.
