The Artist

She drew a deep, slow breath. He stood behind her, she could feel him, feel the soft caress of his breath against her nape. In the darkness that surrounded her, he was the painter, drawing light around her.

His finger lightly grazed the skin of her shoulder, gliding softly down the gentle slope and slipping down her arm. Just one digit. Just the barest of touches. Yet, the path of heat that followed warmed her, aroused her.

She felt.  The carpet, soft beneath her bare feet. The eddies of air moving around her nakedness. The finger gliding now along her back ribs, up, then down. Rising to her other shoulder, trailing down that arm. Back up to dance gently in the ticklish flesh of her underarm.

Her breasts rose and fell quicker now, her breath increasing. Her desire was lit with an inner snap, as his finger coursed down her spine to stop just before entering that final crease, and traced instead the rounded globe of her ass. She felt, acutely, the sudden tightening of her nipples, felt the flat pink disks become hard, turgid, thrusting. An answering thrum began in her clit, and deep inside she could feel moisture begin to gather and seep.

He watched the transformation. Passive statute became living, excited woman. He drew life on her flesh with his finger. The artist drew his canvas ever closer, and began his Master work.