Message-ID: <14821eli$9808290043@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/14821.txt> From: LeAnna <totaldis@shells.optidynamic.com> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII Subject: [Paint] by LeAnna Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <Pine.LNX.3.96.980821212728.6468A-100000@shells.optidynamic.com> Copyright 1998 by LeAnna. No part of this document may be reproduced without permission of the author. Permission is granted for reviewing and archiving permission is granted to DejaNews and to the ASSM archive. Please email the author asking permission -- and don't be afraid, she usually says yes! Minors, you know the drill. Ok, it's another shrink session. If you like 'em, good for you. If you're getting bored -- well, here's some interesting and original subject matter. I haven't seen anything like it on the Usenet. Send me mail if you have. Or if you just wanna send m e mail for whatever reason. leanna1@hotmail.com Yes, my homepage is down. Yes, that means you can no longer go visit my homepage. Geocities accused me of being a pornographer (imagine the gall!) and promptly deleted it. The only thing I'll really miss is the background. It came straight off Half Ba ked's webpage. The rest can be easily recreated. So for now, just do a search on Dejanews or on the Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive at, I think, http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/. When it was deleted, I was going well over 10,000 hits to my webpage. Th anks to you all for visiting. I will have another homepage up within the next month. --- [Paint] "Her beauty is like a whisper." "A whisper? What do you mean?" "Hmmm... When it hits you, you feel like you're something -- something special. Like she only means for you to watch the rise and fall of her breasts. Like you're the only person who is permitted to watch her legs plunge from that beautific apex, down down down to her, yes her _dainty_ ankles..." "You're quite poetic." "It's because when I watch her, I try to explain her beauty to myself. Oh, I know it can't ever be explained, but what's the harm in trying? And weeks of trying have started to affect my everyday thinking. But what I do is I sit there, watching... It' s odd, actually. She could see my face, see me sitting right there in her bushes, if she'd only turn and look. But she never does. She's always too absorbed in her pai..." "You -- let me get this straight. You watch her?" "Oh, I'd never hurt her." "Do you know who she is?" "Yes." A smile darted across the shadows of my soul. "Oh, yes. It's Iris. Isn't that such a beautiful name? So fitting." "So... how did you come to meet Iris?" "I didn't." "I see." "What? What are you writing in that notebook of yours?" "Nothing. Tell me more about Iris. Why did you choose her to watch?" "Choose." A dry chuckle. "I chose her no more than a man chooses when to be born. My heart chose her." "Ah." "Can't you understand what I'm saying?" "I understand what you mean." "No, you don't. You don't understand. Look at it this way. I was _taken_ by her. She was just walking down the street, and with one glance, I was hooked. You know... I can even remember what she wore. Black leathers. So tight that it... Well, it l ooked like... paint... on her skin. Have you ever seen someone who is wearing paint for clothing?" "I can't say that I have, no." "It's so sensual. Sometimes you can't even tell at first that it's paint, but when you do, arousal hits you, bam, like a train." "Have you seen painted people often, then?" "She does." "She sees painted people often?" "No, she paints herself often." Pause. "Nobody sees it. She lives alone, so nobody knows it. She paints wild designs, and sometimes portraits. She slides her fingers over her face and down her neck and across her chest. Her arms. Her belly. Orange and green and black, wild, kaleidoscopi c designs that swirl and dip and groove in a harmony of color. Rock 'n roll. Heavy metal! Yes!" "She paints herself?" "And it gets her off. Her slippery fingers can barely keep hold of her nipples, they're so hard. Her -- her chest starts to heave with her uneven breathing. Still, her fingers move. Down the valley of her belly, around, around the slight swell. Down ! Her fingers move down! The delta of her thighs. She... Oh, her fingers never stop. She shaves so she can paint designs on the roundness of her sex. And then she paints her inner thighs, her labia, her clitoris." "That may not be healthy." "She comes in an explosive orgasm. It never takes long. Her fingers are so slippery with the paints and she's so aroused from her beautiful foreplay that in no time, she's thrashing and moaning. I can hear her. And when she is done it's a beautiful w ork of art. The previously plain canvas decorated in splashes of vivid color and shapes." "That's... quite unusual." "Damned right it's unusual. But it's lovely. She's quite talented. My favorite is the cat she did last Thursday. Her breasts were transformed into big, green eyes. It's hard to describe -- it's -- look, here's a photo." "I really don't think -- oh, my. She is talented." "She is, isn't she?" "But let me put it this way. She is talented, don't get me wrong. But you tell me she does it in solitary?" "Yes. She's never done it for any of her friends, or for her lover." "She does this for her own pleasure, then?" "Yes." "Don't you think it would detract from the enjoyment of her painting if she were to think that it wasn't her own private experience?" "Doctor..." "Because I think that art comes from the reaches of one's soul, the ultimate personal place." "Yet inside every artist is an exhibitionist screaming to get loose." "Perhaps -- but then, how could you explain Emily Dickinson?" "Her exhibitionist side never surfaced. She bottled it up inside. The despair in some of her poetry shows how it made her feel." "But that despair added a beautiful element to her poetry. Her poetry was an outlet for her feelings. Nevertheless." He seemed irritated. "Does this artist seem to like others viewing her work?" "Obviously not." "Well, then, why do you watch?" Silence. "Because," I said a trifle bitterly, "because art can never be private. Because this is the most beautiful expression of art that I could imagine, but due to the natural prudity that is in our genes, we cannot put it on display at a museum. And it's wr ong to hide it. This is the best exhibition I could ever go to." "Well... ok. First, This is not a case of human nature wanting to reveal nudity -- this is a case of a woman finding pleasure in things she does for herself only. And you would be robbing her of that pleasure. Second..." "I think she knows that I watch her. Otherwise, why would she keep the window shades up?" "You said she never looks." "She's a woman. Women have eyes on the back of their heads -- you should know that. She's -- it's an instinct, I think. A feeling. You know, 'I felt their eyes boring into the back of my head.' Only it isn't the back of her head I'm looking at..." "Therefore, she likes it?" "Yes. That's what I'm saying." "I'm almost tempted to recommend that you go talk to her about it." "It wouldn't come over well, would it?" "It would be a 'way-we-met' story to beat all others." "Are you recommending it?" "No." "What, then?" "I'm . . . strongly . . . recommending that you come in for another appointment this Friday, as we are currently out of time." "Ah. I'll see you then." "Goodbye." "Bye." (c) LeAnna 1998 leanna1@hotmail.com http://geocities.sucks.com -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | <http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>