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The Painter

I loved it when he used my body as his canvas…

By Jupiter GrantPublished 2 years ago 8 min read
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The Painter
Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

I wasn’t always a fan of semen. In fact, I would go so far as to say that in my younger years, I actually had an aversion to spunk. It was all gluggy and gluey, with a whiff of chlorine and ammonia that made me think of Windex window-cleaner mixed with a dash of fruit juice. Though I loved giving head, I could never bring myself to swallow the resulting discharge, and when my boyfriends would cum, I would let the semen dribble out of my open mouth onto their lower belly and groin. I would perform this little spit-out ritual in the sexiest way I knew how; looking up with a cheeky twinkle in my eyes, maybe a saucy smile, as I let their man milk ooze from between my lips. However, in reality, I was trying not to gag, and couldn’t get that gunk out of my mouth fast enough.

Then I met The Painter. The man who made me not only love cum, but made me crave it to the point where I now literally drool at the very thought of its taste. To where the recollection of watching his spunk being ejected from the slit in his cock-head to cover my belly, my breasts, my lips, my face — wherever he wanted to splash his seed onto me — can leave me wetter than a monsoon rainstorm.

He was a Parisian artist, with a tiny apartment and art studio in the 20th arrondissement, not far from the famous Père Lachaise cemetery, and I was a 30-something with an Interrail Pass and a severe case of wanderlust. We met in a little café near Sacré-Cœur, where “Voyage, Voyage” by Desireless played in the background and the pain au chocolat was a slice of melt-in-the-mouth heaven. He gave me a tour of Le Musée de Montmartre, where he educated me on the life and works of Suzanne Valadon and her son, Maurice Utrillo. Then, after a drink or two in a local bistro and a half-hour ride on the Metro, I found myself back at The Painter’s apartment, admiring his paintings and, soon after, his prick.

In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the wisest move to follow a strange man back to his place only hours after I had arrived in the capital. But we had clicked, and I had been immediately hypnotized by his bewitching brown eyes, his designer stubble, and his smooth, amber skin, courtesy of his French-Algerian heritage. And, to be honest, the whole “exotic Parisian artist” thing was a huge turn-on, too, and appealed to the hipster poser in me. By the time he padded up quietly to stand close behind me, as I stood in front of one of his pieces, and softly but seductively slipped my light summer cardigan off my shoulders before lowering his head to press warm kisses onto my shoulders, up my neck and along my hairline, I was practically melting into a puddle on the studio floor.

I turned around to face him, and as we kissed passionately, our tongues flailing in each other’s mouth, his big hands ran down my back and cupped my buttocks. With one fluid, seemingly effortless movement, he lifted me up to wrap my legs around his waist while he carried me to his bedroom and lowered me onto his futon. His eyes blazed with a hot, fiery lust as he unzipped my jeans and slid them down my legs along with my grey cotton knickers, then lowered his head to graze his soft lips and prickly stubble up the tender skin of my inner thighs. When his mouth reached the apex of my legs, I felt his humid breath against my swollen pussy lips, and extended my arm to slide shaking fingers into the messy tangle of his black hair.

I still remember the sensation of his pierced tongue flicking up and down, back and forth on my pulsating clit, and the feel of his fingertips, discolored by old paint and his clove cigarettes, pinching and pulling at my taut, pebbling nipples. I came quickly, twice, from his highly skilled oral ministrations, and when he snaked up my body to kiss me full on the mouth, I remember tasting myself on his tongue and thinking that this was already proving to be the hottest sexual experience I had ever had. The whole situation was so thrilling, so titillating, so wonderfully érotique. I felt like some kind of glorious sex goddess from a Roger Vadim film. So, when The Painter then stood up, unzipped his torn, frayed and paint-daubed jeans, and pulled out his beautiful uncut cock, I didn’t hesitate to climb onto my knees in front of him, take his length in my hand and start licking his shaft up and down with leisurely strokes of my tongue.

He tasted so good, warm like cinnamon, clove and nutmeg against my taste-buds. With my hand easing his foreskin down to reveal his glans, I spent long, languorous moments worshipping The Painter’s cock, savoring the feel and flavor of his piquant prick against my lips and tongue. When a rivulet of his pre-cum dripped down his long shaft, I pushed down the momentary flicker of reticence that the sight of that milky drizzle initially evoked in me, and lapped it up slowly, following its trail all the way back up his length, over his coronal ridge and up to the slit in the top of his crown. I looked up and saw the look of pure bliss that crossed his face as I collected his liquid arousal on my tongue and swirled it over his head. When I took him fully into my mouth, he gave a soft, almost melodic sigh, and let his head fall back as his hands slid into my hair.

Somehow, his taste was intoxicating to me in a way that no other man’s had ever been before. I relished it against my tongue, deep in the back of my throat, on the roof of my mouth, glazing my gums and teeth as the rich river of his pre-cum streamed down his tumescent member. My eyes were closed, my hand stroking his shaft, and I felt him thrusting gently against my face, grunting breathily, moaning occasionally, and tightening his grip in my hair the whole time.

I could have happily stayed like that, devouring his cock, for hours. However, I could feel his thrusts becoming more and more insistent, his moans and grunts more guttural as his cock throbbed and pulsed inside my drooling mouth, and it wasn’t long before he gasped, “Oh, mon dieu. Je vais jouir, chérie. Je vais jouir,” and suddenly pulled out of my mouth. I remained kneeling in front of him and watched as he took hold of his cock, now so engorged that it was a deep wine shade, and began to jerk himself briskly.

My own hand suddenly made redundant as he jerked his way to the finish line, I opened my knees and urgently rubbed my now screaming clit and my dripping wet pussy. I arched my upper body backwards, and my breasts were thus pushed forward, bouncing and heaving in his eyeline. With a triumphant shout, he cried out, “Je vais jouir!” and thick ropes of milky jizz began erupting from his boysenberry-colored glans, splashing onto my tits.

I had never actually seen the moment of a man’s climax so close up before. It was beautiful. And the sight of him painting my chest, my tits, my belly and my mound, the feel of his warm jets of cum hitting my skin, made my cunt throb like never before. I was so turned on that I slid a finger into the creamy mess on my torso and brought it up to my lips, licking and sucking on my digit while my other hand rubbed furiously between my legs. I didn’t balk at the taste for even a second. In fact, I collected more and more of his cum on my fingers and devoured it hungrily as he watched. I then crawled forward and, with a throaty moan, I licked and sucked his cock, desperate to siphon more of his salty, slightly spicy sauce from his mouth-watering staff. When a few last drops oozed from his slit and coated my tongue, I rubbed my clit and came hard, wailing like a banshee.

I stayed in Paris, living with The Painter, for around two months, and we spent pretty much the whole time fucking, fingering and sucking each other. By the time we hugged a friendly goodbye at Gare du Nord and I boarded the train to Frankfurt, he had painted every inch of my body with his cum, probably several times over. I loved being his canvas; watching his rich, white fluid shooting out of his cock, feeling each splatter hitting my body, rubbing it into my skin like a precious lotion and tasting it on my fingers and my tongue. And ever since The Painter first covered me in his wonderful liquid emulsion, I have been in love with semen, and craved to be covered in it at any opportunity.

©️ Jupiter Grant, 2020

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Jupiter Grant is a self-published author, blogger, narrator, and audiobook producer. Buy me a coffee here: https://ko-fi.com/jupitergrant

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About the Creator

Jupiter Grant

Writer, Poet, Narrator, Audiobook Producer, Freelancer.

As you may have guessed, Jupiter Grant is my nom de plume. I’m a purveyor of fiction, poetry, pop culture, and whatever else takes my fancy on any given day.

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