It wasn’t just that she was thinking about him. She was planning for him. As he read her latest text message:
I’m in the art room- thinking of ways to draw you nude.
She was sitting on the low, grey-blue from the years of charcoal dust, tattered couch, analyzing how the light hit the platform, the easels and where the shadows would cast themselves over his body. Her mind wandered over his curves, placing his hips here, his wrists there, much in the same way she’d analyzed the green bedroom, before restraining him with velvet ties and shutting out the sun, to fuck him. If she could be sure they wouldn’t be interrupted, the things she would try in here.
Against the back wall three rows of shelves climbed to the ceiling. The waiting supplies drew her attention, made her contemplate using him as a living canvas. Without telling him what she wanted, she would coax him to this room, the only light coming in dim streams from the closed indoor window, as he gave her a long suffering, hesitant look and removed his clothes in the darkness. With her body, she pressed him up against the easel, soft hands caressing up his chest, and nails dragging gently across his back, sighing under her fingertips as he felt the rasp of paper trapped between his shoulders and the easel. With one long finger, she trailed a path down his left shoulder, bicep, turning with her touch his inner forearm, the lines at his wrist and into his palm. At his hand, her mouth found the inner dip of his wrist, her tongue tracing a moist, circling journey to the center of his palm then out, tasting his thumb, before encasing it in the soft confines of her mouth. His thumb, like his dick, throbbed, and he pumped it deeper, closer to the back of her throat, rough against the velvet warm wetness of her mouth. She captured his hand after the third thrust- retreat, and treated his index finger to slow entrapment. Just the tip, her tongue tracing slow around the first bend of his knuckle, then sliding down to moisten the knuckle, before following her tongue and drawing him deeper onto her tongue, until his whole finger buried itself against her tongue and teeth and she looked up.
Up she came, pushing his hand out of her mouth and above his head onto the scuffed and painted wood of the easel. From the floor, she retrieved a blue roll of artists tape, that she wound around, and around his wrist, binding one hand to the easel, before grasping his other hand, taping it also above his head, leaving him splayed out before her, exposed and a little more nervous. His token struggle, after she stepped back to watch, became more serious as the tape, wound around and around, didn’t tear. His hips thrust up and forward, and his neck twisted back to look at his hands-- I love it when you struggle, I can feel it clear into my cunt-- before slumping down, thighs apart, annoyed and excited.