Paint Job

Gail
Bridges

Attention-getting, fool-the-eye “Paintinis”—painted-on
bikinis—are the newest beachwear trend. Gabby Reynolds has to have one, no
matter what the cost, and she even springs for the Deluxe Package.

She has no idea how deluxe her experience will turn out to
be.

Saucy seductress Leena and her artist partner Randall want
to use Gabby’s body as a canvas…but that’s not all. As their brushes transform
her flesh, their touches mark her soul. After their lessons in the art of love,
Gabby’s left panting for her next Paintini.

I saw my first Paintini last summer at Golden Sands beach.
Of course, I didn’t
know
it was a Paintini because—just like the ads
promised—it looked exactly like the real thing. The girl’s blue-and-white
bikini didn’t look any different than any other swimsuit on the beach, bikini
or not. I only knew it was painted on her bare skin because the news flashed
from beach towel to beach towel until she might as well have been naked,
because everyone knew. Every single one of us squinted and stared, hoping to
see a tell-tale nipple, or her butt crack, or
something
. Even me.

Needless to say, I was curious. From behind dark glasses, I
watched the girl and studied her paint job. I knew something about art and
about painting, having just completed my second year of art school, and,
believe me, whoever painted her had done a
fantastic
job. The lines of
her fake bikini followed and accentuated the contours of her body, hugging the
curves of her breasts and tantalizing the eye where it disappeared between her
legs. How did they
do
it? How could impressionistic dabs of blue, green
and turquoise paint look so real? The optical illusion was so expertly done
that there was no hint of her vulval cleft. The painted-on swimsuit bottoms
looked exactly like a smooth triangle of fabric stretched over her shaved
mound, making me wish she’d turn around so I could see what her ass looked
like. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Obviously, much thought and care had
gone into the creation of such a beautiful work of art.

I had to know more. I walked right up to her, wending my way
through her clump of admirers, and stuck out my hand. She regarded me warily.

“Yes,” she said, cutting off my greeting, “It’s a Paintini!
Leave me alone.”

“Please. I’m an artist,” I said, wincing. “Your Paintini,
it’s…it’s wonderful. It’s a work of art. I just wanted to tell you.”

She touched my arm as I turned away. “Sorry. I’m nervous, is
all. This is my first time out. People have been pestering me since I got here!
I guess I should have expected it.”

“No. People are rude.
I
was rude. I was staring too.”

She smiled and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “But
you’re an artist. You don’t count.”

We went for ice cream. She threw on a gauzy skirt and a tank
top, and that amazing Paintini disappeared and I never saw it again. She licked
her scoop of chocolate mint and said I had to go to Paintini Paradise and
nowhere else—it would be an experience I’d never forget. Getting a Paintini was
expensive, took twenty-four hours, and I’d be achy and exhilarated and
exhausted afterward. I couldn’t imagine why. But it would be worth every penny
because it was waterproof and would last an entire year.
A year!
And by
the way, I had to get the Deluxe Package—I just had to.

“They’re
really
good at what they do. They’re
unbelievable.
Believe
me.”

I believed her. I’d seen her Paintini.

“You won’t mind if they touch you a little, will you?” she
asked, almost as an afterthought. “Or a lot? I mean, it can be…rather
intimate.”

I told her I’d be fine. How else were they supposed to paint
me?

She nodded. “Okay, then. Call them. Tell them Claire says
‘hi’.”

And so, here I am. It’s eight in the morning. I arrived
fifteen minutes early, like they asked. I filled out the intake papers and paid
my three and a half thousand dollars. I’ve done my homework. I’ve brought
magazine photographs, swatches of fabric and, of course, a few of my own
sketched bikini designs. I’m so excited I can hardly stand it.

A tall, lovely, long-haired woman calls my name.

“Gabby, right? Welcome to Paintini Paradise. You’ve
requested the Deluxe Package? Good! You’ll like it. I’m Leena, one of your
practitioners. Randall is in the back putting warm towels in your room. Are you
ready?”

I nod. I am. A shiver goes up my spine—I can’t
wait
for my very own Paintini. I follow Leena down a short hallway. “Here’s your
suite,” she says, opening the second door on the right. “You have a sitting
room. And a bedroom and a bathroom. We’ll provide all meals. Randall and I will
be with you the entire time. We’re at your service. We’re here for you. Ah—here
he is now.”

Two people? Two people will be working on me? Nice.

We step into my room. Randall has dark hair, wears glasses,
and is somewhat shorter than Leena. He grins and offers me a square hand with
strong-looking fingers. We shake. “Pleased to meet you, Gabby.
Very
pleased!”
He looks me up and down. “Yes—we’ll do you up real nice, just you wait.”

I think I’m going to like Leena and Randall. I’m guessing
they’re a few years older than me, thirty-ish to my twenty-three. I wouldn’t be
surprised if Randall has a goofy sense of humor and I like the smile-wrinkles
at the corners of Leena’s eyes.

Randall asks me to set out my materials as Leena serves tea
and cinnamon-sugar donuts. We go over my sketches and color swatches, we
shuffle through magazine photos, we look at their portfolio of previous work
and eventually the three of us settle on a straightforward bikini design not
unlike Claire’s, only in jungle-evoking greens.

“Wonderful,” says Leena, snapping shut the portfolio, “we’ll
take it from here. You’ll love it.” She pushes the scattered papers into a
loose pile, then looks up at me. “You said Claire Williams recommended us to
you?”

I nod.

“She told you about the Deluxe Package?”

“Yes.”

“Did she give you any idea what goes on here?” asks Randall,
an eyebrow arched behind his dark-framed glasses. “Because we don’t want
anything to come as a surprise.”

“We want your experience to be
perfect
!” says Leena.

“Me, too!” I say, giggling.

“She said we’ll be touching you? That we’ll touch your
breasts and your bottom and between your legs?”

I nod.

“And that we’ll shave your pubic region?”

I hadn’t thought of that. But they’d have to, wouldn’t they?
I nod again.

“Are you okay with a man—with me—touching you?” asks
Randall, his head tilted.

Leena leans forward. “How about me?”

“Sure,” I hear myself say. “Okay. And okay.”

“We want you to enjoy yourself,” adds Leena. “We want this
to be an unforgettable experience.”

“Okay,” I say again. “I
like
unforgettable
experiences. I don’t get too many of them.”

“Well,” says Randall, “as long as we all understand each
other.”

They lead me into a side room. Soft guitar music plays from
an undisclosed location. I smell herbs. I shiver with anticipation. I want that
Paintini, and I want it bad. I can’t wait to show up at the beach and surprise
everyone. I’ll have the
very first
paint job at the beach, if you don’t
count Claire, who isn’t a regular.

Leena pats a slatted bench. “You can put your clothes here.
Are you comfortable getting undressed? Can you stand in front of us and show us
your body? We need to see you—
all
of you—before we can begin.”

“I’ve seen nude models at art school. I knew I’d have to get
undressed.”

I stand where they indicate, in the middle of the room,
naked, on a knee-high platform as big as a king-sized bed. I feel more exposed
than I’d expected, breasts and ass and pubic hair exposed as Leena and Randall
walk around me with heads tilted. I feel rather like a lab animal. They study
me, examine me, measure me, take their time. I want to cover my pubic region,
or my breasts, or
both
, but I make myself stand still. This is what I
want, after all.
I
made the appointment.
I
paid three and a half
thousand dollars for it. I’ll do anything to get a paint job.

Finally I start to relax.

“I’m going to touch you, Gabby. Is that all right?” asks
Randall. “I just want to measure your hips and make a few guide marks.”

“Sure.”

“And me too, Gabby? All right if I touch too?”

“Okay.”

Their hands are warm and gentle. I surrender to their
confident touches as their fingers span the distance between my breasts, trace
lines across my belly, use a measuring tape across my shoulders. The room is
nice and warm, the music soothing. With quick, light fingers, they feel the
tautness of my butt, skim the surface of my pubic hair, rub the tips of my
nipples, spread my butt cheeks. Why? Are they looking for moles or something?

One of them draws a line across my back. Then both of them
are making small marks on my skin with their special crayons. I feel a shiver
go through my middle. Leena’s hands are on my stomach. What is she doing?
Feeling the texture of my skin? Both of her little fingers are in my pubic
hair. Her face is tilted downward and I can only see the top of her head and
the cascade of her long reddish hair, but I can tell she is studying the
contours of my belly and hip bones. Her hands gently massage. Randall’s larger,
warmer hands encircle my breasts from behind. He lifts them gently. Is he
judging their elasticity? Deciding what type of paint to use? His thumbs rest
lightly on my nipples. Then he kisses my neck.
Oh my. Oh. Oh. What is he
doing?
I feel the heat of him behind me. I hold my breath. The two of them
move slowly, carefully, as if dealing with a baby animal. But their hands never
leave my body. Why aren’t they painting?

This is not what I expected. At all. I am standing perfectly
still, barely breathing.

“Are you okay?” asks Leena, her left hand on my inner thigh.
“Are you sure? We can stop.”

“No,” I breathe, “don’t stop.”

But it seems they’re done with the initial look-over. Their
hands fall from my body. They step back. I let out a long breath. Randall takes
my hand and helps me to lie down on the platform, which, to my delight, is
warmed from beneath.

“Getting hot in here,” says Randall. He peels off his
monogrammed Paintini Paradise sweater and tosses it into the other room. Leena
follows suit.

“Okay?” asks Leena.

“Yes.”

“We’re going to shave you now.”

I nod. I’m equal parts nervous and excited.

“I’m going to support you,” Leena says, sliding in behind
me, her legs on either side of my own, so I’m almost in her lap. When did she
take off her pants? Her shirt? I twist around, trying to get a better look, and
she allows me to gaze at her own Paintini, a marvel in scarlet lace. “Wow,” I
whisper. She scoots up close behind me, her breasts pressing on my back, a
naked woman who doesn’t look naked at all.

Randall looks at us and grins. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”
he says to Leena. It appears Randall couldn’t wait either. He’s naked as well.
He’s got his own Paintini, which I can’t take my eyes off—his penis is painted
to
look like a banana
. It’s absurd and shocking, dangling from his
crotch, where no banana should ever be. I can’t help but laugh. It doesn’t
occur to me to wonder why the two of them are naked—because they don’t
look
naked at all.

“Funny, huh?” he asks. “It was my own idea. Leena painted it
for me. Look!” He sets down the tray of shaving paraphernalia and poses in
front of me, banana-penis at my eye level. He helpfully moves it to the side so
that I can admire the rest of his artwork—tropical foliage for the banana to
nest in, a just-opened bird-of-paradise, and long thin vines dripping with dew
that reach around to his back and snake down his thighs. “It’s not meant to
look like a swimsuit,” he says, although I’ve already figured that out. What
ought to be horrible and pornographic is, on him, charming.

He lets his penis fall back into place. “Show’s over. Back
to work. Time to get you nice and smooth.” He kneels down on the platform in
front of my bent legs. He pulls the tray closer. I hear a metallic rattle. My
breath catches—I clench my knees together.

“You’re all right. Relax. Cuddle up to me. It’s what I’m
here for,” whispers Leena. I lean back and she puts her arms around me.

“You have to spread your legs, Gabby,” says Randall. “C’mon,
honey, you know we can’t paint you with all that hair down there.”

Leena nudges my knees with her own and slowly we spread our
legs in tandem. I feel cool air on my nether regions. “That’s it,” she says
soothingly, “Good girl.” Having her there makes this easier to bear, an
adventure rather than a procedure. We’re exposing ourselves together, as one,
as a team. We’re both spread wide open, although Randall can only see me. She
gently squeezes me with her knees and I relax into her.

“That’s a sight for sore eyes,” Randall says, peering at my
exposed privates. This would be the end of the whole thing, right here and now,
forget the three and a half thousand dollar fee, but for the fact that the man
has just shown me
his
own sight for sore eyes. And it was a
banana
.
“Ready? I’m going to lather you up now.”

Warm water flows over me. I suck in my breath.

“Too hot?”

I shake my head and bite my lip.

More water. Flowing into my crevices, dripping into my inner
parts.

Leena’s hands are on my hips, warm and comforting. Randall’s
hands are dousing me with soapy water, and now he’s trailing his fingers
through my pubic hair. “Mmm…” I say, surprising myself. He takes his time,
pouring more and more water. My legs relax and spread wider. Leena hugs me in
response, then moves her hands to cup my breasts. Randall lathers me with
cucumber-scented soap, passing a soft cloth over my privates—over my clit and
over my labia and over my mound. I breathe more deeply and my hands flex into
quick fists. What was I so frightened of? This is
delicious
. He spreads
my labia and dribbles warm water over my folds and into my vagina. His
finger…is it hovering over my clit? Is it?