SEVEN DAYS (27 page)

“Okay,” Judy said, swallowing hard. “On the bed. On your back.”

She put the tubs of body paint on his bedside table, removed a condom from his drawer, noting that he'd replenished his stock, tucked the condom into the waist of her skirt and then climbed the bed to straddle him. She picked up the first tub.

“You get some rest,” she suggested as she read the instructions to herself. “I'm just going to prepare a new piece for the exhibition.”

She opened up the lid, scooped a handful of the gooey paint and slapped it on his chest with a thunk.

“Jesus!” he cried. “It's cold!”

“Shhh. You baby.”

She massaged his chest, her eyes half-closing with pleasure. She allowed her left hand to explore his neck and then lowered her face towards his body, her hair trailing over him, picking up the green paint like a brush.

Mark scooped her hair up and pulled it back away from her face. He twisted it into a knot and it held.

“So good with your hands,” she remarked.

“You, too,” he said.

She reached for more paint, rubbed her hands together and then put handprints on his thighs, leaning back, spreading it all the way down to his knees and grinding herself against his burgeoning cock as she descended.

“That does feel good,” he said, “but I don't feel much like sleeping.”

She lowered her face to his neck and nibbled at his ear, flattening her breasts against his chest.

“Try,” she said.

Then she was kissing his neck and his shoulder and massaging his arms. She wanted to touch every part of him at once. She examined the scars that she had marked him with the night before. Tonight would be worse. His skin was just another thing between her and the essence of him.

She cupped his balls.

“Do you like that?” she said.

His cock was rock hard. It said it all.

She took the condom from her waistband now, unwrapped it and slid the latex over his cock with her green fingers. Once it was on all the way to the base, she massaged him with one hand and rode him gently, her knickers dampening with her desire for him to slide inside her now, but she made herself wait a little longer. There was one thing she wanted to do first.

She picked up another dollop of paint and slapped it over Mark's face.

He spluttered.

“I'm sorry,” she said, in hysterics. “I just couldn't resist it.”

He sat up then, spitting and she nearly fell off from laughing.

“Lie back down,” she said. “Go to sleep. I promise, I won't do that again. It's edible, so it's all right.”

“I don't think you quite get the point of sensual massage,” Mark said, wiping green from his lips and cheeks.

“Okay,” she said. “Why don't you explain it to me?”

He grabbed her blouse in both hands and tore it open. Buttons spilled left and right and as they clattered on the floor, lost, Judy lost herself along with them. The next thing she knew, Mark's wet hands were on her body, over the bra, on her neck, on her waist. At some point, their mouths had clamped together, tasting of apple. She pushed the remains of her blouse off her shoulders and he unclipped her bra. It fell between them and she arched her back, squashing her bare breasts against his firm chest, the sensation of his hair rubbing against her soft skin taking her ever closer to ecstasy.

He lifted her skirt and she felt beautiful. She watched his face to see his reaction when she saw her knickers, a pink and black lacy number that she had bought just for this week, just in case anyone got to see them, just in case she had the opportunity to have sex, not thinking that she might have the opportunity to make love.

“Are you going to tear them off, too?” Judy asked.

Mark put a finger through the lace and tore a hole in them.

“No!” she said. “I was kidding!”

He dumped her on her back, the springs of the bed protesting briefly.

She pressed her knees against his waist and he guided himself inside her, through the hole he’d torn in her panties.

It was like the night before, but rougher, wilder. He went straight to the heart of her, his body a piston between her legs, and she let her head fall back over the edge of the bed while he took his pleasure from her, mining her. He lit a fire inside her and it consumed her. She didn't want this to end, but she knew that even forest fires died and so would the moment.

He kept going, however, for longer than she thought possible. His energy was incredible. If anything he seemed more athletic every time they made love, raising the bar, so to speak.

He lifted one of her legs so he could kiss and lick her calf and her ankle, sliding his hands all over her at the same time. Beautiful. He guided her and she let him position her, let him pleasure her.

She reached down and played with herself while he pumped his cock into her and suddenly her sensations doubled and tripled and she thought that she might come yet again. Every night was proving to be a new record or at least a new barrier tumbling down.

Her body took over and she was helpless. It pushed her mind aside and she came with a long sound that was half whine. It had the tone of a complaint, but it was nothing of the sort. She felt the walls of her vagina contract over and over.

Her voice emerged deep and unknown to her. Mark teased and tested parts of her that she didn’t even know existed.

He had set her leg back down and was towering above her now, gathering speed towards his own orgasm.

She talked to him, feeling more confident than ever, despite being more exposed and vulnerable than she’d ever felt.

She told him that she knew he wanted her and that she’d always known it. She admitted that she’d wanted him too and that she’d often thought of him. Her fingers had often found their way into her knickers and she’d imagined many moments not dissimilar to this.

She told him that she loved his cock and that she wanted him to fill her up, she wanted to feel him spreading her open and she wanted his body to be a part of hers, she wanted him to reach deep inside her.

Her hands scooped up her breasts, each providing a good handful, and she kissed her nipples and licked herself, glancing up at him to see his face.

He was clearly enjoying the show.

She pushed her breasts together.

“Do you like this?” she said.

He came then, suddenly and uncontrollably. He penetrated her as deeply as possible as his orgasm ravaged his body and hers. They held onto each other, as if riding out an earthquake.

Minutes later, she imagined herself, burnt, smouldering, crumbling, unable to be moved.

“That was incredible,” she said and started to sit up, but he put a hand on her chest and pushed her back down on the bed, his cock still hard inside her.

“I don’t believe this,” she said.

“I'm not done yet,” he told her and reached across to his bedside table for another condom and another tub of paint.

He painted her breasts with red spirals, starting with huge, sweeping strokes and working in until he reached her nipples which he took between fingers and thumbs.

The fire started to come back to life.

As it did so, Judy couldn’t help ruining his work in progress, placing her hands over her breasts and splaying her fingers, massaging, showing herself off for him.

At her insistence, he sat astride her and rested his cock between her breasts. She used her breasts to envelop him and he moved his cock back and forth, red paint squelching, marking them both. She liked being able to see their prints all over each other’s bodies. It would be a fun game later that evening, working out which part of which body had caused which mark.

“Do you think you could demonstrate that again?” she’d say later. “How exactly do you get a cock print there?”

For now they washed each other with colour and desire, using a lot more paint than Judy had anticipated, wanton and careless and thoughtless, enhancing each other’s compositions, two artists working in tandem, without words, without the need for words, without the need for anything but each other.

Chapter Ten: Thursday—Mixed Media with Mixed Messages

Remy de Gourmont:
“Art is the accomplice of love”

“What's that on your neck?” Yvonne asked.

You should know that it's body paint,
Judy thought,
because you lent it to me, but, you know, shut the fuck up about it, thanks.

Judy tried to cover the mark with her collar. Everybody looked. People had already been looking, in fact, because she had finally got up the courage to wear the dress that Lisa had insisted she pack. It was a figure-hugging dress with a silver zip at the front that drew the eye of every male in the room. The hem was short enough and her legs shapely enough to turn heads, too.

Admittedly, it was also handy that the dress had a bit of a collar to hide Mark's indiscretion from the night before.

“It's paint,” Judy said, making sure the zip was fully done up.

“But how do you get paint there?” Yvonne said. “You weren't even painting yesterday, were you? Unless you were doing some extra-curricular creativity.”

“Something like that,” Judy said, her eyes screaming: Shut up!

Another woman, Joan, licked her thumb and rubbed at Judy's neck, saying:

“I don't think that's going to come off.”

Yvonne said, knowingly. “Looks a love-bite to me.”

It turned out that she was pissed off that Judy had used the entirety of three tubs of body paint. Even more, she was annoyed that Kevin had not demonstrated any interest in using them with her, describing such an exercise as pointless and unsanitary. Even more than that, she was annoyed that Judy had successfully used them with the hottest guy in the house. She had given the pots to Judy in anger and frustration, but she hadn't really expected her to have a chance to use them.

There were sniggers when Mark entered the room. He paused for a moment, knew what the matter was right away, and moved on.

“You look tired,” Kevin said, chuckling. “Something keep you up all night? Or someone?”

Yvonne elbowed him. She'd obviously told him. Eventually everyone who didn't already suspect would know for sure that Judy and Mark were sleeping together.

Mark didn't explain himself. Instead, he launched into a talk:

“Collage,” he said. “A word that we all know. From the French 'coller' meaning to glue. Flying you all over here was an expensive way of making that point, but hopefully ...”

“...it will now stick...” said Bernard dryly.

“And so shall we,” said Mark, indicating boxes of magazines and newspapers and putting them on the long table that he had set out in the middle of the room, alongside rejected items from yesterday's dump mission, items and fabrics from Monday's inspiration walk and assorted, multicoloured odds and ends that perhaps other artists had collated here over the weeks, months and years.

“We're making a single composition,” he reminded them, “from disparate sources. And we're going to see what happens. First, however, we're going to do that meditation thing I keep forcing on you.”