I begged him to wait before. Maybe this is why he’s doing this. I’m electric with nervousness and shame and a twisting desire. How long do I last? Another five minutes? Ten?
“Please,” I hear myself say. “I need to come. I need you to touch me.”
“Not yet, little painter.”
“What are you waiting for? This is mean. This is so mean.”
“I never promised to be nice,” I think he says. I can’t quite hear. My heartbeat is too loud. The emptiness in my pussy is too much. Every breath hurts. Keeping my thighs open like this hurts. The fact that he won’t help me—it hurts.
One tear slips down my cheek, and then a second. I keep the brush on the canvas. Emerson makes a sound behind me. He approves of this. He wants this. He wanted me to cry.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” I gasp.
“Yes,” he agrees. “Does it feel good to cry?”
“No.” It’s a lie. It does feel good to release some of this pressure. “This isn’t what I need.”
He leans close to speak into my ear. “This isn’t about what you need. I wanted to see what this looks like on your face, and your body.”
“This?”
“Emotion. Tears.” Another low laugh. “Desperation.”
A chill runs down my spine. “You built me an art studio,” I argue back, more tears falling, faster now. A sob hitches at my chest. I’m so frustrated. “Give me what I need.”
Emerson groans. “Oh, little painter. The sight of you coming apart.”
I’m not coming apart, I mean to say, but then he pushes two fingers inside me and the paintbrush falls to the floor.
This is what I needed, and it’s also much more than I thought it would be. They feel thick inside me. Almost thicker than I can take. But Emerson fucks me with them like he’s confident in my abilities.
He pulls them out again, sweeps a paintbrush from the table, and puts it back in my hand.
Emerson pushes his fingers in deep and waits.
My hand shakes as I move the bristles back toward the canvas. I have never been touched this way before. Holy Christ.
“That’s it,” he coaxes. “Let me see you, and I’ll give you what you want. Fuck, you’re wet for this.”
More tears drip down to my thighs, each one a hot pinprick.
“This is humiliating,” I whisper. “This is awful.”
“I could take my fingers away. Would that feel better?”
He forces me to admit it. Out loud. “No.”
The brush meets the canvas. Emerson’s fingers move again. Slow, deep strokes.
I add more blue, more white. I am painting dark swirls of power. I am painting secrets, and frustration, and want. I am painting the shame of being finger-fucked while he orders me to paint and the unbelievable sexiness of it. The tips of his fingers are near to reaching the place inside that he’s going to have to break. I’ve lost all sense of the sea. I don’t know how far the surface is. Emerson’s not just holding my throat anymore. I’ve leaned into it, wanting more pressure or unable to hold myself up or both. My hips roll forward onto his fingers. The brush stays on the canvas.
“Is this what you wanted?” I manage to say, the words broken up by my panting. “When you said you wanted more?”
“I wanted you naked. I wanted you crying.”
“Why?”
In and out. In and out.
“Because,” he says. “It’s so beautiful.”
It’s so beautiful.
Not you.
He puts his thumb on my clit.
All the sensation, all the pleasure, crashes into that single bundle of nerves and explodes. I come hard on his fingers and lose my balance completely. He holds me up, holds me back from the floor, but I drop the paintbrush again and one of my hands goes into fresh paint.
“Fuck,” he says, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was desperate, too. Some inner part of me collapses. My shame overheats into something else. Maybe I am naked. Maybe I am crying. But he’s here with me. “Up, little painter. Now.”
My legs aren’t steady. I let him guide me behind the stool and bend me over it. Oh, no—I’m going to leave a handprint the color of my shame. I’m so lightheaded.
“I can’t paint anymore,” I tell him on a shuddering breath. I never once imagined that I would lose my virginity like this.
Emerson edges my legs apart with his foot against the inside of mine. I’m expecting a zipper but instead I hear the soft meeting of fabric against wood.
And then.
His tongue.
On my pussy.
I start to cry in earnest now from sheer relief. This angle is different and new and embarrassing. He has to hold me open to do it. I grip the edge of the stool like it can save me. His tongue is everywhere. Pushing in. Tasting. He licks me so furiously that through the haze in my mind I think it must be for a purpose. Another orgasm pulls me under, thrashes me around, and tosses me out again. The sounds I make are unrecognizable. So much. It’s so much.
Emerson stands up behind me, and now I do hear his zipper. Now I do hear the sharp breath he takes. It makes me feel unbearably close to him. I’m not the only one in this. I’m not the only one who needs this.
“I’m going to fuck you now. Can you be brave?”
“Yes.” My thighs tense with fear. I have honestly no idea how much this will hurt. I only know that I want it. “Please.”
Emerson strokes a hand down my back, down to my hip, and adds a little pressure. Stay still, that pressure says. He nudges my thighs a little farther apart with his free hand. Then, for a moment, both his hands are on my lower back. One last touch.
And then the head of him presses against my opening. I’m wet from his mouth, and wet from my own orgasms, but it still feels huge. Bigger than his fingers by far. There’s an automatic urge to get away, but Emerson holds me in place. His hands go to my hips. He’s working his way in. The wide head of him.
He’s huge.
My head goes up. “Yes. That’s it.” He moves my hips for me, rocking them back against him in tiny motions that would seem ridiculous if they weren’t working. If they weren’t opening me up for him. Emerson groans. “You’re so tight,” he says. “You’re squeezing my cock so tight.”
I want more of that. I want more of the emotion in his voice. And so I try harder to take him.
It’s not easy.
I have to stretch. To work at it. I’m covered in a sheen of sweat. Emerson slips one hand around to my clit and rubs at it in slow circles. I can feel myself melting around him.
I can feel him meeting that barrier inside.
There’s pressure there. It doesn’t belong. He wants past it. I want him to be past it.
“Take a deep breath.” His voice is the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever heard. I want it all over me. “Open your thighs. It’s all right.”
They’d started to slide shut, but I open them wide again, try to angle myself for him. It feels better this way. But the pressure is still there.
“I have to hurt your cunt so I can fuck you.” Emerson’s voice is level, but there’s tension at the edges.
I’m shivering. I feel practically delirious. “You want to hurt me other ways,” I hear myself say. “You like for me to cry.”