Canvas

Literotic asexstories – Canvas by TheBlueOne,TheBlueOne
Everywhere I go in the room, her eyes follow.

Usually when I chain my sweet girl naked to the table I blindfold her so she never quite knows what is coming, or when. Sometimes, times like today, there is no eye cover, and she is permitted to see. She thinks of this as a reward for being good. In fact, the punishment of vision has more subtlety.

I’ve been somewhat harsh with her of late. This is not to say that she’s been disappointing, just that recently pressures in my life have demanded a physical outlet. Her welts and bruises are a testament to how well she pleases me. All of my anger and fears acquired in daily life are transformed and then purged in our sessions together. This is how it should be. However, it has dawned on me that I cannot recall the last time that I really got inside of her and tormented her. She seems happy enough with how things have been, but I know I’ve done her a disservice. When we first began this journey, I promised to push all the limits; and lately I’ve allowed routine to seep in around the edges. Tonight I’ll do all I can to make it up to her.

Now that she can see me I have to be conscientious of how I stand. Normally I pay strict attention to what noises I make – like making the occasional soft sound from across the room and then silently sweeping in for a surprise slap. She always vocalizes her pain, but I can hear a difference between pain and unexpected pain. The difference is what gets me off, makes me wet. While I’m organizing my tools on top of the wheeled dessert cart I ensure that my body blocks her line of sight to my hands. She knows I’m getting something ready, something that will hurt her in that way we both need. I can hear her straining against the bonds behind me, trying to see.

This always makes me smile. I love that she is so keen about everything I subject her to. Before I met her I thought corporal punishment and quaint costumes were all there was to find in the hinterlands beyond the borders of vanilla sex. I squandered myself on paddles and whips and thought the emptiness I felt was a badge of my experience. I’m big enough to admit when I’ve been stupid.

The straining behind me grows more frantic as the minutes tick past, and then stops. I think she’s realized that tonight’s activity will stay a mystery for as long as I feel like it, and is trying to resign herself to that. It is much too soon to allow her the comfort that comes from giving up all control to me.

I address her, “Look at me.” I can feel it when her eyes track back up and lock on to me. It makes my nipples firm up; as though someone ran their nails across them. I tell her how sorry I am to have been neglecting her all these weeks. As I talk my voice gets softer and softer so she has to strain to hear me. If she were unshackled, she’d come closer; but as it is she must focus ever more acutely on me. I am now speaking low and almost under my breath; she is rapt as I outline her future – this scene.

“I think I’m ready to burn you again, sweet girl.”

I face her just in time to see her eyes go very large. We did a scene with fire last year that I had to stop very suddenly for her safety. We spent a lot of down time discussing it and I’ve gotten a lot of insight from friends since then. She finally looks down to see me holding one of the jars I mix paint in.

I suppress my smile at her confusion but it sneaks out. “I said burn – just not with fire.” My smile turns into something feral as I watch her struggle to control her fear. On the dessert cart I’ve arranged ceramic jars, plates, tools and a selection of paintbrushes. I can see that she badly wants to ask what it all is, but she adheres to the rules and stays quiet. I always tell her my plans as slowly as possible to let her imagination run wild with all the possibilities. There will be a time before I start for her to voice any real concerns, but that hardly ever happens any more.

I lean over to nuzzle the side of her neck and grip the tendons gently with my teeth in what I jokingly call being top dog. Really it’s a love bite, a way of marking a person as mine that I adopted as a teenager. It took ages to figure out why in some ways I liked it more than fucking.

I stand up and point to a container. “The powder in this jar is mostly lye. This big one has vinegar and so does the plant mister. This little one has water.” She watches me intently. When I continue, I am no longer looking at her, but instead orate to an invisible classroom. “When I said I hurt my arm at work last week I was stretching the truth. I needed to test the strength of the chemical burn this stuff gives without you knowing. It hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt before, but stops as soon as the vinegar goes on. Since you’re so much tougher than me, I figure you can take a little more.” I steal a glance at her. Her eyes are luminous, the pupils dilated, and she’s blushing everywhere.

Grabbing a towel off the tool rack, I rub her down to wake up her skin. I’ll have to avoid her ass and thighs tonight since they still bear the welts from earlier activities. It’s not that I have any qualms about poking at raw wound – that’s why I make them – but tonight I’m making art and I don’t want the patterns to clash. When her back is ready I drape a sheet across her ass and legs.

We’re ready.

My voice is suddenly hoarse, “Hold as still as you can, pretty girl.”

Carefully, I sprinkle the lye all over her shoulders and back. She makes a broad canvas and I want it as even as possible. She has begun to tremble, maybe from fear or perhaps anticipation, but I need her stationary. I bark at her, “Steady!” and she suppresses the shiver. I take note of this; there will be a reward later for that little trick.

Her back is turning slightly pink. Even after the toweling, her skin must have a bit of sweat on it. This means I’ll need to work quickly. I carefully dip a long soft brush in water and wipe off the excess on the rim of the cup.

“Are you ready, little girl? You can move enough to answer me.”

She’s crying as she replies, “Ready.” Her voice catches. “I’m so scared, Daddy… but I’m ready.”

I smile down at her. “You make me so proud baby girl. Now keep still.” With quick strokes I gently draw the brush over her flesh, my own personal vellum. Using variances in pressure to change the character of the line, I burn abstract swirls across her beautiful back. My brave girl’s training shines through. She’s screaming now, hands white with tension on the restraints, but my canvas remains still as stone. My hand is steady as I re-wet the brush and continue to paint. “The design I’m giving you is coming together, baby. If you need me to, I can stop soon; but I’d really like to add some details if you can ride it out.”

When she answers her voice has gone husky, and she grunts out each word between gasps for air. “It hurts. Hurts… but keep going. I want it to be perfect. Please.”

“That’s my girl,” I tell her, “holding on so I can make you beautiful, as gorgeous as you are brave.”

Working swiftly, I take up the smallest brush and add depth to my pattern. The small lines are fiddly to place, but I’m careful. “Soon baby girl,” I promise her, “it’s more than half way.” She is moaning now, hoarse from screaming. “Almost there honey,” I tell her, adding the glyph that is my signature.

I use the spray bottle to dampen her back with vinegar, slowing the chemical reaction. Very carefully I wet the towel with the rest of the vinegar and gently wipe away the lye. Even so, she hisses with pain when I draw the wet towel over the marks. She is breathtaking. Drawing back the sheet I gaze on my masterpiece. I run my hand up between her legs to her sopping pussy.

She turns back to me, snarling, “Oh God! I need it. Fuck me, daddy!”

I drink in the view of her back and then I’m caught up with her, needing it as badly as she does. I plunge my hand into her pussy and fuck her hard and fast with the twisting motion she loves. I use my other hand to rake the welts on her ass. This makes her bellow and her pussy gushes all over my hand. She begs me to fuck her harder as she humps my arm, trying to stimulate her clit.

I’m losing control. I want to make her wait to come, but I need this just as much as she does. Reaching under her with my other hand I manage to get a grasp on her clit. We’re both right on the edge of coming. Her ass is in my face and I can’t see anything but the whip marks. I run my tongue down the length of one and manage to elicit another scream out of her. The salt taste of her wound pushes me over the edge and I squeeze my thighs together. When I come, I can’t help myself – I bite down on the welt. This tumbles her into orgasm and she clamps down on my hand, yelling in time to the beating of her pulse, the beating of her clit.

After a time she ejects my hand and I untie her and carry her to the bedroom. Earlier that day I moved the bar fridge in there and stocked it. I pour her a glass of Perrier and find the ice cream is just soft enough to scoop. We alternate kissing and feeding one another.

She looks at me seriously and says, “That was intense.” Then she gets the giggles that sometimes accompany emotional release. We cuddle, and talk for a while about the scene, but I can see how worn out she is. While she polishes off the ice cream I scoop her hair into a loose braid and then tie it up. I don’t want it coming loose in her sleep and scraping the hypersensitive burns. She’s already half asleep when she petulantly complains that she hasn’t even seen my handiwork.

“It’s okay sexy girl,” I tell her, “it’ll still be there tomorrow. Thus reassured, she snuggles into the pillow and falls quickly asleep.

Quietly, so as not to disturb her, I go to turn up the thermostat. (With no blanket on her back, I don’t want her getting cold.) However, once I’m up I don’t feel tired anymore. That’s when I remember the first rule of art making – always document your work. Gleefully, I go off in search of the camera.