Speaker 1: Hello, my lovelies.
Speaker 2: I'm Roxy Callahan and welcome to my Erotic Whispers, where
we share stories of women giving in to their most
luscious desires. We celebrate the lust that lives within all
of us, and if that lust takes us to unexpected places,
that's all part of the joy. This week, a listener
who wants to remain anonymous sends a story in She
didn't provide any context other than it she wanted to
hear it performed, but I love it as I have
a personal connection, well a small one at least in
the past. I did have my body painted for a festival,
and I can confirm when the painter is hot and
the brush is lightly stroking your nipples, your mind starts
to wander. For me, a small bit of imagination, working
overtime and some pleasant shivers were all I experienced, but
I can all too easily see it leading to more,
as it does in this week's episode. Our stars this
week are Jaden and Sophia, who reached out to me
after hearing about my podcast. Thanks both of you, you
did amazing and as always, this podcast is intended for
adult listeners.
Speaker 1: I still couldn't believe I was doing this three days
until Desert Bloom, the biggest m festival of the year,
and I was about to let a complete stranger cover
my body and paint. It was the boldest thing I'd
ever done, a final, definitive fuck you to my painfully
vanilla x and the life that constrained me. I wasn't
just going to the festival. I was going to be
the festival. A living, breathing piece of art. Address led
me to a converted warehouse, and the moment I stepped
into Leo's third floor studio, the air hit me. It
was thick, with a sharp, earthy scent of turpentine and
oil paints, a smell of pure creation that was an
immediate turn on. Dust Motes danced in the long shafts
of the afternoon late cutting through the massive, grimy windows.
Tanvas is leaned everywhere, some depicting naked sensual forms, hips, shoulders,
the delicate curve of a spine, and all rendered with
an intensity that made my stomach clench. And then I
saw him. He was standing in the center of the room,
cleaning a brush with a practiced, almost surgical focus. He
was taller than his portfolio pictures suggested, lean and wiry,
dressed in paint splattered jeans and a simple gray T
shirt that pulled tot across his shoulders. He looked up
in his eyes, A deep, piercing blue met mine. It
wasn't a lear not the way most men look. It
was an artist's gaze, analytical, appreciative, and utterly consuming. I
watched his hands, the way he moved the rag over
the bristle. They were long, capable hands, stained with flecks
of cobalt and cadmium red. He was so hot. Wait
I saw it. You're here for the festival. Can't your
mind straight?
Speaker 3: I'm Leo, Thanks for coming.
Speaker 1: His voice was calm and steady. I can't wait. I
want to look fucking amazing for the festival. I out
the bluntness hid my sudden nervousness. He smiled a slow
curve of his lips that was devastating.
Speaker 3: That's the plan. The design you picked is complex, but
and a look incredible onto the lights.
Speaker 1: He nodded to his left.
Speaker 3: The changing screen is over there, behind the screen.
Speaker 1: I peeled off my clothes. I skinned, prickling in the
cool air, standing in nothing but a black thong and
two awkward silicone circles over my nipples. I felt a
wave of both vulnerability and exhilarating power wash over me.
I wasn't just a client, I was his canvas. He
was going to claim every inch of my skin for
his art, and thousands of people were going to see it.
I took a deep breath and stepped out. Mio's eyes
scanned me from head to toe, that same intense professional
focus in place. He nodded slowly, perfect He positioned me
on what looked like a massage table. As I lay
on my back, he approached with a wide, soft bristled brush,
its tip tripping with a cool, iridescent silver.
Speaker 3: I'm going to start with your stomach.
Speaker 1: His voice was all business.
Speaker 3: The key is to relax, try not to move.
Speaker 1: I braced myself, but I was completely unprepared for the sensation.
The moment the brush touched my skin, just below my navel,
a jolt shot through me. It was cold, shockingly so
and wet, a thick liquid sliding over my warm skin.
My stomach muscles clenched instantly. I could feel the drag
of each individual bristle as he sw wept the brush
in a long, smooth arc up towards my ribs. Goosebumps
erupted across my arms, and I had to bite the
inside of my lip to keep from gasping. He was
touching me all over without ever laying a finger on me.
My mind rased. He was so close. I could feel
the warmth radiating from his body. Here, the soft rhythmic
sound of his breathing. My nipples were already hard, pushing
insistently against the thin layer of silicone. Oh God, can
he tell he thinks he's just painting a cloud for
a festival, but my whole body is scrimming for him.
He needed to paint my side and to steady me.
He placed his free hand flat on my lower back.
A contrast was agonizing. His palm was a brand of
pure heat against my cool skin, a stark human touch
that was a thousand times more intimate than a brush.
Speaker 3: I trembled, you're cold.
Speaker 1: As he spoke, his eyes never left his work. How
little I manage to choke the words out, liar, You're
on fire. My pussy is already getting wet. He worked
in a focused silence that was somehow more intense than
any conversation. When he was done, he stepped back, his
face a mask of professional satisfaction. The silver bass coat
shimmered on my skin, transforming me.
Speaker 3: All right, that's the base layer done.
Speaker 1: He wiped his hands.
Speaker 3: Let's give it time to dry and then I'll add
the detail.
Speaker 1: He smiled, that devastating smile again.
Speaker 3: You're going to stop traffic at that festival.
Speaker 1: He went to take a phone call while the pain tried.
I tried to think of something, anything to get my
mind off the pure eroticism of the moment. And then
he returned and began painting my breasts. He definitely maneuvered
around the modesty pasties, but I kept willing him to
just say these are getting in the way of my
art and then have him peel them off and have
his delicious brush caress my nipples. But he never did,
and the session ended with me hoping he couldn't tell
just how turned on I was the whole time. Leaving
the studio was a strange experience. My skin was a cool,
shimmering masterpiece, a suit of armor ready for the festival,
but underneath I was a wreck of humid heat and frustration.
The professional transaction was over. He'd done his job perfectly
and In doing so, I had completely ignored the one
thing I was screaming at him without words. It's four
in the morning. The bass is still thrumbing in my bones,
a phantom echo of the festival that lingered long after
the last set had ended. I was completely wired, my
skin buzzing, not just from the leftover adrenaline, but from
the hours of being looked at, of being admired. A
paint had done its job. Under the strobing lasers and
black lights. Those work had come alive, a second skin
of shimmering, a psychedelic art. I had been practically naked,
and every man in that crowd had noticed their eyes
on me, hungry and appreciative. It had been an intoxicating
kind of foreplay, a mass seduction that left me aching
and ridiculously hot. But none of them were Leo. In
my bathroom, I stripped off my thong and pasties and
stepped into the shower, twisting the knob until the water
was almost painfully hot. Steam filled the small space instantly.
As the first spray hit my chest, I watched as
streaks of silver, cobalt, and crimson began to flow, swirling
into a vibrant, chaotic river. At my feet and spiraling
down the train. I watched the art disappear, and all
I could think about was how it got there. My
eyes closed, I could feel it again, the shocking cold
of the paint, the deliberate, maddeningly slow drag of the
brush over my stomach. The memory was so vivid, it
was like he was right there in the shower with me.
My hand came up to my breast, my fingers tracing
the path his brush had taken around my nipple. My
breast hitched. This was his fault, this ape between my legs,
this desperate clawing need. The professional transaction was over, but
the desire he'd accidentally ignite it was a raging inferno.
My fingers slid down my slick stomach, parting the wet
hair between my legs. I found my clit already swollen
and sensitive. I wasn't thinking about the guys at the
festival anymore. I was thinking of Leo's intense, blue eyed gaze.
I stroked myself. My own fingers were placing the memory
of his brush. The fantasy bloomed in my mind, vivid
and demanding. It wasn't a brush in his hand anymore.
It was his tongue. I imagined him kneeling before me,
his face buried between my legs, his tongue painting slow
wet circles on my clit. My hips bucked against my
own hand. At the thought, I could almost feel a hot,
rough texture of it, taste, his saliva mixed with my
own juices, paint me, I whispered to the empty, steam
filled room. I imagined his tongue flicking harder, faster, covering me,
claiming me in a way his brush never could. My
orgasm was a sudden, sharp explosion, a quick and violent
release that tore a gasp from my throat. I leaned
my head against the cold, wet tile, panting as the
last of his masterpiece pushed away down the drain. It
was gone, and I knew, with a certainty that was
both terrifying and thrilling, that I had to have more.
It took me two days to work up the nerve.
I paced my apartment, phone in hand, rehearsing the lie
intil it felt almost real, a cosplay party. It was stupid, flimsy,
and probably utterly transparent, but it was the only shield
I had for what I really wanted to say. I
can't stop thinking about your brush on my skin, and
now I want to feel your mouth. When he finally answered,
his calm, low voice sent a jolt straight to my groin. Leo, Hi,
it's erin Arin.
Speaker 3: Hey, I saw some pictures from the festival online. The
painter you have looked incredible. You looked amazing.
Speaker 1: I hardhammered against my ribs. Thanks. That's actually why i'm calling.
It was such a huge hit. My friends and I
are doing a themed cosplay party this weekend, another body
paint thing a bit more free form. I was wondering
if you were available a pause. I held my breath.
Sure he could hear the desperation, the pathetic lie in
my voice.
Speaker 3: Yeah, I've got an opening Saturday afternoon. What do you
have in mind?
Speaker 1: He bought it or he didn't care. Either way, my
pulse was roaring in my ears. I was thinking a
majestic image across my chest, like something more detailed, maybe
a bird or a butterfly.
Speaker 3: The pasties will kind of ruin that, but I think
I can work around it.
Speaker 1: Oh, I played coy. I guess I can lose the pasties.
I really want to go for the full experience back
in the studio, and the air was thick with a
new kind of tension. The professional boundary had been re established.
But I was there with the express purpose of destroying it.
Speaker 3: Okay, I just want to warn you.
Speaker 1: He stared directly at my chest. It was both unnerving
and an incredible turn on.
Speaker 3: This may tickle.
Speaker 1: Oh, I like a little tickle now and then I
smiled at him. Was it too much? Did he know
what kind of tickle I really wanted? I let my
robe fall to the floor. This time. There were no pasties.
I stood before him in just a pair of black panties,
my breasts bare, my nipples already tightening under his analytical gaze.
He didn't flinch. He just nodded, a thoughtful look on
his face as he picked up a fine tipped brush.
Speaker 3: All right, let's get started.
Speaker 1: A frustration was immediate and exquisite. I wanted a reaction,
a sharp intake of breath, a flicker of lust in
his eyes. Anything. I got nothing, but the artist focused
in control. He started on my shoulders, the bristles of
the brush a delicate, maddening tickle. He worked his way
down to my sternum, the fine lines of orange paint
like a creeping vine. I watched his face, his brow
furrowed in concentration, his eyes missing nothing. He was inches
from my breast, and I was practically vibrating with anticipation.
Then the brush touched my breast. He used his free
hand to gently cut the underside, lifting it slightly to
get a better angle. His touch was firm, professional, and
it set my entire body on fire. His thumb rested
on my ribs, just below the swell of my breast,
and his heat seeped into me. He began to paint
the curve, his brush slowly, deliberately making its way toward
the peak. Watched, mesmerized as the orange line coiled around
my areola. My nipple was pebble hard, pleading for his touch.
My pussy was slick, hacking. The bristles flicked across the
very tip. A gasp escaped, my lips, sharp and uncontrollable.
He paused, looking at my face for the first time.
Speaker 3: You, okay, was that too light? I told you it
would tickle.
Speaker 1: Yes, you asshole, press harder. I wanted to scream, No,
it's fine, just sensitive. He nodded, and a ghost of
a smile touched his lips before he returned to his work,
And that was the cruelest part. He knew. He had
to know he'd painted my other breast with the same
torturous precision, his knuckles brushing against my skin, the bristles
teasing my nipple into a state of agonizing arousal. He
treated my naked, pleating breasts like just another part of
the canvas, making a purely artistic comment as he stepped
back to admire his work.
Speaker 3: A crimson pigment on your skin tone is stunning.
Speaker 1: When I left the studio that day, the intricate, beautiful
butterfly covering my torso felt like a mockery. He had
passed my test by refusing to take the bait he
had pain in my naked nipples with a detachment of
someone painting a piece of fruit. I was found so
tight with frustration and desire. I felt like I was
going to snap. The game was over. Next time, I
wouldn't give him any excuses. Next time, Yes, there would
be a next time, and that next time I didn't call.
I booked a session online through his website, Cold and
impersonal transaction in the box of a reason for appointment,
I wrote a single word continuation. There would be no
flimsy excuses, no more testing the waters with half measures.
He either wanted me or he didn't. Today I would
get my answer. A walk from my car to a
studio door was the longest of my life. I had
spent the morning preparing a slow, deliberate ritual of shaving
every last inch of myself smooth. I was a blank canvas,
a perfect offering. When he opened the door, the lok
on his face was a mixture of deep curiosity and
something else. Was it something hotter? Was it something he
was trying to hide? There was going to be no
more hiding. I was here to give him the raw,
naked truth, Aaron.
Speaker 3: I wasn't expecting to hear from you again so soon.
What's the occasion this time?
Speaker 1: I didn't answer. I walked past him into the center
of the room, to the spot where I had stood before,
and let my bag drop to the floor. I turned
to face him. I heard a wild drum against my
ribs and held his gaze as I reached for the
hem of my dress. I pulled it over my head
in one smooth motion and let it fall. Then, with
a slow, deliberate grace. I hooked my thumbs into the
waistband on my panties and slid them down my legs,
kicking them aside. I stood before him, completely naked, utterly bare,
his professional mask finally cracked. I saw his jaw tighten,
saw his adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. His eyes,
those intense blue eyes, weren't the eyes of an artist anymore.
They were the eyes of a man hungry and full
of desire he could no longer conceal cut me. I
walked toward him, closing the space between us until I
could feel his body heap. I stopped, reached out and
placed his hand on my freshly shaved pubic mount. His
fingers were stiff with shock haint all of me. I
let his hand go, but he held it against my
skin a moment longer than he needed to, And at
that moment, I knew I have one last design in mind.
I voiced a sederr that I didn't recognize as my own.
It's incredibly intricate. I want you to cover me with
butterflies like the one you did last time, only small
and covering all of me. I walked over to his
table and laid down, my legs falling open, offering him
the most explicit and undeniable invitation I could. I looked
him right in the eye. I spread my already wet
lips with my fingers. Why don't you start here? He
stood there, a look of intensity in his eyes. He
was so close, and I knew all it would take
to get him over the edge was one small push.
You're going to have to get very, very close to
get it right. The studio was silent except for the
sound of our breathing. Then, with a look of pure,
agonizing surrender, he picked up his finest brush, walked over
and knelt between my legs. His face was inches from
my pussy. I was slick with a rousal, so wet,
A single drop of my own juices welled up and
trickled down, glistening on my pink sensitive skin. The air
was electric, sick with the scent of paint and sex.
The question hung between us, a silent, screaming thing. Was
he going to use the brush or his tongue? His
eyes were locked on this single drop of my own
slickness that trembled on the curve of my labia. The
paint brush in his hand was perfectly still, a useless,
forgotten prop The silence stretched taut and agonizing. He lifted
his other hand, the one not holding the brush, and
slowly deliberately extended his index finger. He didn't touch me,
not yet, He just hovered. I watched, mesmerized as the
drop of my arousal stretched define gravity and connected with
his skin. A shudder wreck my entire body. He brought
his finger to his lips and tasted me, his eyes
never leaving mine. A low grow rumbled in his chest,
a sound of pure animal appreciation. The sound broke the
last of my restraint, sucked the painting. He dropped the brush.
It clattered softly on the concrete floor. Then he leaned
forward and replaced his finger with his mouth. His tongue
was a revelation. It wasn't the tentative exploration of a
new lover. It was the confident, deliberate stroke of an
artist who knew exactly what he was doing. He started
with a long, slow lick, tracing the path his brush
had been meant to take, from the top of my
mound all the way down between my folds. The texture
was soft and wet, and I cried out my hips
bucking on the table. He gripped my thighs, holding me
in place as he went back for more. He licked
my juices, lapping at me like a man dying of third,
his tongue flicking against my clip with a torturous rhythm.
I could hear the wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth
on me, a sound that echoed the intensity of my
own throbbing need. My fingers dug into the wooden edge
of the padded table. He abandoned the slow, teasing licks
and began to suck, pulling my clip gently between his lips,
his chin rubbing up perfect rhythmic pressure against me. A fuck,
My head fell back. Don't stop, Please, don't stop, he
answered by sliding two fingers deep inside my stopping wet pussy,
stretching me, filling me, while his mouth continued its relentless
work on my clip. It was too much. The pleasure
was a white hot supernova building behind my eyes. I
was close, so close. The orgasm was a tidal wave,
and I was about to be swept away. But then,
just as I was about the shatter, he stopped. I
opened my eyes, panting, my vision blurry. He was looking
up at me, his face slicked with my deuces, his
eyes dark with a hunger that matched my own. He
stood up straight and achingly slowly unbuttoned and unlipped his pants.
I watched as they dropped to the floor. Before I
could even savor the bulge in his underwear, he shoved
them down to his stiff cock set free. He stood,
his paint splattered jeans pulling around his ankles, his cock
jutting from the nest of dark hair, impossibly hard and straight.
He stepped between my thighs, his body hot against my own.
He didn't enter me right away. Instead, he took his
cock in his hand and just rubbed the head against
my wits swollen folds, painting me with his own arousal.
Speaker 3: You have no idea how long I've wanted this.
Speaker 1: His eyes locked on mine.
Speaker 3: From the first moment you walked in here.
Speaker 1: He pushed forward, and I gasped as he slid inside me.
He was dick and hard, and the feeling of him
slowly feeling me, stretching me was an agonizingly perfect pleasure.
He went deep until the base of his cock was
pressed firmly against my clip, and then he stopped, holding
himself perfectly still inside me. I could feel his pulse,
a frantic beat that matched my own. Then he began
to move. It wasn't our rush, it was the slow,
deliberate stroke of an artist. He pulled back until just
the tip remained inside me, then drove himself deep again,
each thrust a master piece of friction and pressure. I
wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper,
taking all of him. The sound of our bodies slapping together,
a wet, rhythmic beat, filled the vast studio. Fuck my
fingers dug into his shoulders. You feel so.
Speaker 3: Good, You're so fucking tight.
Speaker 1: His control started to fray. The slow, artistic strokes gave
way to something harder, faster, more primal. He was fucking
me now, his hips slamming against mine, pounding into me
with a raw, desperate hunger. Every last shread of his
professionalism was gone, replaced by pure animal lust. A heat
built inside me, a raging fire coiling in my belly.
I reached down my fingers, finding my clit already hard
and exquisitely sensitive. The moment I touched myself, a tremor
went through him.
Speaker 3: Oh fuck Aaron you are so wet and hot.
Speaker 1: His thrust were becoming even more frantic. I matched his rhythm,
stroking my clit with each of his deep, punishing thrusts.
The feeling of his cock filling my pussy while my
own fingers worked my clit was sending me over the edge.
I was losing it, the orgasm building with a violent intensity.
I'm coming. I locked my legs around his hips. Fuck
me harder, come with me. His guttural rore was his
only answer. He drove into me one last time, deep
and hard, and I felt his entire body seize my
own organs and crushed over me in a blinding, white,
hot wave. I screamed his name as my body convulsed
around his cock, my inner muscles clenching and milking him
as he pulsed, emptying his hot colm deep inside me.
He collapsed together, a tangled mess of sweat, paint stained skin,
in raw pleasure. He stayed inside me, his weight of
comforting pressure, our hearts hammering against each other in the sudden,
ringing silence of the studio. He lifted his head, his
face inches from mind, and kissed me softly. I kissed,
not a frantic lust but of profound, sated connection. We
lay tangled together on the table for a long time,
the silence of the studio broken only by our ragged,
slowing breaths. My head was resting on his chest, his
arm wrapped securely around my shoulders, holding me close. A
frantic animal lust had passed, replaced by a deep, humming
content that resonated in every cell of my body. He
gently stroked my hair, his fingers tracing patterns on my scalp,
and I smiled, feeling more at peace than I had
in years. I lifted my head and looked down at
our bodies, a beautiful, chaotic miss. He had never gotten
to painting me this session, but my torso was smeared
and blended with sweat, his cum and my own juices,
creating a new abstract piece of art that shimmered in
the dim light. A single perfect drop of his cumb
was resting on my stomach like a pearl. He followed
my gaze. I reached out and dipped my finger into
the drop and slowly held it between us. You know,
I think you should paint me again, abstract. Behave you're
a brush over my body and let the paint splatter.
I licked the cum off my finger and really likes at.
Speaker 3: I think I'd really like to paint you again and again.
Speaker 1: I laughed, a sound full of pure, unadulterated joy. I
leaned in and kissed him, a long, slow kiss that
wasn't about need, but about promise. This was just the beginning,
of course, but it was the perfect star. Now we
had a whole new canvas to create together.
Speaker 2: Thanks so much for listening to my podcast. I'm Roxy
Callahan and my Erotic Whispers are brought to you by
tenth Muse Studio.