Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

“Hmm, I like painting you like this,” he told me, fingering my sensitive flesh.

“Will you do something for me?” I asked.

I waited patiently for an answer. He took a moment, but I thought that was because he was too busy playing with my naked breasts.

“Phillipe?”

“Yes, Beauty, anything.”

I reached up and gripped his wandering finger. “Can you show me what you’ve painted?”

“How? Tell me how,” he urged.

“Turn around,” I instructed. I smiled when I felt him move away from me.

Reaching out, I placed my arms around him and ran my palms down his arms that were left bare from the T-shirt rubbing against my skin. The hair on his arms tickled and brushed against my palms as I stroked down his biceps to his forearms, where I could comfortably reach.

As I stood plastered to his body, my sensitive breasts against his back, I rested my cheek against his shoulder blade. “Now, trace your hands over the paint. Trace me the way you saw me just now.”

Closing my eyes, I let his body lead mine as his hands and arms started to move.

Just as his fingertips must have touched the canvas, in a voice that sounded slightly strained, he told me softly, “This will ruin the image. Are you going to sit again tomorrow?”

I grinned into his back, as I turned my head and opened my mouth, biting his shoulder blade gently. “Yes, I’ll sit for you again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. I’ll sit for you every day for as long as you want me to.”

He took a deep breath, and my heart sped up after he replied, “So forever.”

Taking my left hand, I ran it back up his arm, and then I removed it, bringing it to his side where I smoothed my palm down over his abdomen to the edge of his shirt. That was when his right hand started to move.

“Here, this is your right shoulder,” he told me as he ran his hand over the wet paint.

I stroked my fingers across his lower belly, flirting with the edge of his jeans.

“What are you doing, Chantel?” he questioned as he dropped his hand from the canvas.

I could feel him getting ready to turn and face me, so I requested softly, “No. Don’t turn around.”

“Why not?” he asked.

Honestly, all I could think of was that I wanted him to experience this just like me.

“I want you to be blind for a moment. Just feel me, hear me.”

Moving slightly back from him, I brought my right hand down to join my left under his shirt. He let out a deep breath.

“Do you want me to take my shirt off, just like you?”

“No,” I told him right away.

I felt him shift his feet a little wider to get a steadier stance.

“I like rubbing my nipples against the material. It feels so good.”

“Christ, Chantel. What the fuck has gotten into you?”

Slowly, I rubbed myself against his back. It was true. The material felt amazing as it abraded my stiff pointy tips. I could already feel my pussy start to moisten.

“I don’t know,” I confessed.

Reaching the button on his jeans, I undid it, only fumbling a little as I slipped my right hand inside, rubbing my palm against his pulsating cock.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” He groaned.

I smiled against his back. “Do you like that?” I asked, just the way he always did with me.

“Hell yes.” He groaned again. “Grip it, Chantel. Take me in your hand.”

Not wanting to disappoint him, I unzipped his jeans and pushed my other hand inside, freeing him from the confinement of only his denim.

Wrapping my palm around his hot cock, I stroked him slowly from base to tip. His hips flexed and bucked forward, seeking the warm downward slide of my palm. Gliding my hand over his sensitive skin, I turned my face into his back and took another bite of his shoulder as I brought my hand back up in a tight squeeze.

“Yes.” He hissed and demanded, “Again.”

Removing my hand from him, I told him softly, “Make it wet.”

“Huh?” He grunted.

I took great delight in the confusion I could hear in that single distracted noise. Bringing my hand up to where he could see it, I told him again, “Make it wet, Phillipe.”

This time, he seemed to get my meaning. He moved to the left, and the next thing I felt was his hand clasping mine with cool liquid. Somehow, I knew it was paint.

“What color?” I questioned.

“Are you fucking serious?” He groaned, his hand moving mine back to his impatient cock. He wrapped our fingers around him, as he punched his hips forward on a tormented growl, letting his head fall back.

“What color, Phillipe?”

“Red,” he hissed out. “Fiery fucking red.”

“Perfect,” I purred against his trembling back, as I resumed my slow torment.

Over and over, I stroked him. Each delicious tug of his stiff member rendered a strained groan from deep inside his chest as his hot palm assisted my movements.

“So fucking good.” He cursed as his hips flexed and his muscles bunched, thrusting forward into our palms. His flesh was now burning hot, rubbing against my hand hard.

“Bite me again, just like before,” he demanded.

I smiled against him. I teased him, nibbling softly. “Like this?” I reached up now with my free hand, stroking it along his abdominal muscles that were straining with each controlling motion of those powerful hips.

“No,” he forced out between his gritted teeth.

“No?”

“Chantel,” he told me in warning.

I ran my hand up to his nipple while I rubbed my own against his back. His breathing hitched as he grunted in a voice so husky and deep that I could swear he must have stroked my pussy because it contracted and moistened.

He demanded, “Put your fucking teeth on me, Chantel.”

How could I resist that? I couldn’t, and I didn’t.

Instead, I bit him hard, harder than I would have expected, as I stroked and squeezed his cock as fast and rough as I could. It must have been what he was waiting for because his palm gripped my hand and stilled it as I felt his big body twitch and shudder while he groaned my name.

* * *

Snapping the journal shut, I place it on the bed beside me, annoyed and frustrated. Every word I read from her pulls me deeper into their relationship. The more I read, the more I find myself craving the knowledge. What is it about them that I find so intriguing? Is it the fact that I am reading something so very private? I feel as though I am violating their love in some way, yet I can’t help myself from wanting to know more. No, I need to know more.

Sliding down the bed, I rest my head on the pillow and stare at the ceiling, remembering the image of Phillipe as I saw him only a few days ago. Naked, hard, and stroking himself so violently that I thought he must have been hurting himself. What did he tell her? Put your fucking teeth in me.

Fucking hell, that was so damn sexy.

I sit, letting my legs fall over the edge of the bed. He wants to start painting Armor tonight. The painting is the second one of the collection, and it’s the first full nude shot, where you can see a portion of my front side. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Standing, I make my way over to the mirror that’s in my room, and I stare at my reflection. There, looking back at me, are wide green eyes. Raising my hand, I grip the hairband holding my hair away from my face and pull it out, releasing my blonde hair. It tumbles down around me, so I shake it back from my shoulders, looking at the picture I present. I’m trying to see all that he sees.

Reaching down to the bottom of my top, I lift it and pull it over my head, leaving myself standing in my nude-colored lace bra. Bringing my hand to the right strap, I finger the material and run it down to the curve of my breast, watching the reflection of my nipple as it hardens.

It’s strange inspecting myself, seeing my body change as I feel it happen. Moving to unclasp my bra, I take a breath as I pull the cups away from my body and let it fall to the ground. I’m left standing there, naked from the waist up, trying to see myself objectively.

My breasts aren’t huge. A small C-cup makes them full enough that I usually have to wear a bra, but sometimes, if I want to dress up for someone special, I can go without.

Below my right arm, where my breast curves out, I have a small beauty mark that I have hated for as long as I can remember. As I stand here now, looking at myself, I find that I don’t mind it. I think it adds a certain character to me.

Lifting my hand, I gently brush my red-painted fingertips against my nipple and let out a small gasp. Biting my bottom lip, I watch my fingers in the mirror as I trace them around the sensitive tips. I remember Chantel talking about how good Phillipe’s shirt felt against her nipples. Probably as good as my fingers now feel against mine.

I pinch and tug them between my thumb and index fingers, pulling the tight little tips. I sigh as I feel my pussy start to moisten. Shocked by my own brazen behavior, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from myself.

That’s when something in the room changes, and I feel like I’m going a little crazy. I swear I’m seeing dark hair now, falling over my shoulder. Instead of my red-tipped fingers, I’m seeing long elegant ones with blunt-cut nails tracing over my body.

Feeling my lips part, I watch as the hands in front of me cup my breasts and squeeze. I’m mesmerized by the scene. The hands gliding over my body have morphed into hands I know. They are hands that shock me.

They’re hands I have seen before, hands I’ve studied, hands that have created music I’ve listened to, and hands I have just read about.

“Ah!” I groan as my nipples are plucked and twisted. They are pinched hard and teased. As my eyes are transfixed on the mirror, I can feel myself becoming increasingly wetter.

“Fuck.” I pant as my right breast is squeezed, and my left nipple is pulled. Crossing one leg over the other, I now close my eyes and imagine beautiful, pale talented hands caressing me. I can hear music flowing over me, violins, and I can feel my aching wet core clenching with each moment of my pleasure.

Arching my back and pushing my breasts forward, hands now squeeze my supple curves, I swear someone whispers, “Do you like that?”

As my climax crashes into me, I find myself calling out a name I never thought to say in a moment such as this.

“Chantel.”

That night, Phillipe stands at the kitchen window with a cup of coffee in his hand, staring out to the lit arbor. He can see Gemma out under the large branches, sitting on the bench he placed down there many months ago.

He wonders about Gemma Harris. What does she really think about everything she’s heard? She doesn’t really give him a good indication of her opinion either way.

One thing he does know is that, although she’s attracted to him, there’s definitely a wary and suspicious side of her when it comes to who he is. Oh, she lets me into her body, but there is no way that the woman who flinched away from me this morning trusts me.

Feeling a frown and a headache coming on, he places his empty cup in the sink, turning to make his way up the stairs. When he reaches the Rhapsody painting hanging on the wall, he stops for a moment and allows himself to look over her.

Taking in a deep breath, he sighs. As he lets it out softly, he shakes his head. “What am I doing?” he asks out loud. He knows he won’t get an answer, but he feels the desire to voice his request. Reaching out, he strokes his finger down the sweet curve of flesh on the canvas before dropping his hand as though the memory burned him. Turning on his heel, he makes his way to the studio.

Tonight, he is painting Armor. He is painting strength. He needs to remind himself of that, especially when familiar words keep running through his mind. Don’t let them make a villain out of you.