Paint Job Read online

  I concentrate on the music. I concentrate on not shivering or shuddering or gasping or moving in any way at all. I concentrate on feeling the paths of their individual brushes, the trail of hot burning they leave behind, now on a breast, now on my butt, now in a thin line on my back. How much time has passed? They move around me quietly and intently, murmuring, consulting, mixing colors, painting. I feel as if I’m floating above myself—although how that could be when it hurts so much, I’m not sure.

  Randall is in front of me when I return to myself—how long was I gone?—and he’s kneeling, working on the area below my bellybutton. I realize Leena has set down her brush and sidled close up behind me. She whispers in my ear, “Don’t move, Gabby. Whatever happens next, do not move.” Randall is biting his lip. He keeps painting. I feel something working its way between my legs, something cool and hard. A flush of anticipation warms me. “Keep very, very still,” Leena hisses. She is pressed against the length of my back, one hand inching a dildo into me, the other hand reaching around my hip, searching for my clit. Just as she finds it, Randal stings me with paint and I try mightily to suppress a shudder. “Don’t move,” she whispers again, “or you’ll ruin the painting.”

  The dildo is in me now and she’s slowly working it up and down, up and down, up and down. “Ohhh…” I sigh, standing rigid and unmoving for Randall’s ministrations while using every fiber in my body to keep from writhing from Leena’s. How do they come up with this stuff? How do they do it? How do they know the exact combinations that will bring me to the edge of insanity?

  “Still!” he commands, “do you want to ruin it?” but Leena pays no attention. The dildo is moving faster. The paintbrush keeps working but the dildo keeps working too. I stand like that, on the edge of a precipice, the pain of not moving magnificent in its intensity.

  Then I can hold it in no longer. I let out a strangled moan and collapse to the mat, Leena on top of me, Randall setting down his brush. He was ready for this, the bastard, he knew this was coming and now he’s kissing me and kissing me and Leena’s riding my orgasm and I think the world is spinning. I pant. Randall smiles at me.

  “That was…that was insane,” I say at last.

  “Did you like it?” Randall asks, sounding delighted. “That’s a new move we made up just for you.”

  “Wow,” I say. “It’s a keeper. Horrible and wonderful at the same time.”

  “You’re welcome,” says Leena.

  They tell me to lie down. I do, yawning. They bring their paints and pallets and kneel beside me. “Ready for more?” asks Leena. They’re not letting me rest this time.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “We’re doing the detail work now. The fine stuff. With even smaller brushes.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’ll take a long time.”

  “Good.”

  The tips of these minute brushes leave only the mildest burn behind. It’s exquisite, almost not a pain at all.

  “Hussy,” says Randall, “you’re enjoying it now, aren’t you?”

  After several hours of intensive work on my front, the two of them leaning over me in near-complete silence, I open my eyes and see Leena’s scarlet-painted breasts, just out of reach and unbearably lovely. But I can’t touch, I can’t move—I’m not allowed. After they spread my legs and paint my delicate nether regions—and yes, it still burns like hell—they flip me onto my stomach and start in on my butt. I lose track of time. Perhaps I doze. Then Randall whispers in my ear, “Get up on all fours.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it, Gabby.”

  I do.

  “Reach back and spread your butt cheeks.”

  I do.

  He enters me from behind with one huge push. I gasp. I put my hands on the mat again, on all fours, like he wants. His cock feels bigger from this position, filling me, stretching me, making me press back into him because I want more, more, more. “Move your arms further apart,” he says. I spread them and now Leena is there. She is on her back, sliding into the tight space beneath my belly, grinning, threading her legs outside mine, her stomach teasing my stomach, her breasts flattening against mine each time Randall pumps me from behind. “Hi there,” she says, and kisses me.

  I get a quick glimpse of my own green-painted breast, and I almost come.

  “Now lay down,” Randall says, breathing hard, “lay down on top of her. Now. Do it.”

  I let myself collapse onto her long sweet body and our tits mash together. I feel her under me, her pussy warm and wet, straining and pushing against me. She wriggles her hand between us and finds my clit and I know she is pleasuring herself too.

  “Gabby sandwich,” Randall says between pants, pumping me, pumping Leena, fucking us both at the same time. His hands are tangled in my hair. Leena’s free hand is on Randall’s ass. We’re moving together, the three of us, together, together, our motions perfectly synchronized. Arms, legs, hair, juices—all intertwined and fitted perfectly together. I moan, a long, drawn-out sound.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts,” whispers Randall. “This is it. The last fuck. Your time is almost up. We’re going to sign our painting…and then it’s over.”

  My breath catches. I cry out, “No!”

  “You are one hell of a woman,” says Leena, kissing me hard, our teeth clicking, her pussy pushing up into me. “No one else has ever turned us on this much. Ever. In all these years. Only you.”

  I’m crying now.

  He’s still pumping us from above. “Take it in the ass?” he asks. But he doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s suddenly straining at my asshole and I think, what the hell? He’s pushing, pushing, forcing his way in—the pain!—and now he’s in me and I’m screeching with hurt and surprise and I’m begging for more ass dick, deeper ass dick, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt and I’m writhing all over poor Leena. I put my finger on her clit, then slide it into her vagina. “Yes, Gabby!” she says, “Oh…oh! Yes.” She comes with a rush of warm pussy juice, her muscles spasming around my finger, and she goes limp. But only for a moment, because now she has the dildo—where did that come from?—and she’s pushing it into my pussy and I’m stuffed with pussy dildo and ass dick and I’ve never in my life felt like this and I yell aloud and buck up and down, and I’m coming, coming, coming. Randall lets out a full-throated moan and I know he is coming too.

  And then, just like that, it’s over.

  Randall pulls out of me with a wet pop. My asshole feels stretched and sore. Leena climbs out from under me. They’re both breathing hard. Leena stands. “Get up, Gabby,” she says.

  I look up at her from my collapsed position on the floor, feeling the last pulses of my orgasm wither away.

  “I said, get up.”

  I get to all fours, feeling my asshole burn, then I stand in front of them, shaking. Leena has a paintbrush. “Turn around and bend over,” she says.

  I do. She spreads my butt cheeks and I feel her burn a trail of paint right next to my hurting asshole. Tears are falling from my nose, from my chin. I don’t bother brushing them away.

  “My signature,” she says.

  Then it’s Randall’s turn. He tells me to lie down on my back and to spread my legs. Leena spreads my swollen labia for him. He signs his initials right by my clit. I gasp. When he’s finished, I sit up, burning with pain and humiliation. I’ve just been branded and I know it. I stare at the mat under me, racked with shuddering sobs. My tits feel smashed. My asshole feels like it’s been split in half. My pussy feels used. How fast things have changed. Only minutes ago I was a Gabby sandwich and now they’re signing off on me. I cry harder. They stare down at me.

  “You’re ours,” Leena says. “For the next year. Ours.”

  “Every time you see yourself in the mirror, you’ll remember,” adds Randall. “We own you. No sex will ever be as good as this.” Randall is smiling, a satiated, self-satisfied smile. “It was great, wasn’t it?” He’s pulled off his condom and is rubbing his banana dick with a
hand towel. His dick looks utterly ridiculous, I realize with a start. How did I think it was cute? “You’ve got a tight little ass,” he says, an afterthought. “Real nice.”

  “Up and at ‘em,” says Leena, reaching for her clothes. “You’ve got half an hour to shower and get out of here. You were good, you know? No one else ever made me come like that.”

  Now I’m crying in earnest. I might just expire right here in front of them.

  “Hey! Don’t forget,” Leena goes on, “You’ve earned the right to choose one person to recommend for the Deluxe Package. Isn’t that great?”

  “Yeah,” says Randall, “just get them in the door. We’ll take it from there. You’ll get an extra hour with us if you do.”

  “See you next year,” says Leena, and then they’re gone.

  I sit alone on the mat, crying. My body hurts all over. Finally, I rouse myself and shower. Afterward I look in the mirror—my first look at myself since yesterday evening when my paint job was still blue—and even though I’m the most wretched person on Earth, I know I’m beholding a masterpiece. I stare. I turn around and around. I look at every square inch of my body—I don’t recognize myself at all. I lift my breasts to look under them. I turn my neck and spread my butt cheeks to try to see Leena’s signature, but I can’t. I can’t get enough of myself. I pose for the mirror, thrusting a hip, standing so my tits jut out, turning slightly to see if I can make out the nipples. I can almost hear the admiring, covetous voices of my beach friends, and it’s a fact—my Paintini is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And it makes me more beautiful because I’m wearing it.

  And Randall—my lover, my tormenter—is right. Every time I look in the mirror, my heart will break all over again and I will think of him and my sweet Leena and my loins will ache.

  Damn them.

  I don’t know what I want more—the paint job or the sex.

  I already want to fuck them, and it’s only been ten minutes.

  It’ll be a long, long year. I must start saving money. Maybe I’ll take fewer classes. Maybe I’ll get a second job. Move to a smaller apartment. Maybe I’ll ask Mom and Dad for money.

  I have to come back.

  I have to.

  About Gail Bridges

  Gail Bridges is happiest when she’s working on a new story, typing away with a purring cat on her lap. She’s even been known to forget to eat when she’s writing a great scene—which never, ever happens in real life.

  When she’s not writing, Gail can be found in her metalworking studio, creating jewelry she sells at Fine Art Fairs. If she’s not making earrings or necklaces, she’s probably playing her classical guitar. Gail lives with her husband and six very demanding cats.

  Gail welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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  Paint Job

  ISBN 9781419942822

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Paint Job Copyright © 2012 Gail Bridges

  Edited by Rebecca Hill

  Cover design by Syneca

  Photo: Shutterstock.com

  Electronic book publication December 2012

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