Speaker 1: Hello, my lovelies. I'm Roxy Callahan and welcome to my
Speaker 1: Erotic Whispers, where we share stories of women giving in
Speaker 1: to their most luscious desires. We celebrate the lust that
Speaker 1: lives within all of us, and if that lust takes
Speaker 1: us to unexpected places, that's all part of the joy.
Speaker 1: This week, a listener who wants to remain anonymous sends
Speaker 1: a story in She didn't provide any context other than
Speaker 1: it she wanted to hear it performed, But I love
Speaker 1: it as I have a personal connection, well a small
Speaker 1: one at least in the past. I did have my
Speaker 1: body painted for a festival, and I can confirm when
Speaker 1: the painter is hot and the brush is lightly stroking
Speaker 1: your nipples, your mind starts to wander. For me a
Speaker 1: small bit of imagination, working overtime and some pleasant shivers
Speaker 1: where all I experienced, but I can all too easily
Speaker 1: see it leading to more, as it does in this
Speaker 1: week's episode. Our stars this week are Jaden and Sophia,
Speaker 1: who reached out to me after hearing about my podcast.
Speaker 1: Thanks both of you, you did amazing and as always,
Speaker 1: this podcast is intended for adult listeners.
Speaker 2: I still couldn't believe I was doing this three days
Speaker 2: until Desert Bloom, the biggest m festival of the year,
Speaker 2: and I was about to let a complete stranger cover
Speaker 2: my body and paint. It was the boldest thing I'd
Speaker 2: ever done, a final, definitive fuck you to my painfully
Speaker 2: vanilla x and the life that constrained me. I wasn't
Speaker 2: just going to the festival. I was going to be
Speaker 2: the festival, a living, breathing piece of art. Iaddress led
Speaker 2: me to a converted warehouse, and the moment I stepped
Speaker 2: into Leo's third floor studio, the air hit me. It
Speaker 2: was thick, with a sharp, earthy scent of turpentine and
Speaker 2: oil paints, a smell of pure creation that was an
Speaker 2: immediate turn on. Dust Motes danced in the long shafts
Speaker 2: of the afternoon late cutting through the massive, grimy windows.
Speaker 2: Tanvas is leaned everywhere, some depicting naked sensual forms, hips, shoulders,
Speaker 2: the delicate curve of a spine, and all rendered with
Speaker 2: an intenseity that made my stomach clench. And then I
Speaker 2: saw him. He was standing in the center of the room,
Speaker 2: cleaning a brush with a practiced, almost surgical focus. He
Speaker 2: was taller than his portfolio pictures suggested, lean and wiry,
Speaker 2: dressed in paint splattered jeans and a simple gray T
Speaker 2: shirt that pulled tot across his shoulders. He looked up
Speaker 2: in his eyes, A deep, piercing blue met mine. It
Speaker 2: wasn't a lear not the way most men look. It
Speaker 2: was an artist's gaze, analytical, appreciative, and utterly consuming. I
Speaker 2: watched his hands, the way he moved the rag over
Speaker 2: the bristle. They were long, capable hands, stained with flecks
Speaker 2: of cobalt and cadmium red.
Speaker 3: He was so hot.
Speaker 2: Wait, I saw it. You're here for the festival. Can't
Speaker 2: your mind straight? I'm Leo, Thanks for coming. His voice
Speaker 2: was calm and steady. I can't wait. I want to
Speaker 2: look fucking amazing for the festival. I out the bluntness
Speaker 2: hid my sudden nervousness. He smiled a slow curve of
Speaker 2: his lips that was devastating.
Speaker 4: That's the plan. The design you picked is complex, but
Speaker 4: and a look incredible under the lights.
Speaker 3: He nodded to his left.
Speaker 4: The changing screen is over there, behind the screen.
Speaker 2: I peeled off my clothes. I skinned, prickling in the
Speaker 2: cool air, standing in nothing but a black thong and
Speaker 2: two awkward silicone circles over my nipples. I felt a
Speaker 2: wave of both vulnerability and exhilarating power wash over me.
Speaker 2: I wasn't just a client, I was his canvas. He
Speaker 2: was going to claim every inch of my skin for
Speaker 2: his art, and thousands of people were going to see it.
Speaker 2: I took a deep breath and stepped out. Mio's eyes
Speaker 2: scanned me from head to toe, that same intense professional
Speaker 2: focus in place. He nodded, slowly, perfect He positioned me
Speaker 2: on what looked like a massage table. As I lay
Speaker 2: on my back, he approached with a wide, soft bristled brush,
Speaker 2: its tip tripping with a cool, iridescent silver.
Speaker 4: I'm going to start with your stomach.
Speaker 3: His voice was all business.
Speaker 4: The key is to relax, try not to move.
Speaker 2: I braced myself, but I was completely unprepared for the sensation.
Speaker 2: The moment the brush touched my skin, just below my navel,
Speaker 2: a jolt shot through me. It was cold, shockingly so
Speaker 2: and wet, a thick liquid sliding over my warm skin.
Speaker 2: My stomach muscles clenched instantly. I could feel the drag
Speaker 2: of each individual bristle as he sw wept the brush
Speaker 2: in a long, smooth arc up towards my ribs. Goosebumps
Speaker 2: erupted across my arms, and I had to bite the
Speaker 2: inside of my lip to keep from gasping. He was
Speaker 2: touching me all over without ever laying a finger on me.
Speaker 2: My mind rased.
Speaker 3: He was so close.
Speaker 2: I could feel the warmth radiating from his body here,
Speaker 2: the soft rhythmic sound of his breathing. My nipples were
Speaker 2: already hard, pushing insistently against the thin layer of silicone.
Speaker 2: Oh God, can he tell he thinks he's just painting
Speaker 2: a clyde for a festival, but my whole body is
Speaker 2: scrimming for him. He needed to paint my side and
Speaker 2: to steady me. He placed his free hand flat on
Speaker 2: my lower back. A contrast was agonizing. His palm was
Speaker 2: a brand of pure heat against my cool skin, a
Speaker 2: stark human touch that was a thousand times more intimate
Speaker 2: than a brush. I trembled, you're cold. As he spoke,
Speaker 2: his eyes never left his work. Hell little manage to
Speaker 2: choke the words out, Liar, you're on fire. My pussy
Speaker 2: is already getting wet. He worked in a focused silence
Speaker 2: that was somehow more intense than any conversation when he
Speaker 2: was done. He stepped back, his face a mask of
Speaker 2: professional satisfaction. The silver based coat shimmered on my skin,
Speaker 2: transforming me.
Speaker 4: All right, that's the base layer done.
Speaker 3: He wiped his hands.
Speaker 4: Let's give it time to dry and then I'll add
Speaker 4: the detail.
Speaker 2: He smiled, that devastating smile again. You're going to stop
Speaker 2: traffic at that festival. He went to take a phone
Speaker 2: call while the pain tried. I tried to think of something,
Speaker 2: anything to get my mind off the pure eroticism of
Speaker 2: the moment. And then he returned and began painting my breasts.
Speaker 2: He definitely maneuvered around the modesty pasties, but I kept
Speaker 2: willing him to just say these are getting in the
Speaker 2: way of my art and then have him peel them
Speaker 2: off and have his delicious brush caress my nipples. But
Speaker 2: he never did, and the session ended with me hoping
Speaker 2: he couldn't tell just how turned on I was the
Speaker 2: whole time. Leaving the studio was a strange experience. My
Speaker 2: skin was a cool, shimmering masterpiece, a suit of armor
Speaker 2: ready for the festival, but underneath I was a wreck
Speaker 2: of humid heat and frustration. The professional transaction was over.
Speaker 2: He'd done his job, perfectly, and in doing so, I
Speaker 2: had completely ignored the one thing I was screaming at
Speaker 2: him without words.
Speaker 3: It's four in the morning.
Speaker 2: The bass is still thrumbing in my bones, a phantom
Speaker 2: echo of the festival that lingered long after the last
Speaker 2: set had ended. I was completely wired, my skin buzzing,
Speaker 2: not just from the leftover adrenaline, but from the hours
Speaker 2: of being looked at, of being admired. A paint had
Speaker 2: done its job. Under the strobing lasers and black lights.
Speaker 2: Those work had come alive, a second skin of shimmering,
Speaker 2: a psychedelic art. I had been practically naked, and every
Speaker 2: man in that crowd had noticed their eyes on me,
Speaker 2: hungry and appreciative. It had been an intoxicating kind of foreplay,
Speaker 2: a mass seduction that left me aching and ridiculously hot.
Speaker 2: But none of them were Leo. In my bathroom, I
Speaker 2: stripped off my thong and pasties and stepped into the shower,
Speaker 2: twisting the knob until the water was almost painfully hot.
Speaker 2: Steam filled the small space instantly. As the first spray
Speaker 2: hit my chest, I watched as streaks of silver, cobalt,
Speaker 2: and crimson began to flow, swirling into a vibrant chaotic
Speaker 2: river at my feet and spiraling down the train. I
Speaker 2: watched the art disappear, and all I could think about
Speaker 2: was how it got there. My eyes closed, I could
Speaker 2: feel it again, the shocking cold of the paint, the deliberate,
Speaker 2: maddeningly slow drag of the brush over my stomach. The
Speaker 2: memory was so vivid, it was like he was right
Speaker 2: there in the shower with me. My hand came up
Speaker 2: to my breast, my fingers tracing the path his brush
Speaker 2: had taken around my nipple. My breast hitched. This was
Speaker 2: his fault, this ape between my legs, this desperate clawing need.
Speaker 2: The professional transaction was over, but the desire he'd accidentally
Speaker 2: ignite it was a raging inferno. My fingers slid down
Speaker 2: my slick stomach, parting the wet hair between my legs.
Speaker 2: I found my clit already swollen and sensitive. I wasn't
Speaker 2: thinking about the guys at the festival anymore. I was
Speaker 2: thinking of Leo's intense, blue eyed gaze. I stroked myself.
Speaker 2: My own fingers were placing the memory of his brush.
Speaker 2: The fantasy bloomed in my mind, vivid and demanding. It
Speaker 2: wasn't a brush in his hand, anymore. It was his tongue.
Speaker 2: I imagined him kneeling before me, his face buried between
Speaker 2: my legs, his tongue painting slow wet circles on my clit.
Speaker 2: My hips bucked against my own hand. At the thought,
Speaker 2: I could almost feel a hot, rough texture of it, taste,
Speaker 2: his saliva mixed with my own juices, paint me, I
Speaker 2: whispered to the empty, steam filled room. I imagined his
Speaker 2: tongue flicking harder, faster, covering me, claiming me in a
Speaker 2: way his brush never could. My orgasm was a sudden,
Speaker 2: sharp explosion, a quick and violent release that tore a
Speaker 2: gasp from my throat. I leaned my head against the cold,
Speaker 2: wet tile, panting as the last of his masterpiece pushed away.
Speaker 3: Down the drain.
Speaker 2: It was gone, and I knew, with a certainty that
Speaker 2: was both terrifying and thrilling, that I had to have more.
Speaker 2: It took me two days to work up the nerve.
Speaker 2: I paced my apartment, phone in hand, rehearsing the lie
Speaker 2: intil it felt almost real, a cosplay party. It was stupid, flimsy,
Speaker 2: and probably utterly transparent, but it was the only shield
Speaker 2: I had for what I really wanted to say, I
Speaker 2: can't stop thinking about your brush on my skin, and
Speaker 2: now I want to feel your mouth. When he finally answered,
Speaker 2: his calm, low voice sent a jolt straight to my groin.
Speaker 3: Leo, Hi, it's erin Arin.
Speaker 4: Hey. I saw some pictures from the festival online. The painter,
Speaker 4: you have looked incredible. You looked amazing.
Speaker 2: I hardhammered against my ribs. Thanks. That's actually why I'm calling.
Speaker 2: It was such a huge hit. My friends and I
Speaker 2: are doing a themed cosplay party this weekend, another body
Speaker 2: paint thing a bit more free form. I was wondering
Speaker 2: if you were available a pause. I held my breath.
Speaker 2: Sure he could hear the desperation, the pathetic lie in
Speaker 2: my voice.
Speaker 4: Yeah, I've got an opening Saturday afternoon. What do you
Speaker 4: have in mind?
Speaker 2: He bought it or he didn't care. Either way, my
Speaker 2: pulse was roaring in my ears. I was thinking a
Speaker 2: majestic image across my chest, like something more detailed, maybe
Speaker 2: a bird or a butterfly.
Speaker 4: The pasties will kind of ruin that, but I think
Speaker 4: I can work around it.
Speaker 2: Oh, I played coy. Hi, I guess I can lose
Speaker 2: the pasties. I really want to go for the full
Speaker 2: experience back in the studio, and the air was thick
Speaker 2: with a new kind of tension. The professional boundary had
Speaker 2: been re established. But I was there with the express
Speaker 2: purpose of destroying it.
Speaker 4: Okay, I just want to warn you.
Speaker 2: He stared directly at my chest. It was both unnerving
Speaker 2: and an incredible turn on.
Speaker 4: This may tickle.
Speaker 2: Oh, I like a little tickle now and then I
Speaker 2: smiled at him. Was it too much? Did he know
Speaker 2: what kind of tickle I really wanted? I let my
Speaker 2: robe fall to the floor this time. There were no pasties.
Speaker 2: I stood before him in just a pair of black panties,
Speaker 2: my breasts bare, my nipples already tightening under his analytical gaze.
Speaker 3: He didn't flinch.
Speaker 2: He just nodded, a thoughtful look on his face as
Speaker 2: he picked up a fine tipped brush.
Speaker 4: All right, let's get started.
Speaker 2: A frustration was immediate and exquisite. I wanted a reaction,
Speaker 2: a sharp intake of breath, a flicker of lust in
Speaker 2: his eyes.
Speaker 3: Anything.
Speaker 2: I got nothing but the artist focused in control. He
Speaker 2: started on my shoulders, the bristles of the brush a delicate,
Speaker 2: maddening tickle. He worked his way down to my sternum.
Speaker 2: The fine lines of orange paint, like a creeping vine.
Speaker 2: I watched his face, his brow furrowed in concentration, his
Speaker 2: eyes missing nothing. He was inches from my breast, and
Speaker 2: I was practically vibrating with anticipation. Then the brush touched
Speaker 2: my breast. He used his free hand to gently cut
Speaker 2: the underside, lifting it slightly to get a better angle.
Speaker 2: His touch was firm, professional, and it set my entire
Speaker 2: body on fire. His thumb rested on my ribs, just
Speaker 2: below the swell of my breast, and his heat seeped
Speaker 2: into me. He began to paint the curve, his brush slowly,
Speaker 2: deliberately making its way toward the peak. Watched, mesmerized as
Speaker 2: the orange line coiled around my areola. My nipple was
Speaker 2: pebble hard, pleading for his touch. My pussy was slick, haking.
Speaker 2: The bristles flicked across the very tip. A gasp escaped,
Speaker 2: my lips, sharp and uncontrollable. He paused, looking at my
Speaker 2: face for the first time. You okay, was that too light?
Speaker 2: I told you it would tickle, Yes, you asshole, press harder.
Speaker 2: I wanted to scream, No, it's fine, just sensitive. He nodded,
Speaker 2: and a ghost of a smile, touched his lips before
Speaker 2: he returned to his work, and that was the cruelest part.
Speaker 3: He knew.
Speaker 2: He had to know he'd painted my other breast with
Speaker 2: the same torturous precision, his knuckles brushing against my skin,
Speaker 2: the bristles teasing my nipple into a state of agonizing arousal.
Speaker 2: He treated my naked, pleating breasts like just another part
Speaker 2: of the canvas, making a purely artistic comment as he
Speaker 2: stepped back to admire his work.
Speaker 4: A crimson pigment on your skin tone is stunning.
Speaker 2: When I left the studio that day, the intricate, beautiful
Speaker 2: butterfly covering my torso felt like a mockery. He had
Speaker 2: passed my test by refusing to take the bay. He
Speaker 2: had pain in my naked nipples with a detachment of
Speaker 2: someone painting a piece of fruit. I was found so
Speaker 2: tight with frustration and desire. I felt like I was
Speaker 2: going to snap. The game was over. Next time, I
Speaker 2: wouldn't give him any excuses. Next time, Yes, there would
Speaker 2: be a next time, and that next time I didn't call.
Speaker 2: I booked a session online through his website, cold and
Speaker 2: impersonal transaction in the box of a reason for appointment,
Speaker 2: I wrote a single word continuation. There would be no
Speaker 2: flimsy excuses, no more testing the waters with half measures.
Speaker 2: He either wanted me or he didn't. Today I would
Speaker 2: get my answer. A walk from my car to a
Speaker 2: studio door was the longest of my life. I had
Speaker 2: spent the morning preparing a slow, deliberate ritual of shaving
Speaker 2: every last inch of myself smooth. I was a blank canvas,
Speaker 2: a perfect offering. When he opened the door, the look
Speaker 2: on his face was a mixture of deep curiosity and
Speaker 2: something else. Was it something hotter? Was it something he
Speaker 2: was trying to hide? There was going to be no
Speaker 2: more hiding. I was here to give him the raw,
Speaker 2: naked truth, Aaron.
Speaker 4: I wasn't expecting to hear from you again so soon.
Speaker 4: What's the occasion this time?
Speaker 2: I didn't answer. I walked past him into the center
Speaker 2: of the room, to the spot where I had stood before,
Speaker 2: and let my bag drop to the floor. I turned
Speaker 2: to face him. I heard a wild drum against my
Speaker 2: ribs and held his gaze as I reached for the
Speaker 2: hem of my dress. I pulled it over my head
Speaker 2: in one smooth motion and let it fall. Then with
Speaker 2: a slow deliberate grace. I hooked my thumbs into the
Speaker 2: waistband on my panties and slid them down my legs,
Speaker 2: kicking them aside. I stood before him, completely naked, utterly bare,
Speaker 2: his professional mask finally cracked. I saw his jaw tighten,
Speaker 2: saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. His eyes,
Speaker 2: those intense blue eyes, weren't the eyes of an artist anymore.
Speaker 2: They were the eyes of a man hungry and full
Speaker 2: of desire he could no longer conceal cut me. I
Speaker 2: walked toward him, closing the space between us until I
Speaker 2: could feel his body heap. I stopped, reached out and
Speaker 2: placed his hand on my freshly shaved pubic mount. His
Speaker 2: fingers were stiff with shock, haint all of me. I
Speaker 2: let his hand go, but he held it against my
Speaker 2: skin a moment longer than he needed to, And at
Speaker 2: that moment, I knew I have one last design in mind.
Speaker 2: I voiced a sturr that I didn't recognize as my own.
Speaker 2: It's incredibly intricate. I want you to cover me with
Speaker 2: butterflies like the one you did last time, only small
Speaker 2: and covering all of me. I walked over to his
Speaker 2: table and laid down, my legs falling open, offering him
Speaker 2: the most explicit and undeniable.
Speaker 3: Invitation I could. I looked him right in the eye.
Speaker 2: I spread my already wet lips with my fingers. Why
Speaker 2: don't you start here? He stood there, a look of
Speaker 2: intensity in his eyes. He was so close, and I
Speaker 2: knew all it would take to get him over the
Speaker 2: edge was one small push. You're going to have to
Speaker 2: get very, very close to get it right. The studio
Speaker 2: was silent except for the sound of our breathing. Then,
Speaker 2: with a look of pure, agonizing surrender, he picked up
Speaker 2: his finest brush, walked over and knelt between my legs.
Speaker 2: His face was inches from my pussy. I was slick
Speaker 2: with a rousal, so wet, A single drop of my
Speaker 2: own juices welled up and trickled down, glistening on my
Speaker 2: pink sensitive skin. The air was electric, sick with the
Speaker 2: scent of paint and sex. The question hung between us,
Speaker 2: a silent, screaming thing. Was he going to use the
Speaker 2: brush or his tongue? His eyes were locked on this
Speaker 2: single drop of my own slickness that trembled on the
Speaker 2: curve of my labia. The paint brush in his hand
Speaker 2: was perfectly still, a useless, forgotten prop The silence stretched
Speaker 2: taut and agonizing. He lifted his other hand, the one
Speaker 2: not holding the brush, and slowly deliberately extended his index finger.
Speaker 2: He didn't touch me, not yet, He just hovered. I watched,
Speaker 2: mesmerized as the drop of my arousal stretched define gravity
Speaker 2: and connected with his skin. A shudder wreck my entire body.
Speaker 2: He brought his finger to his lips and tasted me,
Speaker 2: his eyes never leaving mine. A low grow rumbled in
Speaker 2: his chest, a sound of pure animal appreciation. The sound
Speaker 2: broke the last of my restraint, sucked the painting. He
Speaker 2: dropped the brush. It clattered softly on the concrete floor.
Speaker 2: Then he leaned forward and replaced his finger with his mouth.
Speaker 2: His tongue was a revelation. It wasn't the tentative exploration
Speaker 2: of a new lover. It was the confident, deliberate stroke
Speaker 2: of an artist who knew exactly what he was doing.
Speaker 2: He started with a long, slow lick, tracing the path
Speaker 2: his brush had been meant to take, from the top
Speaker 2: of my mound all the way down between my folds.
Speaker 2: The texture was soft and wet, and I cried out
Speaker 2: my hips bucking on the table. He gripped my thighs,
Speaker 2: holding me in place as he went back for more.
Speaker 2: He licked my juices, lapping at me like a man
Speaker 2: dying of third, his tongue flicking against my clip with
Speaker 2: a torturous rhythm. I could hear the wet, sloppy sounds
Speaker 2: of his mouth on me, a sound that echoed the
Speaker 2: intensity of my own throbbing need. My fingers dug into
Speaker 2: the wooden edge of the padded table. He abandoned the slow,
Speaker 2: teasing licks and began to suck, pulling my clip gently
Speaker 2: between his lips, his chin rubbing up perfect rhythmic pressure
Speaker 2: against me.
Speaker 3: A fuck, My head fell back.
Speaker 2: Don't stop, Please, don't stop, he answered by sliding two
Speaker 2: fingers deep inside my stopping wet pussy, stretching me, filling me,
Speaker 2: while his mouth continued its relentless work on my clip.
Speaker 3: It was too much.
Speaker 2: The pleasure was a white hot supernova building behind my eyes.
Speaker 2: I was close, so close. The orgasm was a tidal wave,
Speaker 2: and I was about to be swept away. But then,
Speaker 2: just as I was about the shatter, he stopped. I
Speaker 2: opened my eyes, panting, my vision blurry. He was looking
Speaker 2: up at me, his face slicked with my deuces, his
Speaker 2: eyes dark with a hunger that matched my own. He
Speaker 2: stood up straight and achingly slowly unbuttoned and unlipped his pants.
Speaker 2: I watched as he dropped to the floor. Before I
Speaker 2: could even savor the bulge on his underwear, he shoved
Speaker 2: them down to his stiff cock set free. He stood,
Speaker 2: his paint splattered jeans pulling around his ankles, his cock
Speaker 2: jutting from the nest of dark hair, impossibly hard and straight.
Speaker 2: He stepped between my thighs, his body hot against my own.
Speaker 2: He didn't enter me right away. Instead, he took his
Speaker 2: cock in his hand and just rubbed the head against
Speaker 2: my wits swollen folds, painting me with his own arousal.
Speaker 4: You have no idea how long I've wanted this.
Speaker 3: His eyes locked on mine.
Speaker 4: From the first moment you walked in here.
Speaker 2: He pushed forward, and I gasped as he slid inside me.
Speaker 2: He was dick and hard, and the feeling of him
Speaker 2: slowly feeling me, stretching me was an agonizingly perfect pleasure.
Speaker 2: He went deep until the base of his cock was
Speaker 2: pressed firmly against my clip, and then he stopped, holding
Speaker 2: himself perfectly still inside me. I could feel his pulse,
Speaker 2: a frantic beat that matched my own. Then he began
Speaker 2: to move. It wasn't our rush, it was the slow,
Speaker 2: deliberate stroke of an artist. He pulled back until just
Speaker 2: the tip remained inside me, then drove himself deep again,
Speaker 2: each thrust a master piece of friction and pressure. I
Speaker 2: wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper,
Speaker 2: taking all of him. The sound of our bodies slapping together,
Speaker 2: a wet, rhythmic beat, filled the vast studio. Fuck, my
Speaker 2: fingers dug into his shoulders.
Speaker 3: You feel so.
Speaker 4: Good, You're so fucking tight.
Speaker 2: His control started to fray. The slow, artistic strokes gave
Speaker 2: way to something harder, faster, more primal. He was fucking
Speaker 2: me now, his hips slamming against mine, pounding into me
Speaker 2: with a raw, desperate hunger. Every last shread of his
Speaker 2: professionalism was gone, replaced by pure animal lust. A heat
Speaker 2: built inside me, a raging fire coiling in my belly.
Speaker 2: I reached down my fingers, finding my clit already hard
Speaker 2: and exquisitely sensitive. The moment I touched myself, a tremor
Speaker 2: went through him.
Speaker 4: Oh. Fuck Aaron, you are so wet and hot.
Speaker 2: His thrust were becoming even more frantic. I matched his rhythm,
Speaker 2: stroking my clit with each of his deep, punishing thrusts.
Speaker 2: The feeling of his cock filling my pussy while my
Speaker 2: own fingers worked my clit was sending me over the edge.
Speaker 2: I was losing it, the orgasm building with a violent intensity.
Speaker 2: I'm coming. I locked my legs around his hips. Fuck
Speaker 2: me harder, come with me. His guttural roar was his
Speaker 2: only answer. He drove into me one last time, deep
Speaker 2: and hard, and I felt his entire body seize My
Speaker 2: own organs crushed over me in a blinding, white, hot wave.
Speaker 2: I screamed his name as my body convulsed around his cock,
Speaker 2: my inner muscles clenching and milking him. As he pulsed,
Speaker 2: emptying his hot colm deep inside me. He collapsed together,
Speaker 2: a tangled mess of sweat, paint stained skin, in raw pleasure.
Speaker 2: He stayed inside me, his weight of comforting pressure, our
Speaker 2: hearts hammering against each other in the sudden, ringing silence
Speaker 2: of the studio. He lifted his head, his face inches
Speaker 2: from mind, and kissed me softly. I kissed not a
Speaker 2: frantic lust, but of profound, sated connection. We lay tangled
Speaker 2: together on the table for a long time, the silence
Speaker 2: of the studio broken only by our ragged, slowing breaths.
Speaker 2: My head was resting on his chest, his arm wrapped
Speaker 2: securely around my shoulders, holding me close. A frantic animal
Speaker 2: lust had passed, replaced by a deep, humming content that
Speaker 2: resonated in every cell of my body. He gently stroked
Speaker 2: my hair, his fingers tracing patterns on my scalp, and
Speaker 2: I smiled, feeling more at peace than I had in years.
Speaker 2: I lifted my head and looked down at our bodies,
Speaker 2: a beautiful, chaotic miss. He had never gotten the painting
Speaker 2: me this session, but my torso was smeared and blended
Speaker 2: with sweat, his cum, and my own juices, creating a
Speaker 2: new abstract piece of art that shimmered in the dim light.
Speaker 2: A single perfect drop of his thumb was resting on
Speaker 2: my stomach like a pearl. He followed my gaze. I
Speaker 2: reached out and dipped my finger into the drop and
Speaker 2: slowly held it between us. You know, I think you
Speaker 2: should paint me again, abstract be ive You're a brush
Speaker 2: over my body and let the paint splatter. I licked
Speaker 2: the cum off my finger and really likes at.
Speaker 4: I think I'd really like to paint you again and again.
Speaker 2: I laughed, a sound full of pure, unadulterated joy. I
Speaker 2: leaned in and kissed him, a long, slow kiss that
Speaker 2: wasn't about need, but about promise. This was just the beginning,
Speaker 2: of course, but it was the perfect star. Now we
Speaker 2: had a whole new canvas to create together.
Speaker 1: Thanks so much for listening to my podcast. I'm Roxy
Speaker 1: Callahan and my Erotic Whispers are brought to you by
Speaker 1: tenth Muse Studio.