this was stuck inside me. i knew i had to write it but it was stuck. Thank you, SFP for this, which freed my muse!
Painterly means, among other things, the blurred, broken, loose definition of color and contour
According to the Tate Gallery’s Glossary the term painterly “carries the implication that the artist is reveling in the manipulation of the oil paint itself and making the fullest use of its sensuous properties.”1
The close-up details in paintings by Van Gogh and others, are examples of a painterly style.
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“I want to paint you. Naked.”
She looked up at him through half closed eyes. She was sated. More than sated, really. Wrung out. Drained. Empty. Brainless. He’d fucked her brainless.
As the words percolated their way through her braincells, they began firing up once again. Key words floated through first.
She sat up, blinking away the haze that remained from their rapacious loving. She winced as she straightened her shoulder, striped from the paint stirring stick he’d slapped her with there.
He looked at her, His eyes alert. She knew that look far too well. The look was one of the same fierceness that had helped define him both as a personality and as a painter.
“i–i’m not some kind of …of…” she stammered her way through her denial, breaking off at the gleam in his eyes. She was challenging his words. He loved a challenge.
Uh oh. She was screwed now. She looked at him, looking at her. He looked like a painting himself. The sun broke through the clouds that had encircled their aerie-like loft this long and dreary morning. The rays beamed across the golden wood of the floor, flaring up his legs like wildfire, illuminating him in sharp delineation..half in pure brilliant sunlight, half in shadow.
It was the perfect allegory, she mused, for him.
“Not some kind of….what, slut?” Amusement was writ plainly across his face, and she all but growled in frustration.
“of course, Master, i am anything You want me to be but really? Your muse? i’m a reporter, for gosh sakes!”
It frustrated her no end when he put his magic ‘kill questions and protests’ voice on.
“But Master,” she started again. Still that implacable tone had quelled her. Again.
She’d done things with him that she’d never done before. Why should this be any different. It couldn’t be harder than the suspension he’d done on her last week, really.
“Fine,” she pouted up at him.
She was adorable when she looked at him that way, but far be it from him to let her know that. She enjoyed his challenges, her orgasms were becoming steadily more explosive. He didn’t doubt the day would come that he could get her off with a look, a gesture, or a keyword.
“Come.” He pointed her towards the door.
“NOW?” she exploded.
His brow lifted, and she all but flounced from the bed. She was rosy and dewy from their sex-play, hair tousled, eyes slumberous; he was determined to capture this; this vital essence of her.
In his studio, a large canvas lay on the floor. He pointed her to it, almost absently. In here, his creative beast foraged. He released it fully and began.
He arranged her as she had lain that very morning, one arm bent and tucked up under her cheek, the other bent and laying so it cradled her breasts. He lifted each tit, carefully arranging them so her nipples, peaked from his fingers, poked up over that bent forearm. The dark pink areola’s contrasted well with the light gold of her arm. A summer spent hiking had given her skin a glow, sun-kissed, he called it.
She pouted up at him.
“Redunkulous. This is …”
“Don’t say it, slut,” he warned, his voice gone gravel-toned as he slipped her collar to just left of center. Thankfully, she shut up, and he continued, tossing her hair into a tangled fan across the canvas. The waves and tangles added to the look of broken sensuality. She looked well used, and at peace.
He straightened her bottom leg almost fully, and bent the top leg. From the angle he would paint this, her puffy, drooling pussy would be visible. He smiled to himself. Wouldn’t that make people wonder. He imagined mixing titanium white and payne gray to make that silvery sheen that gilded her inner labia, her just barely visible inner thigh.
“Remember this position, slut. You’ll be spending a lot of time in it.”
The room filled with the sounds of new age music. It always amazed her that he painted to harps and violins. He was way more of a rock’n roll guy out in the world, but in here, he drew in the soothing harmonies.
She fell asleep to the soft crooning voice whispering harmonics.
He painted the bones of her, setting the positions, fixing the hues he wanted in his head. He knew he could paint this blind, now. The colors, the play of light he wanted, all fixed firmly in his inner vision.
He removed the canvas from the easel. Quietly he put another in its place, smaller than the first. This would be an experiment. With a wicked grin on his face, he took up a bottle of tempera paint in each hand. He flicked each lid open, a gunslinger preparing his weapon. He started at her feet, pouring a thin stream across her toes, then back further up her leg.
She twitched a bit, but remained asleep. Straddling her, he poured a generous stream up her thigh and across her belly.
She woke with a “yip” of shock.
He threw back his head and laughed his wicked, sexy laugh.
She’d been admonished to not move, something she remembered as she prepared to kick out her feet. He was laughing but the Beast was alive and well in him now.
“What the fuck, Master?” she asked, her voice sleepy, her words slurry with it.
“Told you I was going to paint you today,” he said with amusement, and so I shall.
She lay, trying to not wriggle away, as he continued to pour stream after stream of paint on her. A variety of colors dripped and oozed over her, from apple red streaks on her tits, to kelly green across her face.
She was striped, swirled, dripping.
It was cold, and it tickled as it slid down her curvy body. A particularly sinister line of it rolled down her asscheek, found her crack and began a slow and torturous roll up her crack to the small of her back. She wanted to rub at it, it tickled so.
“Masterrrr…please, you’re killing me here,” she moaned at last. He shot her a look of pure lust.
And splatted her pussy with yellow.
He disappeared behind his canvas then, and she heard the scritching of brush against canvas as he painted like a fury. She felt the paint begin to dry on her, and wondered if it would leave colored marks on her skin.
That would be fun to explain to Margi at the bank tomorrow, she mused.
He was staring at her from the side of his canvas. She blinked.
“Roll, slut. Like when you were a kid and rolled down the hill. Roll.”
She rolled, the paint that had dried cracking away, some sticking to the canvas in large blops. The lines and spatters moved across the canvas with her body, the lines thick and thin by turns. Her pussy made a brilliant triangle as she rolled, and her hair, also adorned, drew slim tendrils of color.
She reached the end, dizzy, giddy, giggling. His foot stopped her. She looked up at him, eyes wide. He was naked, his cock jutting from his belly.
He straddled her body, dropping into a push-up form, his engorged glans just touching her.
“Open for me, slut.”
She drew her knees up, spreading her legs the way she knew he liked. He speared into her, no words, no touching, just cock into cunt. His hands braced on the floor, he lay planked above her not touching her any more than where his shaft disappeared into the well of her body.
And then he dropped. He fucked into her hole, hard, frantic thrusts. She came, fast and intensely. His arms came around her and he rolled back across the canvas. Her liquid sex smeared with wet gobs of paint, slashing across buttocks and thighs as he rolled, paused, thrusted deep.
He palmed her tits, squeezing hard, and she arched up into that painful grip.
He released her, and flattened his hands on the canvas, framing her head. Kissing her hard, he slowed his rhythm, matching the flowing sounds from the stereo. Long, rich, slow strokes brought her to orgasm twice more before he slipped off of her, rolling her to her belly.
“Roll,” he growled, his voice thick with want.
She rolled twice, landing once more, belly down on the canvas. He rolled to her, his markings dragging and softening hers. He laid atop her back, pressing into her.
“Rise up that ass for me, slut, up on your knees, head down.”
She felt her cheek pressing kelly green into the nubbly surface of the canvas, then lost that feeling as he took her hard from behind.
And he pulled away before she came.
Moaning her frustration, she gave a short, sharp shriek as the splatter of cold paint hit her mid-back. One color, then another, until she lost count. The heat in her pussy grew as she understood that now she was brush and canvas to him, sex and creative force commingled.
She rolled until he stopped her with a foot. Looking up, she saw him, paint smeared on chest, cheek, cock. She smiled, opening her legs to him.
He painted her with his colors, blending and shading them until it was hard to see where one started and the other continued.
They were one, rolling on the canvas.
When he came, at long last, they lay, limp and sated, a trail of sex honey leaking from them both.
She lay on her belly, he on his back beside her, hands linked. She smiled at him.
He looked back.
“Roll,” she said, her grin wide.
Laughing, he did, as little spurts pressed from his softened dick, and painted the canvas with the last of his seed.
They stood at the gallery in Denver. The over large canvas took up a full wall. She peered at the title on the small placard that gave the details of the work.
tempera on canvas, (c) 2011 by Matt Foxx. Painterly style, Bodies in Motion.
She laughed, a sound that rang out around the gallery, drawing appreciative attention from other patrons.
“One of my favorite pieces,” Matt said to a large, almost overbearing patroness, as she oohed and aahed over the ‘masterful use of color, the strokes boldly visible as was the norm for Painterly Style work.
“Strokes indeed, with a unique signature from the artist,” she thought with a grin.