by Radclyffe
“You sure do get horny a lot, you nasty bitch.”
Emily’s entire body burned with embarrassment. “Yes, mistress.”
“What did you use? Your hand?” Finally done tying her into a position that left her unable to stand but free to open her legs and be placed in a variety of poses, Nat slipped on her harness and dildo, then turned to face her. “Did you use a vibrator?”
Emily couldn’t take her eyes off the wand vibrator that was suddenly in Nat’s hand. They’d never used one before. She didn’t use vibrators much at all. “No, mistress. I used my hand.”
Nat knelt once again at her side. She powered on the wand, which buzzed menacingly. “Spread your legs.”
Emily set her knees apart on the floor, careful to keep upright without the use of her arms for balance. She definitely felt clumsy, and very, very helpless. “Yes, mistress.”
Nat pinned her with a stern look. “Hold this position.”
Swallowing, Emily whispered, “Yes, mistress.”
The first touch of the vibrator to her clit was pure, glorious bliss. Finally, she was on her way to the destination she’d craved all night. The sensation was intense and deeply satisfying, making it impossible not to rock her hips against the wand.
It only took a couple minutes for the powerful vibration to bring her to the edge. Her thighs quaked, and she took deep breaths to relax. The rope made it extremely difficult to pull away, so the best thing to do was just let it happen. She had to accept that she wasn’t in control. And that it was okay, because Nat always kept her safe.
“Mistress, may I come?” Emily curled her toes, staving off her climax. “Please, mistress, please, please, please.”
“Do it,” Nat said lazily.
Emily threw back her head and yelled hoarsely as waves of pleasure rolled through her body. The sensation built and built and built until she couldn’t stand it anymore, but there was no escape. She tried to close her legs, but Nat was right there to force her thighs back open with one strong hand while she rubbed the vibrator over her with the other.
Desperate to distract herself from the painful ecstasy that sliced through her body, Emily gazed wildly around the room until her attention landed on Billie lying back on the couch. Billie’s hand moved in her jeans and her chest rose and fell rapidly. Somehow the sight of Billie taking pleasure from her delicious torture made it easier to withstand.
Nat pulled the vibrator away minutes later, when sweat ran in rivulets down Emily’s chest and back. She struggled to regain her breath, then whimpered when Nat swiftly repositioned her so that her chest and shoulders touched the floor and she balanced on her knees. It was an awkward but reasonably comfortable position that rendered her completely helpless. Her juices literally dripped from her, coating her thighs.
The vibrator touched her clit again. “What do you want?”
Emily yelled in pleasure-pain. “To please you, mistress!”
“Do you want to come?”
She was almost positive that she’d been coming for an eternity by now. “I am, mistress.”
Nat slapped her already sore bottom. “Keep going, slut. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“Yes, mistress,” Emily choked out. Her legs shook so hard that she didn’t know how much longer she could hold position. She wanted to collapse on the floor. “Please, mistress.”
“Please what?” Nat rubbed her with the buzzing wand. “Please make you come?”
“No, mistress.”
Smack! “No?” Nat said in a dangerous voice.
Emily said the only thing her exhausted brain could manage. “Yes, mistress.”
“What is it, then?” Nat removed the vibrator and Emily sobbed in relief. “Yes or no?”
Determined not to break position or her perfect submission, Emily said, “Whatever you desire, mistress. I’m yours.”
The buzz of the vibrator ceased. Emily relaxed, then inhaled sharply when Nat spread her open and entered her with her long, thick cock. Nat grabbed hold of her feet, which were nearly level with her thighs, and used them for leverage to very slowly fuck her.
“Your cunt is dripping,” Nat said in a sultry voice. “I’ve never seen a slut so ready to be fucked.” She gathered up a bit of the wetness with her finger and gingerly worked it into Emily’s anus. “You ever seen such a nasty slut in your life, Billie?”
Sounding out of breath, Billie said, “Never.”
“You close, Billie?” Nat moved her free hand to Emily’s hip. “Think about how fucking hot her cunt feels wrapped around me. Think about how sore she’ll be tomorrow.”
A soft cry of pleasure sounded from above her. Nat withdrew from her ass so she could grip Emily’s hips and thrust faster. Emily tightened her hands into fists and rode out the convulsions Nat triggered. She lifted her ass higher and rocked back into Nat, desperate to hear her lover’s release.
When it came, Nat moaned and pounded into her a few more times, then bent over her back and gathered her into a loving embrace. “Happy anniversary, Emily,” she whispered under her breath. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” All of a sudden she was desperate to get out of her restraints and into Nat’s arms.
Across the room, she heard the door click shut. Nat carefully withdrew from her pussy and eased her up into a kneeling position. As Nat went to work untying rope, Emily said, “Guess she realized it was about to get mushy.”
“Nobody wants to see that,” Nat teased. She freed Emily’s legs, waiting for her to stretch them out before starting on her arms.
Emily glanced around the room again, then frowned at the looming metal frame. “What was that for?”
Nat chuckled. “Mostly to freak you out. Also, it was already in the room and they didn’t want to move it.”
“Oh.” Pleased when her arms were finally released from their prison, Emily rubbed her wrists to ease the slight soreness.
Nat took over the rubbing, her hands now as gentle as if she were handling a tiny kitten. “Maybe next time?”
Emily was pretty sure there was nothing she couldn’t handle with Nat by her side. “Definitely next time.”
Andrea Bramhall lives in Norfolk, UK, with her partner and their two collies. Summer finds her running their campsite, and winter writing the stories she dreams up. Her first novel, Ladyfish, was awarded an Alice B. Lavender Certificate in 2013. Friend her at facebook.com/Andreabramhall, tweet her @Andreabramhall, or find her at www.andreabramhall.co.uk.
This story features characters from Clean Slate.
Captured on Canvas
Andrea Bramhall
Erin pulled the ice-blue shawl tight about her shoulders as she stepped out of the car and took Morgan’s hand. She smiled and let herself enjoy the sight of Morgan in her black tailored pantsuit and violet-colored shirt, and the excited flush that covered her cheeks as she bowed toward Erin.
“My lady.” The playful grin on Morgan’s face caused the fine lines beside her coal-dark eyes to crinkle as they danced with amusement under the light of the full winter moon. “Would you allow me the pleasure of escorting you to this evening’s event?”
Erin laughed gently and tucked her hand into the crook of Morgan’s elbow. “So gallant.”
“You look stunning, Erin.”
Erin automatically ran her hand over her stomach, smoothing out any wrinkles from her silk dress. The blue of the backless halter-style dress matched her eyes and contrasted with her thick dark hair, piled high on her head, wispy tendrils tickling the nape of her neck. She felt beautiful, and the heat in Morgan’s gaze felt like flames licking at her skin. She shivered and hoped she could blame her body’s reaction on the chilly January air, but they both knew the snow on the ground and the promise of more lingering in the air was not the real reason for her response.
She swallowed and whispered, “Thank you. So do you.”
“Are we ready for this?”
“Nervous?” Erin raised an eyebrow as Morgan shrugged sheepishly.
> “Very.”
Erin wasn’t surprised. Morgan had been working toward this evening for several months. It was the culmination of hours of sketching, painting, mixing colors, remixing colors, blending pastel crayons to create just the right texture. The frustrated days she’d spent hunched over canvas, paper, and swaths of silk as she created her exhibition, all of it leading to this night. Morgan’s exhibition—her first exhibition, and Erin was equally nervous and excited.
She hadn’t seen a single piece that Morgan had created for the show. Every request to view her work had met with the same response: “I want it to be a surprise for you too.” And Erin had respected that, even though the secrecy was killing her. Now they were both here, ready to witness Morgan’s creations and the reactions to them, and Erin was terrified that she wouldn’t be able to do justice to her wife’s work. That her analytical brain would not be able to let go and feel what Morgan wanted her to. She worried that she would be unable to see beyond the paint to the woman wielding the brush.
Erin tried to suppress the ripple of fear that ran up her spine and made her shudder.
“God, I’m an idiot. You must be freezing out here. You should have put on a coat.” Morgan led her up the stone steps to the ornately carved doors and the marble foyer of the gallery and guided Erin inside.
“I put one in the car in case it gets colder later. I’ll be fine inside.” She smiled and waited while Morgan checked her coat and Erin’s shawl before tucking the small ticket into her purse.
“Can I get you some champagne?”
Erin laughed. “Pushing the boat out tonight?”
“Well, it is a special occasion.”
“Oh yes, someone’s fortieth birthday, isn’t it?” She winked playfully as Morgan scowled. Erin agreed with Robyn—Morgan’s new agent—that launching her first exhibition on such a milestone birthday would create an extra buzz about the event. Morgan was still to be convinced.
“I don’t know where you heard that, but it’s all a bunch of crap for the press. I’m trying to impress someone.”
“Really?”
Morgan nodded. “Someone very important.” She lifted Erin’s hand to her lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Champagne?”
“Please.” Erin smiled, admiring the way the fabric pulled tight across Morgan’s arse as she walked to the bar. Moving into the gallery, she idly picked up a leaflet, turning the pages without looking at them.
“Anything interesting?” Morgan held a champagne flute out to her. Erin shook her head as she took the glass and sipped at the effervescent liquid. The dry acidic flavor balanced the fruity citrus notes and the gentle aroma of honeysuckle and candied orange peel.
“I wasn’t really reading it.” She tossed the flier back on to the table and leaned a little closer in to Morgan.
“I don’t want to, but I have to talk to a couple of dealers, baby. Robyn thinks they could be interested in putting some of my pieces in their gallery in London. Do you want to come with me or take a look around?”
Erin followed Morgan’s hand and spotted the two older gentlemen dressed in suits, one wearing a bow tie and the other a rather garish pink-and-yellow striped tie. She didn’t relish the idea of making small talk before she had the chance to view Morgan’s work. “You go on. I’ll amuse myself for a little while.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Erin took another sip of her drink and watched her walk away before she glanced at the first piece. It was a huge canvas, six feet high and four feet wide, and the image made her breath catch in her throat. A naked woman knelt with her back to the viewer, her feet tucked under her bottom and her hands lost in the masses of treacle-dark hair she was holding high on her head, exposing the entire length of her back. The valleys and rises of the woman’s body were captured with exquisite detail, down to the tiny beauty mark on the sole of her right foot. Every brush stroke had been placed with reverence, deliberation, and a sensuality that vibrated off the page, stole Erin’s breath, and made her tingle as though the brush had stroked her skin.
“It’s exquisite, is it not?”
Erin turned to her left and smiled briefly at the man beside her. “It is very good.”
“Good? Oh, my dear, you are looking at it incorrectly. This piece is not about good or bad. It is about passion. The power of the flesh. This guy really knows women.” He reached toward the painting, pointing but never touching. “Look at the slow sweeping strokes down the spine, over the ribs, around the curve of her buttocks.” He crossed one arm over his chest, rested his elbow in his hand, and stroked his chin. “The artist hasn’t just painted this woman. He’s made love to her with each pass of the brush.”
Erin didn’t comment on his assumptions as to Morgan’s sex as she stared at the painting again and let her gaze travel down the long length of the woman’s back—her back. The man was right. She could feel Morgan making love to her as she had created this piece. And knowing that released a wave of desire in Erin that burned fiercely, as did her mounting anger. She felt the sting of betrayal as she stared at her own body laid bare before the strangers milling through the space. She felt the growing need to cover each canvas to hide her own skin and to retrieve her shawl and hide beneath it. She could feel everyone in the gallery staring at her, their gazes drifting from one section of her body to another, flesh or canvas, it didn’t matter. It was all her. And every look felt like a touch.
She walked through the gallery on weakened legs, sipping her champagne and hoping the next piece wouldn’t affect her quite so strongly.
The sight of her slumbering body with her arm resting above her head, obscuring her face, made her cheeks burn with embarrassment. She realized no one would recognize her from the angle, but she felt exposed and angry with Morgan for putting her body on display in such a way. Something Morgan had assured her she would never do, that she didn’t want to share any part of their intimate life with anyone else.
“Such love.” The voice of the woman beside Erin was barely a whisper, and she turned in time to see her wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.
She sipped her drink, trying to keep her fingers relaxed around the delicate stem to save it falling victim to her bubbling rage. “You think so?”
The woman nodded without taking her eyes away from the picture. “The artist clearly worships this woman. The painting alone shows that, even without the title.”
“You don’t think it shows a lack of respect for the woman in the picture?”
“Not at all. Her face isn’t shown. Her identity is kept private. The artist is showing her feelings, opening herself up, wearing her heart on her sleeve, but she isn’t exposing her lover.”
“Not exposing her lover?” Erin glared at the woman, incredulous that she could be so blind. “She’s painted her naked body, how can you say she hasn’t exposed her?”
“The artist has exposed herself. The woman in the picture doesn’t.”
“She’s the one who’s naked—”
“Her flesh, yes. But her soul is not.” The woman pointed at the arm covering Erin’s painted visage. “There is no face to show her expression or her feelings toward the painter. Instead this Morgan Masters has shown us exactly how she feels about the woman she is painting, how she adores and cherishes her. She gives away nothing about the woman in the pictures. Even down to the title. No clue about who the model is, what she is to Morgan, nothing. She is a mystery. But the title tells us even more about how the painter feels.”
Erin glanced at the card mounted next to the painting. Nothing is more beautiful than you wearing only the moonlight and my kisses. Erin gasped and turned back toward the first piece, searching for its title. If I were blind, within my heart I could still see the beauty that is you. Tears welled in Erin’s eyes and she looked at each new painting with a different view. Looking not at what Morgan was showing of her but what she was expressing to her.
She slowly let the sensuality and romance of each
piece infiltrate her soul. She leaned in closer, needing to see more, and every detail caused her heart to beat a little faster, her palms to moisten a little more, and her vision to narrow until all she could see was the painting. She stroked her neck as she examined the short brushstrokes that had been used to mix the pigments until the skin tone was perfect; each tiny sweep felt like a kiss upon her skin.
The final piece in the exhibition was a canvas eight feet long and three feet high—a swirling vortex of blue, white, black, violet, indigo, and tiny flecks of gold that sucked her into the piece and held her hostage.
“Your eyes aren’t just beautiful, they are the gateway to a world that I want to be a part of.” Morgan whispered the title against Erin’s ear, her breath raising goose bumps down Erin’s neck, caressing her, teasing her. “Always.”
Erin leaned back against Morgan’s chest, the starchy cotton rough against her oversensitized back, and her nipples hardened.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful.” She turned her head and smiled at the faint blush that stole over Morgan’s cheeks. “They’re all beautiful.”
“I was afraid you might be angry with me.”
“I was. I felt exposed.”
“That’s not what—”
“I know.” Gently, she kissed the corner of Morgan’s lips and laughed. “I realized that when I talked to a woman over at the second picture.”
“Do I want to know what you talked about?”
Erin shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. But she helped me to see that it wasn’t your model who you were exposing up there.”
“No. It was meant to be myself.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“There’s one thing else I’d like you to see.”
Erin waited, anticipation rising. Morgan handed her a glossy program and smiled sweetly.
“I wanted to call the show Erin, but I thought that would probably be a little bit obvious as to who my muse and my model is.”
