Paint Job Read online




  Paint Job

  Gail Bridges

  Attention-getting, fool-the-eye “Paintinis”—painted-on bikinis—are the newest beachwear trend. Gabby Reynolds has to have one, no matter what the cost, and she even springs for the Deluxe Package.

  She has no idea how deluxe her experience will turn out to be.

  Saucy seductress Leena and her artist partner Randall want to use Gabby’s body as a canvas…but that’s not all. As their brushes transform her flesh, their touches mark her soul. After their lessons in the art of love, Gabby’s left panting for her next Paintini.

  Paint Job

  Gail Bridges

  Chapter One

  I saw my first Paintini last summer at Golden Sands beach. Of course, I didn’t know it was a Paintini because—just like the ads promised—it looked exactly like the real thing. The girl’s blue-and-white bikini didn’t look any different than any other swimsuit on the beach, bikini or not. I only knew it was painted on her bare skin because the news flashed from beach towel to beach towel until she might as well have been naked, because everyone knew. Every single one of us squinted and stared, hoping to see a tell-tale nipple, or her butt crack, or something. Even me.

  Needless to say, I was curious. From behind dark glasses, I watched the girl and studied her paint job. I knew something about art and about painting, having just completed my second year of art school, and, believe me, whoever painted her had done a fantastic job. The lines of her fake bikini followed and accentuated the contours of her body, hugging the curves of her breasts and tantalizing the eye where it disappeared between her legs. How did they do it? How could impressionistic dabs of blue, green and turquoise paint look so real? The optical illusion was so expertly done that there was no hint of her vulval cleft. The painted-on swimsuit bottoms looked exactly like a smooth triangle of fabric stretched over her shaved mound, making me wish she’d turn around so I could see what her ass looked like. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Obviously, much thought and care had gone into the creation of such a beautiful work of art.

  I had to know more. I walked right up to her, wending my way through her clump of admirers, and stuck out my hand. She regarded me warily.

  “Yes,” she said, cutting off my greeting, “It’s a Paintini! Leave me alone.”

  “Please. I’m an artist,” I said, wincing. “Your Paintini, it’s…it’s wonderful. It’s a work of art. I just wanted to tell you.”

  She touched my arm as I turned away. “Sorry. I’m nervous, is all. This is my first time out. People have been pestering me since I got here! I guess I should have expected it.”

  “No. People are rude. I was rude. I was staring too.”

  She smiled and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “But you’re an artist. You don’t count.”

  We went for ice cream. She threw on a gauzy skirt and a tank top, and that amazing Paintini disappeared and I never saw it again. She licked her scoop of chocolate mint and said I had to go to Paintini Paradise and nowhere else—it would be an experience I’d never forget. Getting a Paintini was expensive, took twenty-four hours, and I’d be achy and exhilarated and exhausted afterward. I couldn’t imagine why. But it would be worth every penny because it was waterproof and would last an entire year. A year! And by the way, I had to get the Deluxe Package—I just had to.

  “They’re really good at what they do. They’re unbelievable. Believe me.”

  I believed her. I’d seen her Paintini.

  “You won’t mind if they touch you a little, will you?” she asked, almost as an afterthought. “Or a lot? I mean, it can be…rather intimate.”

  I told her I’d be fine. How else were they supposed to paint me?

  She nodded. “Okay, then. Call them. Tell them Claire says ‘hi’.”

  And so, here I am. It’s eight in the morning. I arrived fifteen minutes early, like they asked. I filled out the intake papers and paid my three and a half thousand dollars. I’ve done my homework. I’ve brought magazine photographs, swatches of fabric and, of course, a few of my own sketched bikini designs. I’m so excited I can hardly stand it.

  A tall, lovely, long-haired woman calls my name.

  “Gabby, right? Welcome to Paintini Paradise. You’ve requested the Deluxe Package? Good! You’ll like it. I’m Leena, one of your practitioners. Randall is in the back putting warm towels in your room. Are you ready?”

  I nod. I am. A shiver goes up my spine—I can’t wait for my very own Paintini. I follow Leena down a short hallway. “Here’s your suite,” she says, opening the second door on the right. “You have a sitting room. And a bedroom and a bathroom. We’ll provide all meals. Randall and I will be with you the entire time. We’re at your service. We’re here for you. Ah—here he is now.”

  Two people? Two people will be working on me? Nice.

  We step into my room. Randall has dark hair, wears glasses, and is somewhat shorter than Leena. He grins and offers me a square hand with strong-looking fingers. We shake. “Pleased to meet you, Gabby. Very pleased!” He looks me up and down. “Yes—we’ll do you up real nice, just you wait.”

  I think I’m going to like Leena and Randall. I’m guessing they’re a few years older than me, thirty-ish to my twenty-three. I wouldn’t be surprised if Randall has a goofy sense of humor and I like the smile-wrinkles at the corners of Leena’s eyes.

  Randall asks me to set out my materials as Leena serves tea and cinnamon-sugar donuts. We go over my sketches and color swatches, we shuffle through magazine photos, we look at their portfolio of previous work and eventually the three of us settle on a straightforward bikini design not unlike Claire’s, only in jungle-evoking greens.

  “Wonderful,” says Leena, snapping shut the portfolio, “we’ll take it from here. You’ll love it.” She pushes the scattered papers into a loose pile, then looks up at me. “You said Claire Williams recommended us to you?”

  I nod.

  “She told you about the Deluxe Package?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she give you any idea what goes on here?” asks Randall, an eyebrow arched behind his dark-framed glasses. “Because we don’t want anything to come as a surprise.”

  “We want your experience to be perfect!” says Leena.

  “Me, too!” I say, giggling.

  “She said we’ll be touching you? That we’ll touch your breasts and your bottom and between your legs?”

  I nod.

  “And that we’ll shave your pubic region?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. But they’d have to, wouldn’t they? I nod again.

  “Are you okay with a man—with me—touching you?” asks Randall, his head tilted.

  Leena leans forward. “How about me?”

  “Sure,” I hear myself say. “Okay. And okay.”

  “We want you to enjoy yourself,” adds Leena. “We want this to be an unforgettable experience.”

  “Okay,” I say again. “I like unforgettable experiences. I don’t get too many of them.”

  “Well,” says Randall, “as long as we all understand each other.”

  They lead me into a side room. Soft guitar music plays from an undisclosed location. I smell herbs. I shiver with anticipation. I want that Paintini, and I want it bad. I can’t wait to show up at the beach and surprise everyone. I’ll have the very first paint job at the beach, if you don’t count Claire, who isn’t a regular.

  Leena pats a slatted bench. “You can put your clothes here. Are you comfortable getting undressed? Can you stand in front of us and show us your body? We need to see you—all of you—before we can begin.”

  “I’ve seen nude models at art school. I knew I’d have to get undressed.”

  I stand where they indicate, in the middle of the room, naked, on a knee-high platform as b
ig as a king-sized bed. I feel more exposed than I’d expected, breasts and ass and pubic hair exposed as Leena and Randall walk around me with heads tilted. I feel rather like a lab animal. They study me, examine me, measure me, take their time. I want to cover my pubic region, or my breasts, or both, but I make myself stand still. This is what I want, after all. I made the appointment. I paid three and a half thousand dollars for it. I’ll do anything to get a paint job.

  Finally I start to relax.

  “I’m going to touch you, Gabby. Is that all right?” asks Randall. “I just want to measure your hips and make a few guide marks.”

  “Sure.”

  “And me too, Gabby? All right if I touch too?”

  “Okay.”

  Their hands are warm and gentle. I surrender to their confident touches as their fingers span the distance between my breasts, trace lines across my belly, use a measuring tape across my shoulders. The room is nice and warm, the music soothing. With quick, light fingers, they feel the tautness of my butt, skim the surface of my pubic hair, rub the tips of my nipples, spread my butt cheeks. Why? Are they looking for moles or something?

  One of them draws a line across my back. Then both of them are making small marks on my skin with their special crayons. I feel a shiver go through my middle. Leena’s hands are on my stomach. What is she doing? Feeling the texture of my skin? Both of her little fingers are in my pubic hair. Her face is tilted downward and I can only see the top of her head and the cascade of her long reddish hair, but I can tell she is studying the contours of my belly and hip bones. Her hands gently massage. Randall’s larger, warmer hands encircle my breasts from behind. He lifts them gently. Is he judging their elasticity? Deciding what type of paint to use? His thumbs rest lightly on my nipples. Then he kisses my neck. Oh my. Oh. Oh. What is he doing? I feel the heat of him behind me. I hold my breath. The two of them move slowly, carefully, as if dealing with a baby animal. But their hands never leave my body. Why aren’t they painting?

  This is not what I expected. At all. I am standing perfectly still, barely breathing.

  “Are you okay?” asks Leena, her left hand on my inner thigh. “Are you sure? We can stop.”

  “No,” I breathe, “don’t stop.”

  But it seems they’re done with the initial look-over. Their hands fall from my body. They step back. I let out a long breath. Randall takes my hand and helps me to lie down on the platform, which, to my delight, is warmed from beneath.

  “Getting hot in here,” says Randall. He peels off his monogrammed Paintini Paradise sweater and tosses it into the other room. Leena follows suit.

  “Okay?” asks Leena.

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going to shave you now.”

  I nod. I’m equal parts nervous and excited.

  “I’m going to support you,” Leena says, sliding in behind me, her legs on either side of my own, so I’m almost in her lap. When did she take off her pants? Her shirt? I twist around, trying to get a better look, and she allows me to gaze at her own Paintini, a marvel in scarlet lace. “Wow,” I whisper. She scoots up close behind me, her breasts pressing on my back, a naked woman who doesn’t look naked at all.

  Randall looks at us and grins. “Couldn’t wait, could you?” he says to Leena. It appears Randall couldn’t wait either. He’s naked as well. He’s got his own Paintini, which I can’t take my eyes off—his penis is painted to look like a banana. It’s absurd and shocking, dangling from his crotch, where no banana should ever be. I can’t help but laugh. It doesn’t occur to me to wonder why the two of them are naked—because they don’t look naked at all.

  “Funny, huh?” he asks. “It was my own idea. Leena painted it for me. Look!” He sets down the tray of shaving paraphernalia and poses in front of me, banana-penis at my eye level. He helpfully moves it to the side so that I can admire the rest of his artwork—tropical foliage for the banana to nest in, a just-opened bird-of-paradise, and long thin vines dripping with dew that reach around to his back and snake down his thighs. “It’s not meant to look like a swimsuit,” he says, although I’ve already figured that out. What ought to be horrible and pornographic is, on him, charming.

  He lets his penis fall back into place. “Show’s over. Back to work. Time to get you nice and smooth.” He kneels down on the platform in front of my bent legs. He pulls the tray closer. I hear a metallic rattle. My breath catches—I clench my knees together.

  “You’re all right. Relax. Cuddle up to me. It’s what I’m here for,” whispers Leena. I lean back and she puts her arms around me.

  “You have to spread your legs, Gabby,” says Randall. “C’mon, honey, you know we can’t paint you with all that hair down there.”

  Leena nudges my knees with her own and slowly we spread our legs in tandem. I feel cool air on my nether regions. “That’s it,” she says soothingly, “Good girl.” Having her there makes this easier to bear, an adventure rather than a procedure. We’re exposing ourselves together, as one, as a team. We’re both spread wide open, although Randall can only see me. She gently squeezes me with her knees and I relax into her.

  “That’s a sight for sore eyes,” Randall says, peering at my exposed privates. This would be the end of the whole thing, right here and now, forget the three and a half thousand dollar fee, but for the fact that the man has just shown me his own sight for sore eyes. And it was a banana. “Ready? I’m going to lather you up now.”

  Warm water flows over me. I suck in my breath.

  “Too hot?”

  I shake my head and bite my lip.

  More water. Flowing into my crevices, dripping into my inner parts.

  Leena’s hands are on my hips, warm and comforting. Randall’s hands are dousing me with soapy water, and now he’s trailing his fingers through my pubic hair. “Mmm…” I say, surprising myself. He takes his time, pouring more and more water. My legs relax and spread wider. Leena hugs me in response, then moves her hands to cup my breasts. Randall lathers me with cucumber-scented soap, passing a soft cloth over my privates—over my clit and over my labia and over my mound. I breathe more deeply and my hands flex into quick fists. What was I so frightened of? This is delicious. He spreads my labia and dribbles warm water over my folds and into my vagina. His finger…is it hovering over my clit? Is it?

  “Oh…oh…oh…” I say.

  Leena is squeezing my breasts. “Let’s lean back a little more,” she says. We wriggle together, inching downward into the supporting pillows. I feel her soft folds, warm and moist, against the small of my back. She’s moving against me in tiny, sweet jerks. I feel Randall’s fingers and now one of them is inside of me. I lay my head in the hollow between Leena’s neck and shoulder and let myself melt.

  I open my eyes. Randall has a razor now. He holds it up. “Okay?”

  “Okay. Yes. Yes.”

  I feel the cool swipes of the blade rounding my mound and my spine twists in response. “Like that?” says Leena. She’s kneading my breasts and fondling my nipples. She nibbles at my neck. The razor passes back and forth, a swath of molten lava. I breathe in and out. Leena’s hands press and release, press and release. Randall shaves the inside of my legs, then runs a finger over the delicate, freshly shaved skin. He lifts my haunches one at a time so he can get at the wispy hairs around my ass. The fingers of one hand are inside my vagina, holding me still as he wields the razor in the other.

  I moan.

  So, this is what Claire was talking about. This is the Deluxe Package. How could I be so clueless, so dense? How did I not figure it out right away?

  Warm water washes the suds away. A soft towel blots at me. My pelvis presses upward, almost of its own accord, my need moving me. Leena’s hands leave my breasts and trail down my front. Two of her fingers wiggle their way into my vagina as Randall sits back and breathes deeply, smiling down at us. He looks flushed. His banana has grown to the size of a plantain. He leans forward and puts his hand over Leena’s and pushes both their fingers far inside me�
�I squirm with pleasure. I’ve never felt like this before. “So soft…” Leena whispers in my ear. “You’re really nice.” My knees buck against hers, our heels digging identical round divots in the pad beneath us. I feel her pussy rubbing against me as I strain to the rhythm of their hands. After a while Randall takes his hand away and sits back on his heels, watching. Then he leans forward and takes my nipple in his mouth.

  The world explodes around me. I gasp for air. Spasms rock my entire body. Leena supports me from behind and Randall is leaning over me, holding my chin cupped in his hand. His mouth moves from my breast to my lips, and then slowly, gently, he lets his weight settle on top of me. He rides my spasms until they stop, his banana resting on my leg.

  The three of us lay there panting.

  They lie down on either side of me, my beautiful practitioners. My breath slows. Randall pulls the wet drop cloth from beneath us, wads it up and tosses it into the corner, then snuggles up to me. Leena pulls up a blanket to cover us. We twine our arms and legs around one another.

  “Oh my god,” is all I can manage.

  “Take a nap. Sleep,” says Leena. “When we wake up, we’ll have a bite to eat and talk, then get to work on your painting. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” I breathe, almost asleep, “okay.”

  Two hours later I wake up to the smell of coffee. I’m alone on the platform. I sit up, clutching the blanket to my chest. I can hear them in the main room, rattling dishes, moving chairs, chatting. I am paralyzed by the memory of what happened on this platform only a few hours before. I thought I was getting a Paintini, but I’m getting so much more. I don’t know what to think.

  “You’re awake,” says Randall. Were his fingers really inside me just a little while ago? He’s holding a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Come on in,” invites Leena. Did she really move me to orgasm? “There’s a bathrobe on the chair.”

  I pull on the bathrobe. My privates feel slick and naked as I go into the other room, where they are. “Hi,” I say. I pour myself coffee and stare into its depths. I’m not ready yet. I’m not ready to look at the two people who took me so completely by surprise and who just made the best love of my life to me.