Fantasy Assignment Page 3

  Jenny White let out a muffled scream when her orgasm powered through her and Morecambe could hold back no longer. From behind him he heard Rose let out a deep sigh, an expulsion of her own lust, its breath warm upon his thrusting buttocks. He managed to pull his cock from Jenny’s opening and was almost alarmed by the intensity of his own powerful orgasm when stream after stream of hot semen began to coat the pale globes of Jenny White’s bottom.

  “You really don’t have to keep pointing that thing at me, lady,” Morecambe nodded towards the pistol in Rose McCann’s hand. The detective had been allowed to pull up his shorts and stood now in the middle of the room next to the large table that had held Jenny White.

  Jenny was sitting next to Rose on the sofa. Her hands were tied and she still had the gag in her mouth and the blindfold around her eyes. Morecambe felt glad that he’d been allowed to cover himself up, not wanting Rose to see the excitement building him in once more.

  “I’ll tell you what, Detective, why don’t I ask a member of your own team what I should do?” Rose kept the gun trained upon Morecambe while pulling both the gag and the blindfold from Jenny.

  “Hell, that was damn good!” Jenny White said and Morecambe was surprised to see the smile spread upon her pretty face.

  “Huh?” was all he could manage to blurt out.

  Rose, with the beginnings of a smile upon her lips, pulled out a cigarette and placed it between her lips, her eyes never leaving the detectives. When she raised the pistol the detective feared that she would aim it towards Jenny. His body tensed, ready to spring forward.

  Rose held the barrel of the gun to her cigarette. She pulled the trigger and a small flame popped from the end of the barrel. Inserting her cigarette into the flame, she lit it.

  “You just can’t beat a smoke after a good fuck, wouldn’t you agree, Detective?” Rose asked.

  “Bad for your health,” the detective said through clenched teeth, “Just what the hell is going on here?” Morecambe demanded, realising for the first time the closeness of the two women upon the sofa.

  “Come on now, Ray, you have to admit that was good, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy any of what just happened here?” Jenny asked. She lit the cigarette between her own lips from the offered flame.

  “Let’s just say that it was an experience.” Morecambe looked to each of the women in turn. They both smiled gleefully which only added to his confusion. “Jenny, have you any idea who this woman is? She’s dangerous,” Morecambe implored.

  “Don’t believe the hype, she’s a pussycat,” Jenny answered. She gave the other woman’s thigh a gentle squeeze and planted a lingering kiss upon her cheek.

  “I’ve seen her file, damn it! She’s a killer!”

  Both women laughed. It was Officer White who spoke, “She’s no killer, Ray, and she’s certainly not this ‘Paper Rose’ that you’ve been after. We set you up, come on, admit it, you enjoyed it, you’ve wanted me for ages, you think I didn’t know?”

  For a moment Morecambe was silent. He observed the two half-naked women on the sofa before him and a smile formed upon his lips. Jenny moved over and patted the space between herself and Moira, inviting him to join them and by the time he’d reached them his smile had become a laugh silenced only by the women’s hands upon him.

  Officer Jenny White, alone now in her own apartment, reflected on what had proved to be a remarkable day. Pulling open an old drawer in her bedroom she dropped in the paper rose where it lay to rest with the many others. She looked down momentarily at the many fake flowers, her calling cards, and considered going out into the night before deciding against it. She felt tired and her bed called, so some lucky scumbag out there would be allowed to live if only for another night.

  Today had been fun but tomorrow she must continue with her work, her life’s work. Tomorrow night she would again attempt to clear the streets of its human filth, the kind of filth that had taken the life of her beloved husband.

  The Painter’s Palate

  by J Manx

  My neck was getting really stiff. I don’t know why I continued with this, the pay was pretty crap.

  ‘Okay, let’s take a break.’

  I rotated my neck to ease the stiffness and moved off the couch.

  ‘Are you OK, Julia, you look a bit uncomfortable?’

  I began to answer but a student called out to the teacher. ‘Fiona, could you just look at this?’

  ‘I’ll be right with you. Sorry, Julia, help yourself to tea, I’ll be back in a moment.’

  I moved towards the tea urn, massaging my neck, feeling the muscles gradually release some tension and begin to relax a little. Actually, the pay was crap but I enjoyed the work. How else would I get the opportunity to flaunt my naked body? I’d always enjoyed being a bit of an exhibitionist, this took it that step further and being an artist’s model for the local college evening classes made it all very respectable. I knew, from my fixed vantage point, that not all of the students were there for the art. There were a few letches which added to the enjoyment. They could look but not touch. Delicious.

  ‘Can I pour you a cup?’

  I turned my head and saw a bright-looking young man holding a cup in front of his face and smiling. He looked innocent.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve not seen you before – are you new?’

  ‘Yes, it’s my second week. I must say you’re an excellent model, what do you normally do for a job?’

  ‘I’m training to be an accountant.’

  He looked surprised.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said as he handed me the tea. ‘What about you, what’s your line of work?’

  ‘Oh, I’m a bone fide artist.’ He smiled, self consciously. ‘Not a very successful one, but it’s early days.’

  I thanked him for the tea and moved back to the couch. During the second half of the session I had the opportunity to examine him a little more closely. Sweet, pleasant, naive. I liked him.

  For the next few weeks, the young man, George was his name, attended the venue and we got to know each other a little better. If no one else had grabbed my attention he would sidle up to me with a cup of tea and talk.

  After one session, about a month after our first meeting, I found George hanging around for me outside.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Julia, I hope you don’t think I’m being creepy, but I wondered if you could do me a favour?’

  I’d begun walking towards my car. He fell in beside me. I didn’t find him creepy or threatening. I didn’t think he was capable.

  ‘What sort of favour?’

  ‘Well, you know I’m an artist and a struggling one at that. Coming to evening classes is a cheap way of getting some practice in traditional methods. The work I’m currently developing uses more modern methods and techniques. At the moment, I desperately need models. I was wondering, could I use you and pay you later when I sell some work? I know it’s a bit cheeky, but I’m sure I’ll sell some work soon … I’ll quite understand if you say no.’ He looked at me imploringly, hopefully.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I didn’t particularly need the money and it sounded as though it might be fun. I felt a little excited at the prospect of teasing this young innocent. ‘On one condition,’ I said, ‘make sure there’s plenty of tea and biscuits.’ I gave him my telephone number and left him beaming.

  I got the call several days later and we arranged to meet the following week. George lived in rather a nice flat in a decent part of town. ‘Somehow I expected the place to be a lot seedier,’ I said , as I stepped through the front door, ‘you know, struggling artist and all that.’

  ‘I’m fortunate,’ said George, ‘my parents have helped me out, they bought this place as an investment and, at the moment, let me stay rent free.’

  He showed me through to the main room which should probably have been a lounge. The room was almost empty of furniture save for a large sofa, several chairs and an old rug. The walls were covered
with paintings and photographs. An easel stood in the middle of the room. There were smears of different coloured paints on the exposed floorboards. I took a closer look at some of the paintings and photographs. They were very good.

  ‘This is the style I’m interested in at the moment,’ said George, leading me to the wall at the far end of the room. There were a series of photographs of painted faces.

  ‘Here,’ said George, pointing to one, ‘look at the way the colours highlight the different features of the face, the way it adds mood and atmosphere.’

  He showed me an enlarged photograph of a redhead. He’d painted her face blue and the effect was striking. She looked more intense, richer, sexier, her red hair more vibrant. The picture was full of energy.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s lovely, so rich and lively, the colour draws your eyes to every part of the face. Look at the ears, I probably wouldn’t have noticed those in an ordinary picture but they look so interesting. The photography heightens the effect.’

  ‘Julia, I want to paint other parts of the body, including the more intimate parts, that’s why I’ve had difficulty getting models. Like those faces, paint will highlight other features in an interesting way. I want to experiment not just with different colours but different textures. Imagine, say, the beauty of a breast. Now imagine it painted bright blue with yellow nipples or orange stripes, or partly exposed by flaking, cracked paint. Wouldn’t that be interesting? Imagine your bottom all red or green. Imagine having painted stockings and suspenders? Think of all the different effects you could get, sexy, comical, confusing.

  ‘I’ll understand if you refuse. It’s quite a step being painted in the nude, but literally being painted is much more intimate and I would think, much more daunting. I’d quite understand if you weren’t keen on the idea.’

  I was a little surprised by this development. I thought George would be the one to be a little nervous but there was an intensity about him, a focus. I liked it. Here, talking about his work, his character had come alive. His shyness, his apologetic, physical stance, had disappeared. I examined the pictures again, they really were very good. I liked the idea. George’s enthusiasm was attractive. I laughed at the images in my mind.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘sold.’

  I left George beaming again, having agreed to start in a week’s time.

  I duly turned up the following Tuesday evening. George answered the door wearing loose, track-suit bottoms and a paint spattered sweatshirt. He took my coat and led me through to the sitting room where he’d thrown a pile of cushions on the floor. By the cushions were large tubes of paint, paintbrushes, some jars, filled with water, and some cameras.

  ‘There,’ he said, ‘I thought cushions would probably be the most comfortable. Now, I think it’s best if you just take your top off first.’

  I removed my top and sat on the cushions.

  ‘We’ll start with your breasts.’

  I leant back on my hands so that my tits stood out.

  ‘Wow, that’s great,’ said George, trying to put me at ease. He needn’t have bothered, I’d posed a hundred times before. I was unconcerned and the exhibitionist in me was eager to perform. George squeezed some paint onto a palette.

  ‘I use poster paints for this,’ he said, ‘they’re nice and thick with a smooth texture. This is made of sable,’ he continued, as he dipped and rolled the brush in the paint. ‘Ready?’

  I found his seriousness quite amusing and smiled at him. The brush touched my breast and I felt a tingle of excitement. George began to paint my breast slowly and purposefully. Each stroke felt like a soft, smooth tongue. He paid particular attention to my nipple, moving the brush up and down and in circular motions, causing it to harden in response.

  ‘That feels nice,’ I volunteered.

  ‘Good,’ said George, whose concentration was fixed on my breast. I found his detachment rather alluring. He put down the brush, reached across for a camera and began to photograph my breast. After a minute or so he put the camera down and began to paint my other breast. My reactions were similar. My breasts were shiny blue and looked rich and smooth. He took more photographs.

  ‘Now then, I just want to get another effect.’ He went off and came back with a hairdryer which he plugged in and turned on. He directed the nozzle on to my tits and I felt my nipples again hardening as the warm air flowed over them, drying the paint and tightening the skin.

  ‘That’s great,’ he said, when the paint had completely dried. He took more photos. ‘Now, would you mind just pinching or massaging your nipples so that the paint around them flakes off? Just gently, if you don’t mind.’

  I was enjoying myself. I felt very comfortable with George and rather aroused.

  ‘Like this?’ I said, tweaking my nipples.

  ‘Not too much, I just want a cracked, flaking appearance, as though your nipples are budding through, ready to bloom.’

  ‘You show me,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to spoil the effect.’

  George took hold of my nipples, between his thumbs and forefingers and gently pulled and massaged them. Fuck, he was good. My breathing began to get heavier and just as I was about to moan out loud the bastard stopped.

  ‘That’s great,’ he said, enthusiastically, and took some more photos.

  ‘Okay, let’s move down to your bottom and fanny.’

  The casual way he said this made me laugh.

  ‘You still OK with this?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah , I’m fine, it’s actually rather fun.’

  ‘Right, let’s do the rest of the body. Slip off the rest of your clothes.’

  I did as I was told. I felt rather excited. George began to paint my body with a large decorator’s brush. It was like having a gentle, sensuous massage. The long, soft strokes sent me into a kind of drowsy trance. My whole body relaxed. I closed my eyes to concentrate on the luxurious feelings. George painted my neck and ears, my shoulders, back and belly. He painted my toes and feet. Every so often, he would stop and take pictures, asking me to pose in different ways. I didn’t want him to stop. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘now for your bottom. You OK?

  I smiled at him . ‘How do you want me?’

  ‘Turn over and raise your bottom in the air.’

  I wondered whether he would find my pouting bottom of artistic interest or whether it would arouse a more sexual response. I rested my head on a cushion, raised my bottom and parted my legs slightly. ‘This OK?’ I said. I heard a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Julia, you have a fantastic bottom, it’s going to look superb painted. Are you sure you’re going to be OK with my prying brush?’

  ‘Actually, I feel very safe with you and I love the sensation of the brush on my skin, carry on.’

  He began to paint my bottom. Again, the long sensuous strokes as he covered my cheeks in paint. I liked the idea of him looking at my bum. There was a pause in his strokes then I jolted as I felt the tip of the sable brush delicately touch the very entrance of my arse. I was a little shocked by the intimacy, but it felt divine.

  ‘You OK?’ said George.

  ‘Yes, it feels wonderful, carry on.’ I moved my arse a little higher, eased my legs a little further apart. George settled down and began to paint the puckered kiss. Not sweeping, long strokes, but delicate, short strokes. It felt as though he were painting each little ridge and groove, pinpointing tiny nerve endings with the soft, sable tip, causing glorious, intense, tingles of pleasure. I couldn’t help but moan a little.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but that feels wonderful.’

  ‘You go ahead,’ said George, ‘it would be a shame not to enjoy the experience, I am.’ I heard him stand up and take more photographs. ‘Julia, I can’t thank you enough, you wait until you see the photos. Right, pussy next,’ he said. ‘I’m going to paint it yellow, if that’s OK.’

  ‘I don’t think being coy at this stage would be very convincing,’ I laughed. I remained, expectantly, on all fours. A few seconds later and I
felt the soft brush strokes gently cover the lips of my pussy. Again, soft strokes of pleasure. Heavenly! George spent some time painting this area during which I moaned freely. After a while he told me to turn over. I felt marvellously relaxed with him. I sat upright, leaned back on my hands and spread my legs. George knelt down between them, brush in hand, and began to paint the upper parts of my pussy with deft, pointed touches that sent rivulets of pleasure coursing through me. His face was inches from my pussy and I could feel his warm breath, soft and pampering. I lay back on the cushions and widened my legs, to fully enjoy the sensations. George was delicately stroking my clitoris, now concentrating on my pleasure rather than any artistic effect. Inevitably, he brought me, shuddering and moaning, to orgasm. He pulled away, put down his brush, reached for his camera and stood up. He gave me a little while to recover.

  ‘What’s all this then?’ I laughed, pointing to the obvious bulge in his trousers. He looked a little sheepish.

  ‘Sorry, Julia, don’t be alarmed, I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t have some sort of physical reaction. Besides,’ he smiled, ‘if this turns me on then it will turn others on and that’s got to be a good thing.’

  ‘Here,’ I said, ‘I’ve got an idea.’ I leaned forward and yanked down his tracksuit bottoms. His cock sprang out, inches from my face. George was a little alarmed.

  ‘I think your cock needs a lick …’ I said, in an exaggeratedly sexy voice, ‘… a lick of paint that is.’

  He pulled back, not sure how to react.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, grabbing hold of his cock, ‘let’s call it interactive art.’

  I made him lie on his back. I took a fresh, sable brush, dipped it in warm water, rolled it in blue paint and set about painting the shaft of his cock. It remained steadily erect. When I’d finished, I took another brush and rolled it in yellow paint, then delicately and slowly began to apply it to his purple glans. He let out groans of approval with each stroke. I began to giggle as the end of his cock turned a bright yellow. I painted his balls pink, enjoying the look on his face as the slow, fine brushstrokes tickled and teased.