*** Not your typical piece of erotica. This is more of a sensual piece than a carnal one. But who says erotica has to include sex or masturbation?***
She knew the moment she clamped eyes on that giant canvas at the art store that it would bring her to her knees at some point.
She could not fight it any longer.
She already felt herself surrendering to it, to this scintillating painting project she had been dreaming about for the last year. With that great mystery in mind — of how she would make this wet dream a very wet and messy reality, of how she would unfurl the limitless artistic, sensual and erotic possibilities — she decided to finally buy it, the largest canvas she had ever purchased thus far in her short tenure as a budding artist.
It was so big, she needed help lugging it to the cash, and then to her car. And then she needed more help to secure it to the roof of her car. It was that huge. On her drive home, she wondered how she would get it into her backyard without toppling over and getting crushed. But she was too excited to be overly worried. The canvas was lightish… but was rather unwieldy. She would figure it out. Or get her hot neighbor to help her; she was usually in her garage at this time… working on her car… in that tank top… that showed off her arms and their deliciously protruding veins….
But enough about her. She had to think about how she was going to go about her painting. Maybe she should just let go and see what happens instead of planning it – which usually takes a lot of the excitement out of it anyway.
She always preferred the impromptu when it came to creating. She likened it to spontaneous sex – just so much hotter than when you are expecting it.
When she arrived home, she was disappointed to see her neighbor’s garage door closed. No car outside. She must have had other plans that day. No biggie. She jumped out of the car with a stupid ear-to-ear grin plastered across her face as she untethered the bungee cords, releasing her invitingly blank canvas… and a single stream of ambrosia from between her legs.
It turns out that it wasn’t heavy at all. Just a little awkward to carry. But she did it. On her own. Had her neighbor been there, she would not have even bothered to try carrying it. She would have taken the opportunity to enlist the enthusiastic aid of her butch babe next door, and she would have paid her back in sexually-charged flirtation over beers on her balcony. Maybe she would have given her an “accidental” flash of her freshly shaved cunt, which was juicing and jolting beneath her curve-hugging sundress. She conveniently forgot to wear panties… again. She somehow always found herself commando on her art-making days; it just felt right.
She partially dragged the canvas to the little private space in her backyard where she made her art. It was mostly guarded from the prying eyes of lusty neighbors, but barely. She liked it like that. If someone wanted to see what she was up to, they need only lean over to get a better look. She positioned her space like that on purpose as she thoroughly enjoyed the possibility of being spied on when in the “zone” – as she so delicately referred to that highly masturbatory quality of her art-making frenzies.
She lay the canvas on the ground, and vanished into the adjoining shed to start pulling bottles of paint off of the shelves; after this, she would need to re-stock. She knew she wanted tonnes of colours with no rhyme or reason, no patterns or colour pairings. Just as many colours as possible, to reflect how fired up she becomes in the presence of paint, of art, of beauty and possibility. She, a kiln of hot desire in that very moment, was feeling the heat the closer she got to finally realizing her vision. And she was moments away.
When she had collected all of the paint she could stuff into her bucket, she returned to the patient canvas. She unloaded the bucket, then began emptying the contents of each bottle right back into it, careful not to mix the colours, creating layer upon layer of viscous light. She had a lot of gold, so she put a generous squirt in between each other random colour which would hopefully infuse her painting with luminescence.
She left a little paint in each bottle for the penultimate step in the process.
When the bucket was almost overflowing, she knew it was time. With a sense of great care and ceremony, she removed each article of clothing until she stood before her canvas, completely nude, terrifyingly vulnerable and ready to become a conduit for the spirit of abundant creation trembling beneath her glowing skin.
She wondered if she should upend the bucket over her head. Or pour it over the front of her body. She was undecided. And she wasn’t sure what she was going to do once she was covered in paint. But the unknown was part of the fun.
At last, after putting down a plastic sheet in front of the canvas, she opted for full-on paint immersion. Her loins dampened and jerked to wakefulness in response to her final choice. Yes. A big fucking mess was what was needed. Go all in or fuck off, right?
She decided to wear panties and goggles and earplugs. Really sexy. But safety first!
The moment had finally arrived. She took a deep cleansing breath, and stood before her canvas. She hefted the bucket full of carefully layered paint above her head, and poured it over her crown.
The paint was cool and silky as it crawled like a snail over the top of her head, her face, her neck, her breasts. It slid in one complete mass composed of irridescent rings down the rest of her body, each one stretching to reveal hidden layers of gold between every fathomable colour and shade.
She was in a trance. Words and thoughts were foreign, and she no longer had room for them. In that moment, the sensation of the paint was louder than any thought that had ever existed for her.
She let herself become lost in the colours which were now mixing and uniting and melding upon her skin, creating new hues, creating something unseen and unheard of with every passing second, the colours changing, just like something inside of her was. She felt her loins dampen beneath her paint-and-pussy-soaked panties, and her nipples harden with arousal. Not the kind she experienced when with another person, but a different kind, a much deeper and more profound version of arousal that was completely derived from within herself, her art, and her fetish.
When she was fully immersed in her medium, she walked out into the middle of her canvas and fell to her knees. She lowered onto all fours and watched the paint drip from her body onto the wide open space beneath her which was filling with swirls and drops of shimmering colour. She stayed like that and breathed right into her core. Her eyes remained transfixed on the paint and on her hands which appeared so dextrous and strong in that moment.
She carefully crawled to another space on her canvas, and flipped over so that she was lying on her back. She closed her eyes and felt the paint slide off her body and puddle around her silhouette. Her cunt was drenched in her own juices and she was blissfully unaware of the pair of eyes watching her as she appeared to somehow depart from this plane and ascend to another state of consciousness. She was unaware of how stunning she appeared to her neighbor who couldn’t help but unbuckle her pants as she watched and marvelled at the art work coming into being. The neighbor did not even notice the canvas; all she saw was an artist, a muse and masterpiece all rolled (and rolling) into One.
At this point, the artist was rolling about the canvas, slowly, purposefully, leaving impressions of body parts and her energy. It looked like the chaos of the cosmos filtered through a golden mist. She was caressing her body as she made her mark, allowing herself to be reborn into the work of art she had always envisioned.
After a short while, she was sated… and messier than she had ever been in her life. She wasn’t anxious about it. She felt turned on but not horny. She was deliriously satisfied without needing a climax. This project offered a different kind of satisfaction that sex and masturbation could never create.
She stood up and looked at her work: it looked like shit. She covered it in gobs and gashes of hand-ejaculated paint that she had saved in the bottles after initially filling her bucket. The end result was never the point. If it was any good, it was a bonus. If it was bad, it was a lesson. But it was always about the process, the unfurling of the great work.
Now that it was complete, she was ready for the final step. She beheld her painting one last time, and started to set up a little fire in the nearby pit. She then proceeded to hack the canvas off of the wooden frame with an exacto knife. Once this was complete, she rolled it up and shoved it into the ravenous flames and watched as tongues of fire devoured her work… and the person she used to be.
She was reborn, and ready for the next vision.
***If you desire to replicate this experience, use non-toxic paint only, and test on your skin first before engaging in paint play. Don’t get any in your eyes or inside your punani… if you have one of those. Maybe wear underwear. Ok, have fun now!***