by Alison Tyler
She loads a fresh cake with dusky mauve and climbs onto the wheel, now sweeping an arc of undulating waves from Avril’s left shoulder to breast to belly to abdomen. Leaning over Avril, Mayra feels the femme’s breath caress her breasts through her thin top. Mayra’s used to “breathing life into” her materials, but having her materials breathing on her is…different. Pleasurable. Distracting. In response, Mayra reloads for maximum saturation and smears color repeatedly onto Avril’s left breast, especially her nipple, until it’s round as a pebble. She lifts her breast to paint underneath, and Avril arches up to maintain contact with Mayra’s hand. But Mayra carefully works around the exquisitely sensitive area, continuing to shade Avril’s skin.
She goes to her table, grabs the two-tone cake she special-ordered—one half a rich plum, the other slightly lighter, velvety mauve—and swipes a fresh sponge across it. To reach Avril’s belly, and to block Avril’s view, Mayra places a knee on either side of her girl’s head, straddling her face. Avril’s breath comes faster, making Mayra’s cunt throb. She’s sure Avril can smell her excitement. As tempting as the idea of grinding against Avril’s mouth is, the colors in her hands—and the scars—call more insistently.
Beginning at the base of Avril’s throat, Mayra angles the sponge so that the darker shade is on the inside, along the scar, the lighter tone working out. Riding outward over Avril’s breast, then back in toward her navel, Mayra applies the two shades. Down the other side of the scar, plum inside, blending into mauve outside. She reloads, flips, swipes, reloads, swipes, flips. She can’t move fast enough to create what’s coming through her. She senses, distantly, that Avril has turned herself over to Mayra’s urgency, embracing her role as her Mistress’s canvas.
She’s sure Avril feels when the sponge touches her scars—they are always sensitive and raw. However, Avril had enthused that the discomfort would be nothing compared to having them transformed. Mayra is transforming them, all right, but not by their erasure. With paint filling in either side of her biggest, darkest keloid, it is more visible than ever.
Mayra keeps sponging up new paint and extending the shadowed valley of the scar down Avril’s torso and abdomen. The colors meet at the apex above Avril’s moist cunt. Any closer and her paint will run. Mayra flips the sponge back and forth, sometimes using one side, sometimes the other, until from Avril’s neck to her mons is a crevice of dark flesh tones, melding together. Then she finishes the right leg with doeskin, to match Avril’s arms. Just as on her torso, the leg scars show purple-red under the paint.
Now the detail work. Mayra’s blood pumps as she hops off and gathers an assortment of brushes and colors. Despite her excitement, Mayra’s steady hand outlines a four-inch-diameter clitoris at the base of Avril’s throat. Not knowing what’s blossoming on her throat, Avril swallows self-consciously as Mayra fills in the clit. Shaded with eggplant, its hood recedes in arousal. Adding gray to her brush, Mayra creates the pearl’s contours and twirls her scruffy brush to bring out the plumpness she has seen so often on a much smaller scale. She mixes in shiny white to create the pearly wetness that glistens on the swollen clit. Mayra leans back to check the angle. Yes, the clit rests right above the scar on Avril’s throat.
Mayra switches to Avril’s face. The fine-tipped filbert brush must tickle, for Avril laughs. Mayra hadn’t told her she’d be twirling and swirling black curls onto her chin, cheeks, nose, even her lips. Soon, Avril’s face is a mask of sumptuous curls, eyes and lips mysteriously peeking through.
“You’re adorable,” Mayra says, impulsively kissing Avril on the nose. She hears a chorus of aws behind her.
“Oh, shut up.” She waves without looking up. Everyone laughs, including Avril.
Mayra rotates the wheel 180 degrees and climbs between Avril’s legs, moving up to reach her torso. Alternating gray and chocolate, she creates the outline and shadow of two labia majora—forming above the clit on Avril’s throat and joining all the way down above Avril’s clit. Mayra is about to dip her brush into her water can when she gets an idea of another way to moisten the colors that have dried on Avril’s skin. Cleaning one hand with a baby wipe, she slides a finger between Avril’s lips. Avril gasps, but Mayra’s hand is gone. She smears the cunt juice down Avril’s breast and belly.
“This is my idea of mixed media!” she announces. She continues to dip into Avril’s wetness, which is increasing, using it to blend texture and shape into the existing mauve and plum. Soon, soft folds cover Avril’s breasts and outer torso.
Then, on either side of Avril’s sternum, Mayra creates the inner labia. To make the inner ripples of the engorged smaller lips, she adds some pink to the mauve and chocolate. Again, where the paint has already dried, Avril acts as water jar, moaning each time Mayra’s fingers slide in.
The center of the cunt is next. She fills in the area on either side of the keloid with brick red, making the heart of the cunt, the deep crevice, the darkest part. She continues to shade and shadow to bring out the plump succulence she knows so well.
Almost at her climax, Mayra’s in a fever. She paints the birthing of the hourglass—pink and silver tumbling out of the cunt on Avril’s torso and down her thighs. Mayra assesses the effect. Yes, the sandglass on the canvas now looks like it was born there.
Mayra whoops in anticipation of the final metamorphosis. Taking a very clean, soft brush, she loads it with translucent silver. This she stipples down the keloid scar on Avril’s cheek, transforming the strands of tissue into shiny strings of cum. Down her neck, where the clitoris is already gleaming, down through the huge pussy she’s created, she turns the rope of scar into a stream of desire. Where the scar has spread between and below Avril’s breasts, there now appears a pool of juice. This overflows the labia painted on Avril’s right hip. Mayra extends the stream down Avril’s right leg, painting the keloid silver.
The last touch is a dusting of silver glitter to really make the river of cum pop. She dips her brush into the glitter and plays it along the scars. Instead of hiding them, she is highlighting them. The redness is still visible underneath, but now it’s the pulse of arousal and desire.
She collapses on a chair. She realizes her top is sticky with sweat, her throat dry, her arms shaky. She could use a drink. She’s sure Avril could, too, but hopes there will be time for that—for celebrating—later. She gets to her feet and stands at Avril’s head, facing the crowd.
“Please, join us.” She gestures.
Everyone gets to their feet and encircles the wheel. Mayra pulls a bag out from under it. “I’ve got a dozen cameras,” she says, handing them around. “And two photo printers over there. Since we can’t hang Avril on the wall, your pictures will form a collage as the final piece of the installation. Please write your title for each photo on a stick-it note and put it on the back of each picture.”
Everyone moves around and starts clicking. Some back up to include Mayra in the shot, some move in for close-ups of one section of the canvas. Some stand on chairs to take pictures from above. With no task in front of her, Mayra tries to pace but keeps getting in people’s way. She realizes she should check on Avril.
“I’m nervous,” Avril says above the clicking.
“Me, too,” Mayra whispers.
“Yes, but you’re not lying naked on a table with no idea what you look like!”
“I’m sorry!” Mayra smacks herself in the forehead and gets Avril’s dressing gown and a chair, then releases her. Avril collapses onto the chair, dropping the gown in her lap.
The others are grouped around the whirring printers, talking and labeling their photos.
“Is it time for bubbly?” someone calls.
“Help yourself,” Mayra yells back. “I’m not moving from this spot!”
She hears a chuckle. Soon happy chatter and the popping of corks echo around the room.
“Time to see what the critics say,” Mayra says, wishing she was joking. She wipes her sweaty palms on her jeans and crosses to the printers. She carefully s
coops up the photos and brings them back.
Mayra and Avril put their heads together.
They’re surprisingly good quality. The first one is a shot of the entire table from above. Avril gasps. “Mother of god,” she says. “You made me into a big cunt!”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.” Mayra tries not to let her hurt show. “Let’s see how the others see you.”
She turns over the picture. The stick-it note says Beauty.
Avril gasps and puts her hand to her mouth.
The next one is a close-up of the silver scar. On the back is written River of Beauty.
Tears well in Avril’s eyes. She opens and closes her mouth, but no words come out.
The next is of the hourglass, but taken from the opposite side of the wheel—the sand fuller on top. The note says, All the time in the world.
A close-up of Avril’s face: Beauty.
A shot of Avril’s right hand: Two years ago, time stood still.
A close-up of Avril’s cunt: Beauty.
A shot of Avril’s left hand: Happy Tenth Anniversary.
Tears are flowing down Avril’s face. Mayra’s worried they’ll ruin the pictures. She grabs her abandoned checked shirt to give to Avril as a hanky and realizes that she has tears on her face, too.
“Here,” she says, “we each get a sleeve.”
Avril laughs and sobs at the same time. “There are so many of them,” she says. “How will we get through them all without dissolving into two puddles?”
“Beautiful,” Mayra answers, “we don’t have to do it all tonight. Remember,” she taps the photo of the inverted hourglass, “we have all the time in the world.” Then she does what she’s wanted to do since Avril first stood up and dropped her robe—pulls her in for a deep, long kiss.
After they separate, Avril sighs and rests her head against Mayra’s shoulder. “We should join the party,” Avril says.
“Okay,” Mayra agrees and stands up.
Avril takes a moment to slip her arms through the sleeves of the dressing gown. Mayra feels a cold lump fall into her stomach. But, she reminds herself, is it fair to expect Avril to walk around naked when everyone else is clothed? Even without her scars, she’d probably feel funny.… Maybe.
“Help me tie this, will you?” Avril says. She’s holding the back of the gown in the small of her back with one hand and handing the sash to Mayra with the other.
Mayra reaches to bring the gown around to Avril’s front.
“No, no.” Avril slaps her hand. “I want you to tie it all in the back! My shoulders are cold is all.”
“Oh!” Mayra gathers the gown with trembling fingers and ties it behind Avril’s back.
“That’s perfect,” Avril says. “It’s like a cape! Now I can show off my River of Beauty.” She limps to the crowd of people holding champagne flutes and calls, “I deserve ten of those!”
Someone replies with a comment Mayra doesn’t hear. She’s watching Avril’s head thrown back in laughter.
WHEN MY BOYFRIEND HAS A PARTY
Devin Phillips
When Jason, my boyfriend, has a party, he ties me up before his friends get there.
I don’t mean he ties me all the way; that’ll wait until his friends are ready to take me. Before they get there, Jason just ties my hands behind my back, and usually a tight little harness over my shoulders so I’m forced to stand up straight.
He wants my back arched so his friends can see my breasts hanging out of my top. He wants his friends to be able to get to my tits and my ass as I greet them at the door and invite them to touch me.
“Hello and welcome,” I’ll tell them with a smile. “Would you like to feel me up, Sir?”
This is after Jason has locked the dog collar around my throat and helped me get all made up so I look hot for his friends. He’s picked out my outfit—usually something very tight in front, with no bra underneath, so my tits are hanging out. A low-cut blouse, or a shirt that buttons down the front so he can leave two or three more buttons open than I would if I were going to work or somewhere else respectable. He has me wear stockings, of course, and high heels, and sometimes he has me wear hot pants or even cut-offs, and other times he has me wear a skirt. I never wear panties, except the time when I was only wearing panties.
The stockings are stay-ups because he doesn’t want his friends to have to monkey with a garter belt. Guys don’t understand those things. He’s had me wear fishnets sometimes, or white stockings, black stockings; right before Christmas he once had me wear red. Red. They looked garish and slutty. I still get wet and embarrassed. I still get red myself looking at the videotapes.
The heels are always very high. When we started playing our game, I had some trouble walking in them.
I’d always been a bit of a tomboy, never dressing too girly or wearing high heels. I even had shortish hair—a little shorter than a bob or something. Jason made me grow it out. That was a year ago; now it’s long and getting curly. And then a month ago, Jason had me go to the salon and bleach it blond.
I was nervous at first; I thought I’d look stupid with pale blond hair. I’m very light-skinned; I really thought it would look terrible. I’ll admit I look pretty washed out without makeup. But I wear lots more makeup now than I used to. Jason likes it, and I like it. I always wear makeup to work; I even put on a fresh coat—lighter than usual, of course, just a hint—before I get into bed. And when Jason has a party, I wear lots of makeup. Now that I’m blond I look even hotter, even sluttier. Especially the way I hang out of my clothes.
And his friends get to do all sorts of things with me.
It’s not all of Jason’s friends who come over for these parties, of course. It’s only the cool ones. Once it was clear what I wanted and what he wanted to give me, Jason asked around. He’d made some friends at kinky parties on websites over the years. Jason picks his friends very well; they’re all big and strong but gentle—but rough when I need them to be. We’ve got a safeword and everything, but I’ve never had to use it.
He invites twelve friends to each party. Usually eight to ten make it. I’ve gotten to know them well, even though I don’t socialize with them outside our parties…so I really only know certain things about them. Certain sexual things. They’re sexual objects to me the same way I am to them. There’s Eric, who’s tall and has this great jawline, who really loves to feel my tits and likes to give me rim jobs. There’s Stu, who has great eyes and yummy hair and these incredible fingers; he can sometimes make me cum just with his hand. Then there’s Alejandro, beautiful and young-looking, even though I think he’s in his thirties. He’s only about an inch taller than me when I’m wearing my heels, but… well, he’s not just long but thick…really thick. I’ve had his dick in my mouth a few dozen times, and it’s really hard for me to get my lips past the halfway point. Everyone else, I can deep-throat, no problem. I can even deep-throat Dylan, who’s got this amazingly long cock, because it’s slightly narrower than Alejandro’s. They like that I can deep-throat so easily; they like that I like it. I love it, in fact. Usually, I’m totally in control when I’m giving head. But sometimes, when I’m feeling really raunchy, I let them fuck my face. Probably the most inveterate face-fucker among them is Chris, who likes to lay me out on the couch with my head hanging off and give it to me rough and deep, right down my throat in easy, slow thrusts at first while his hands caress my hair or reach down to stroke my clit and pussy. Then he fucks me rougher and rougher, until I’m gagging, always knowing how much I can take, how much I want to take. Maybe it’s because he usually has his fingers in my cunt by then; he can feel me tense up when it starts to be too much. Then he backs off and does me more gently…and he can keep it going for half an hour. I’ll be drooling and gagging and my face will be covered in precum…but I’ll be completely in heaven, and the look in my runny eyes shows it. Jason catches it all on videotape.
There’s plenty of others. There’s Jerry, Joel, Isaiah, Hunter…some other guys I’m forgetting the na
mes of. A few have visited from out of town, friends of friends, but all cool. All of them have been tested; Jason arranges that. He uses the local office of a professional service that works with porn stars.
I guess I am a porn star, sort of—because Jason videos everything. We watch it sometimes when we’re alone; I get as hot as he does…maybe hotter. He gets a couple of hours of footage at least each time he has a party, but it’s not for other people. Jason’s never let the files out of his sight. What he does is play my hottest moments on the television in the living room. He has the DVD player locked down so even if one of his friends wanted to palm a copy, he couldn’t. But anyway, they’re not that kind of guys. They like what they get from me, and they like that I give it so willingly. More than willingly.
But Jason still likes to have me tied up.
We all go down to the playroom in the basement. It’s got cheap couches with vinyl upholstery so they don’t get too dirty. With twelve guests it’s a little crowded—fourteen people is too many for our basement, but we don’t mind getting cozy. Eight is just about right for me.
There’s a sling and a soft padded table with metal tie-downs to tie me to. My hands tied behind my back, I walk on my high heels for them; the men all look at me and give me gentle, firm orders, like “Bend over,” “Show us your ass,” “Let’s see you jiggle those titties.” They’re never rough with me, except when I want them to be. I’m always wet as a faucet before ten minutes have passed—before Jason gives the go-ahead for them to start undressing me.
Their hands snake out; their fingers pluck my buttons open and they start caressing my tits. Their hands go down into my shorts, or up my skirt. They touch my shaved, pierced pussy and feel how wet I am.
They unzip their pants and guide me to my knees.
While I’m kneeling like that, someone usually takes off my skirt or my shorts and unbuttons my top all the way. They tell me to spread my knees and someone gets a vibrator, sometimes a dildo, sometimes a butt plug, too. I kneel and give head as they pleasure me—my pussy, my clit, my ass. Sometimes they put tit clamps on me. Usually I finish one or more of them in my mouth—guys who can’t wait to fuck me, or don’t want to this time, for whatever reason. Sometimes they cum on my face. More often, I let them cum in my mouth, and I swallow or drool it down my chin and onto my tits. They like it when I drool, but I really like to swallow.