*Meet me at the place where we snogged a few weeks back that I just loved. You know the one, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Bring paints appropriate…*
I set down the note that she wrote with a shaky hand, as my pulse quickened at recalling the vivid memory of being with her at *that place*. Remembering her luscious tongue dancing in my mouth, her hands everywhere and nowhere, her bare legs wrapped around my waist in the tightest of knots as I pinned her against the graffiti stained wall under the halogen glow. Her dress hiked all the way passed her hips just by the natural rhythm of our grinding. I could taste just how much of a near-feral state she was in. It was an elixir best not tasted, but once you do, forever will you desire it’s flavor again. Her mouth is only that moist when she is beyond aroused. I recall vividly the single time she broke the kiss to breath in air instead of breathing in me, and just how seductive the “Fuck m…” escaped her lips before they found my mouth again, her tongue telling me just how she wanted me to fuck her.
I was going to too, fuck her that is, I was just as much beyond aroused. Not because of the place, the places never really mattered much to me, but because of just how she was in the moment. My fingers were coiled around the band of her panties, already ripped the lace on the left side of them, not wanting to even bother trying to snake them around legs that happened to be holding me in a lust grip. As I started to jerk the other side to completely tear them away, a couple started to approach, giving us a ***GET A FUCKING ROOM!*** look. Then a few more people. Then suddenly more people. The place was completely empty forever moments ago and now it was like a damned convention just let out! The moment was gone. That perfect, delicious moment and one of her more favored knickers paid the price almost meaninglessly. It was still a good snogging up until the disapproving Puritan zealots showed up. Needless to say, she had not been able to stop talking *the place* and how it made her feel ever since.
I had never done graffiti art before, mostly because I am not much for vandalizing. However, *Bring paints appropriate* could mean not much else and for her, I could do most anything, especially if it somehow could return her to that level of lust-crazy. I knew I didn’t have many cans of spray paint, but I did have a few. I went into my small studio and discovered I didn’t have to look very far, for sitting on the workbench were 10 new cans of spray paint. It made me laugh a laugh only she can draw out of me, me wondering mirthfully why she did not just take the *paints appropriate* to *the place*…the wall herself. Oh the little games she likes to play. I jammed the cans into a bag and left the flat knowing that I had my lovely waiting for me under that halogen glow, dripping of sex and wicked near deeds. I couldn’t get there fast enough.
~~~
I approach the wall from the shadows, the same way we stumbled upon it the last time we were here. It was accidental, to be sure. We were drunk and she was feeling adventurous, so dragged me a different way home that we never explored before. She loves the chance to discover new places that inspire art or illicit sex. I stayed in the shadows, mixed with feelings both lustful and trepidation, as I followed the scattered artwork on the wall, remembering the exact spot we made out at. About two thirds of the overhead lamps were burnt out. This place was near forgotten, an artifact with lost purpose. That was part of the reason she got a bit crazy about it. The near forgotten places giving you privacy to do more forbidden things, but not guaranteed privacy. The fact that artists still make their mark on the place as well, was just too much for her. It is rare we discover a place where art and the need to fuck mixes in such equal measure. Yet, this was one of them. My cock was a solid, throbbing thing just thinking about getting a do-over with her here. I don’t know how she thought we would have the time to paint, but however I had to please my muse, I would. She is worth pleasing.
I saw the graffiti symbol that marked our place at the wall first. I then saw her sprawled out naked under it after. I take pause. She is so fucking beautiful there, under the halogen light, the only working light for dozens of yards in either direction. She is erotic perfection against a chaotic backdrop of other people’s vandalistic expression. I stole a picture of her with my phone, wishing I had a better camera on hand, I never wanted to forget just how she looks in this moment, not that I ever could. I could already feel the image burn into my brain. I needed to paint her like in this pose on canvas someday or sculpt her form as it is. Her perfection in this moment needs to be saved and remembered. The artist in me wanted to study her for hours like this, get lost in the sensual beauty she glowed with. Her comfort and confidence of being naked and so exposed in such an open place. My cock groans for release and is telling my artist persona, in a quite friendly way, to ‘fuck off!’. My lust takes control of my legs and I approach her quickly. She smiles at me once she notices me approaching, but other than that she barely moves a muscle.
“What took you so long? Did you find the paints I bought?” her voice has that sexual rasp to it that would have hypnotized me into arousal if I was not already quite aroused by her.
“Long story and yes I found the paint and how long have you been like this?” I sounded like a petulant child anxious to get past reading the birthday cards so as to get on to opening his presents. In this case though, my present is already quite beautifully unwrapped.
“Longer then I thought, but it has been…nice…” Her last word came out in a purr, I felt that word no differently than if she slid her hand down my pants and grabbed my cock in sinful play.
I drop the bag and started to unbutton my shirt, “Someone could have seen…”
“Could have but didn’t and don’t even think about fucking me yet! You have a lot of work to do.”
I froze, looking down at her glorious nakedness. Her mouth wet and glistening in the light. How the light and the shadow fought over every curve and contour of her body. How the lips between her legs parted open and glistened an even deeper sea than her moist mouth. Making all parts of me ache. She was created to be a muse to an artist like me. She would tell you though she was created to fuck an artist like me. Both completely valid theories as to why she was created.
“Work?” I barely croak the word out. Her ‘no fucking yet’ trapped my lust in an invisible cage and teases the artist back to the forefront. Oh the little games she likes to fucking play…
“I want you to paint, me on the wall. Actually, I want you to paint me being fucked by you on the wall…” Her eyes were serious, her eyes dripped with a wanton craving I have rarely seen in her before. That look almost rivaled the first time she seduced me and fucked me. At the gallery showing of my work, when we first met. She would tease me after how she always has a weak spot for certain shy, artist types. “…I want you to paint just how you want to be fucking me right this very moment.” I have never seen a smile so wicked. I have never wanted my cock in that wicked little mouth more than I do in this moment. She knows it too.
I didn’t even waste time to protest. Feed the muse, please the muse and then feed her feral lust. That is how it always plays out when art mixes with sex. I retrieve the black can of spray paint and quickly go to work. The sooner I finish…Wait! I stop and take pause again. No, this is a moment to take my time not to finish as quickly as possible. Her lust is as trapped as mine. Let it simmer, let it boil. Remind her I can play wicked little games as well. So I slow down my effort, capturing every shadow caressing her flesh and imagining how I was going to incorporate myself into this. In my mind’s eye, the incorporation would clash with her perfection. I ignore that feeling, she wants me in it, fucking her, so I would give her what she wanted. Who was I to argue with my muse? I let my lust feed the artist, letting his purer view of her get wonderfully corrupted. Every sprayed addition, a caress, as if my hands were really flowing over her flesh, making sure I got every contour correct, even though I keep the painting somewhat abstract.
Every moan and every sigh she gives, feeds the frustrated artist within. Bleeding the artist and the lust-monster together. She is perfect on the wall, her lips glisten on the stone, her painted flesh glows there with a shimmer of sweat. There is nothing more I can add to the wall version of her so I start to incorporate myself into the painting and am amazed that I am not scarring her perfection on the wall. I add every part of me except where we will eventually join. I work all of the details of us painfully closer to that moment. To that moment where we are finally fucking on the wall. Where I am fucking her in the painting as I hope to eventually get to fuck her in life.
When we finally join on the wall, the way I paint it, it makes the image almost have motion…
I add to it, a thrust into her…
I balance it with the contrasting color, I’m slowly escaping her…
I create her hair waving in rhythm., I see her panting on the wall…No, she really is panting on the ground…
I go back to where cock and cunt merge and blend and become one and the same…
I add to it…
I add to it…
I add to it…
“Fuck me now…”, it is a guttural command. I can almost feel her nails digging in my back.
I am fucking you, don’t you see? I change how her arms are on the wall, wrapping around me, red talons clawing my back, red trails marking her claim.
“Please…Now…”, the plea is in her other voice, the soft, special voice of hers I can never, ever resist. I don’t remember dropping the spray paint. I do not remember taking off my clothes. One minute my image is fucking her’s on the wall and now my body is fucking her’s on the ground. Fucking her lonely perfection away, replacing it with the perfection of us. Fucking her orgasm right out of her until she hits that note that makes me cum instantly to join with hers, my cum painting the inside of her cunt in such a force it is almost blinding me. We are vaguely aware that we are not alone. We don’t even care, yet I am sure what they see on the wall reflects just where we are at in our fucking; her talons leaving red trails down my back, marking her claim, that this artist is happily taken. All that matters is us, the collision of our souls from the rapture of our bodies. And the image created on the wall, still wet, dripping in lust; an image to make our moment here marked forever, or at least until the vandals cover it away with something less than perfection. If that day ever comes, we will just have to relive this one to repair their damage to our art, happily…
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/djoocb/the_wallfmpublic