You are my canvas

I am the painter, and you – my blank canvas; made from the finest fibers- you’re so smooth in texture and so tightly stretched around my wooden frame. Naturally a masterpiece, you’re fit to bear nothing less than my greatest creation. As I look at you, naked and innocently begging to be touched, I’m losing my mind at the infinite possibilities of what I may to do you, how I may do it, how precious you will feel, and the story that, together we will tell. The world of opportunities you present me with is boundless, and my twisted mind takes my visions for you in all directions.

As your artist, you must know how much I cherish every element of your elegant structure. I need to use you, and in doing so make you my own. For you are the only means in which I can express myself and release the bursting bottle that contains my emotions— I am reaching my boiling point. My body feels warm inside and is buzzing. Excitement. Anger, Lust, Vice, Love, Rage; Chaos. I can only resolve these explosive emotions, through transferring them onto and into you. Only you. Only you can conjure them within me, and only you are fit to receive my gift.

Expressing myself onto you brings me audible pleasure. My heart is racing. Loud breaths turn into moans. The manner and extent to which you please me finds no meaning in words. No matter what I paint, the most valuable part of you is the purpose I’ve bestowed you with: feeding the village of my sexual desires. And my village must feast.

The thing about canvases, is that they can be painted over and over a million times- and while only the painting on top will be shown at at a given time, both you and I, nobody else, shares the secrets buried beneath. My memories of touching you are etched into my existence. They drive me mad when you’re not within my firm reach. And you, my canvas, holds memory of each of our paintings on your once untouched skin, a physical record of our times together, stacked and concealed from the public gaze, but integral to your very nature.

Stay here with me baby, my erect imagination needs your company more than ever.

Take my cock as your paint brush, and my cum as your paint. I want to, need to- cover you in my cum, leaving no inch of your pure surface untouched. Only then will I be content. Only then will I have truly marked you as my own. And the only limit to how many times a canvas can be painted over is how durable it remains through the constant slapping, scratching, splashing, and stretching it receives. But even if you break baby, and break you will, I can always patch you up, stretch you tighter around my wood, and keep on touching and transforming you as long as I live.

Indeed, the greatest works of art are born from this iteration of destruction and creation. You as my canvas, and me as your painter – I have but one duty to you: to break you again and again, however long it takes, until I make you mine.

-g

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/ud0dvj/you_are_my_canvas