A facial work of art
She always expects something on nights out like these. A sudden push into a corner. A hungry hand underneath her skirt. Something I refrain from doing on a regular day. Something she did not yet know she wanted.
Every first Friday of the month she expects the unexpected and craves the surprise. No household, no kids, no common mister and misses.
This was another one of those occasions. A night out of town where she gave me Carte Blanche.
The recipe was on point. Diner in a distant city, red wine over a fancy restaurant table, and a dim lit hotel suite. I remember well how impressed she was by the choice of restaurant. How she was scanning the walls, admiring the paintings and asking the waiter which painting was painted by who while she was running her hands through her hazel hair and nodding enthusiastically. How her eyes lit up at the faint touch of that close yet so distant world of classic art, almost tearing up in awe and admiration.
I remember well how for a moment I asked myself whether being a software programmer didn’t also have something very artistic. I kept myself from answering and redirected my focus to my dish — there was still a nice piece of meat to chew.
I didn’t give her much time to scan the hotel suite. She went from a tight, black yet classy dress doing click-clack on high heels to sitting down helplessly on a chair in a matter of, what seemed to be, seconds.
I tied her hands behind the back of the chair and wrapped the rope around her body so tightly that her juicy ass sunk deeply into the bordeaux cushion. Her dress and expensive stilettos were still on her, albeit quite a bit more chaotic looking than they did at the restaurant table. The rough strings of rope pressed deeply into her meaty thighs and calves.
The beautiful sight of flesh under pressure. Flesh wanting to burst —but unable to do so. Her chest was breathing heavy up and down, her mouth panting in anticipation, her eyes lit up looking up at me.
There’s this thing called the creative flow state. It’s probably what those fancy painters experience playing their mysterious act on those famous pieces of cloth, and maybe that is kind of what happened next. Naturally, I do not remember much of it. All I know is that the next conscious moment my wife’s heavy breathing was joined by mine and I smelled the intense salty scent of my cum.
It was a mix of cum and spit and drool and it was dripping off of her drenched face. Strokes of her black eyeliner ran down her cheeks like tears of joy and admiration. They met up with my white gluey semen, forming the most gorgeous gradient I had ever seen.
I told her not to lick it off. That I wanted to see it trickle over her lips and drip into the corners of her mouth. I wanted it to slowly present my taste to her, for her to rediscover me all over again. She bit her lip and gave me a docile nod.
I stood there and watched. Listening to both our heavy breathing filling up the room, enjoying my first ever painting come to life, waiting for the next stroke to present itself in me. My first artwork could use another finishing touch.
