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Delicate Strokes

January 06, 2019 - by: Junkman

Erotic fiction inspired by Lucretia K in “Hard to Paint When You’re Bored 2

When Lucretia paints, she likes to wear clothes she can move in. The skirt came from the bottom of her dresser drawer. Salmon pink with a lace overlay embedded with pearl beads, it’s too fancy for painting, but so short it doesn’t restrict her long legs. When she leans over for a closer inspection of her work, the details she reveals underneath give me the tingles. She looks like a fairy painting herself a forest of flowers to call home.

“A fairy, huh,” she says. “Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a magical thing,” I say.

The sun brings out the gold in her light brown hair. A flowery tank top exposes her shoulders, which she smudges with paint from soft touches. The breeze carries the smell of solvents and sends her dress fleeing up her thighs.

She paints with vibrant colors yet still seems uninspired. She’s distracted by the thought of a stroke of a different sort.

“Come, watch me inside,” she says.

Art is a reflection of the artist. Lucretia’s body is the canvas. Her hand is the brush. She’s ready to paint in magical colors.

Her hands clutch her breasts. She reaches down under her skirt—the artist always has to touch and retouch—and wiggles her fingers over the soft spot in her underwear. Her shirt comes off. Her breasts look slightly embellished by her maker for her petite frame.

Lucretia leans back into the corner, floating on her tippy toes as she displaces her lacy panties with four fingers rubbed wet. Her sexy panties look best when they are pulled down around her knees. She bends over, slipping her fingers back and forth. Several disappear inside her and she can’t stop until she needs to take a seat. She continues to thrust her fingers in and out before returning to her clit.

She touches herself like she paints the pistil of a lily. There is precision. It’s all in her fingertips. She strokes her love petals delicately until they burst with life.

A leg dangles over the arm of the chair. Her toes curl and her language is distilled into a mysterious melody. She moans in a rising pitch. Her breathing shortens. Those brown eyes lull me into a sense of stillness.

Paint me a finer picture and I will reveal the secret place where fairies dream.

 

About the author: The Junkman is a contributing writer for the MetArt Network, blending his twin passions for erotic storytelling and high-class porn. He shares a range of musings at JunkPixels.com


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