The door. I hear the
door open. My thighs clamp shut in shame and I’m shuffling my skirt
back down when he strolls into the room.

“What’s
going on here then?” He sounds like he’s being jokey but I’m so
humiliated and ashamed at being caught that I can’t read his
expression. I have a flashback to the same scene when I was small,
only it had been my mother who’d walked in then.

“What
the hell do you think you’re doing?” she’d screamed in an
explosion of fury and I’d stared at my stained skin and cried.

“Nothing,”
I stammer gathering my pens and brushes to my bosom and scramble to
standing.

“Come
on.” He stoops low and I surrender back onto my heels. “Show me.”

He stares at me with
those eyes. Those artist’s eyes that scrutinise, study, absorb and
analyse. He knows my body intimately, inside and out. I’ve posed
for him a hundred times and lain down for him a thousand.

He eases the pens
from my grip and lays them on the floor. His fingertips are cold as
he gathers my skirt and pulls it up to my resisting fists which are
balled into my lap.

“Please,
let me see.”

I watch the curling
ink come into view as I relax my hands. Hard black scribbles both
adorn and sear my flesh.

“What’s
this?” he asks with curiosity, not anger and I feel I might tell
him.

“It’s
mine.”

“Your
what?”

“My
arousal,” I say. He slides his palms onto my thighs, tugging the
fabric up further and sighs. I tremble, thinking he’s going to
chastise me for marking myself so viciously.

“It’s
beautiful,” he says and shuffles backwards so he’s on all fours
staring at my work. He leans in and parts my knees, inhaling my
dampening want. He reaches out and picks up one of my pens. A Rotring
thick nib fountain pen. One of my favourites. “May I?” he asks
tentatively and I am wide eyed at his request.

“Of
course,” I whisper, quivering. I lean back on my palms and spread
my thighs wide. He is intense as he makes the first mark. A long
sweeping scroll from knee to groin. I shudder as he stops short of my
thickening pussy lips. I hold my breath and indulge in the sensation
of the ink drying. That’s it. That’s the nirvana I’m after.
It’s such a subtle tiny triumph; you have to be in a very special
place to perceive it. It’s like being licked by a tiny angel. He
does the same on the other leg, slower this time so it dries while
he’s still applying it, raising goose bumps in its wake and
shooting a nerve tentacle of pleasure to the peak of my clitoris. The
rising carries on its journey and I fill my chest with breath to meet
it at the tip of my nipple before it retreats back to my pussy. He’s
on to a brush now. He swirls my Japanese sable bamboo onto the wet
charcoal block, round and round until it’s good and swollen with
moisture. He bids me to unfurl my knees and lie back like a Vitruvian
man.

He paints the soles
of my feet, between my toes then over the arch and ankles. My whole
being is centred in the tip of the cool fibres as he continues,
swirling and caressing every dip and curve of my body. My stomach
flutters as he makes his way over first one knee then the other,
writing, drawing. I feel letters being teased onto me, then shapes
and waves. I am losing myself in this slow careful ecstasy. At last
the brush swoops over my mons, intertwining with my own curling
fibres. My pussy is slick with desire now and I wish he would dip
into me. I open my legs as wide as I can and tense my buttocks,
forcing my entrance high. He obliges and sinks his face onto me,
inhaling and breathing me in. He parts my thighs further with his
forearms while a finger from each hand opens my plump ripe lips. He
waits for a second or two, just watching my pussy twitch and contract
in anticipation. I reach down and grab his hair, pulling him onto me,
my bud, my cunt. He flattens his tongue down the whole length of my
sex and I groan as he expertly points and darts into me then back to
my clit where he swirls and laps and paints all the patterns he has
made on my legs. Just as my inner muscles begin to convulse in that
tell tale peaking, he stops and lifts his face away.

“You
like to feel the ink drying, don’t you,” he says…

Get the book for FREE right now to read the rest and the other very saucy stories from the Brit Babes – and remember to check out the Sunday Snog for more action 😀