Steamy Affairs(Erotica)

You were awed by her ability to produce such masterpieces, and so quickly. Enough that you couldn’t argue when she began to position them around the house. You supposed you could take them down again if you ever had visitors. As it was, only little Jane ever entered your sanctuary, and she was very proudly shown every new creation as it was produced. Blushing at the subject matters, but seemingly unsurprised by them.

You managed to ask her why once and the girl simply replied: “Oh, she always paints things like that in school… A substitute teacher made a complaint about it once, but Miss Fae stuck up for her with the principal. Said it was ‘healthier for a young lady to be exploring this sort of thing in art, than repressing it all her life or having it jumped upon her by strange men.’ He dropped the complaint… Most of the male teachers don’t like to argue with Miss Fae.”

A cryptic answer. And one that brought your child’s relationship with her personal tutor to mind again. The two seemed to have a strong bond. Heck, the woman was the only teacher you had ever heard your girl talk about enough to remember the name of. Yet the hostility she’d shown that other day had been real and strong. So your daughter had been producing such lewd imagery all along, proudly and in public. Yet her primary educator had been nothing but supportive. You were not sure where that left you, in terms of outside suspicion over the double life you both led, or in indications of your child’s mentality.

Jane hardly seemed to think any of it was particularly odd… but then the short ginger girl was beginning to strike you as one of the most oblivious people you had never met. Not stupid, by any means, just… detached… distant… Away with the fairies. Like she was too shy to even really dwell in her own skin, preferring to be off somewhere else and let others lead her body around. It was one of the things that worried you a little about the girl, and seemed to draw out what remained of your parental spirit. You could see a similar effect in your daughter too, she genuinely cared for her friend and seemed determined to try and pry her out of this shell.

There were other changes going on in your home too. Visible indications of the shifting dynamics therein, akin with the dripping distribution of overt artwork. Your daughter kept making requests of you to purchase various home-decor supplies. It became her regular excuse to call Jane round, to get her to help with this or that grand idea for redecorating a room. Her friend always looked to you in puzzled askance as they set out on these endeavours, but you had never had much interest or conditions for such things. You were happy to let them paint and drape and shape such things, it washed away some old, painful memories. Slowly your child’s boudoir stylings were claiming the whole building. Giving it a sensual, film noir-esque cabaret overcoat.

You could still see the hippyish traces of her absent mother, but now with a deeper, shadowier flourish of unchecked teenage sexuality. You were fairly certain it was how your girl imagined brothels in Paris looked, having never seen anything but hollywood’s visions of such. Either way, such projects kept her out of trouble and, you had to admit, did provide quite suitable surroundings for you to incestuously invade her every other hour.

Life as a Canvas

One morning, or more accurately during the last dregs leading toward noon, your daughter piped up with another of those creased-brow-teased requests. She had just finished breaking her fast with her usual, salty few-gulps of you: A between meal snack that was increasing in regularity again, rules be damned.

When out of nothing more than the blue skies and bitter taste on her tongue, she asked if she could ‘paint’ you this afternoon. Now, you had never been much of a vain man… Seeing no particular reason to step in front of a mirror more than to check you had actually remembered to put on pants this morning. Plus, while her various erotic creations so far might be considered in bad taste, one OF you led you more toward that awful word… Evidence. Yet, looking down into her innocent query; lapping up the last dribbles of your ejaculate, and having only just become parley to her budding talent… You found it impossible to refuse.

Thus, a few hours of preparation later, during which you tried, and failed, to get any work of your own done. You approached her neatly arranged workshop, out on the veranda.

Two things surprised you as you sidled through the sliding doors: One: the set up arrayed before you looked nearly identical to the one when you were receiving a massage; and Two: Jane was there, looking as nonplussed as you felt, perched to one side as her best friend bustled about. Your daughter hardly noted your arrival, so busy was she in digging through old boxes for tubes of paint. Yet from inside one of these boxes came the off-hand command: “Okay, take your clothes off Dad.” Spoken as casually as it ever was when you were alone, not that it ever really needed saying. However, in present company, it resulted in those two nonplussed faces turning instantly bright red.

“Is that… errm… necessary? I mean… or err? Appropriate, Love?” You replied, surprising yourself by not needing to feign embarrassment, even after all the time you’d spent naked in just her presence.

Your daughter didn’t seem to even acknowledge your reason for being so, still buried in her supplies. “What? Yes. Both. Why not?”

“Well because… Jane… and you’re my daughter… Neither of you wants to see…” You played it well… truly hoping she’d catch the hint and wasn’t really so haphazard about protecting your secrets…

“Ah! Found em!” Was her first reply, turning around with what was clearly a specific plastic box of paints. Still seeming puzzled by the fact that you were not undressing.

“Jane doesn’t mind, she’s used to helping me work with nude models. Besides… she knows we’re more relaxed about that sort of thing in this family…” She laughed, cleanly and honestly. That jaunting peel warmed your heart and relaxed you.

“So stop making it more awkward than it has to be and get your kit off Dad! We’ll turn around if you want… but it won’t make much difference in a minute…”

Out of excuses, you did as you were told. The girls indeed turned around in modesty until you were positioned face down on the massage mat as instructed. From there it was much the same as any other time you’d received a massage while Jane was present: You just did your best to keep things covered for her, though what kind of painting required all this you were still clueless to. The girls chatted conspiringly to each other in a corner, looking over some sketches your offspring had drawn. You just tried to relax and catch a few moments of dozing while they planned out whatever they were up to.

It was with great surprise then, that the next thing you felt was an intense tickling against your back. You jumped, startled by the experience, only to receive a stern: “No moving Dad! You’ll ruin it!”

Glancing back over your shoulder you were greeted by the vision of both young girls leaning over you, thin paint-brushes pinched in their fingers. In an instant it all became clear… You were not having a portrait painted of you, you were having artwork painted on you. Not for the first, or for the last time: You were amazed both by your daughter’s wicked creativity in finding new ways to tease and tempt you… while hiding all signs of her plans.

You were trapped now. Pinned beneath the delicate bristles of two lovely young ladies, nothing but a canvas full of nerves that they were carefully alighting upon. There was nothing else to do but slump back down and enjoy the experience. Trying to work out which was which by the feel of the stroke and wondering which would be worse to be aroused by…

A Mess of Exposure

Time ticked away beyond your notice as you lay in half-dappled sun. You had closed your eyes and become nothing more than a receptor for art and the tactile sensations of it being applied. The constant dance of two brushes upon your back was mesmerising, a constant stream of lightly focussed movements. The initial strokes tickled a little, but never reached the point of irritation. You could feel the careful intensity and dedication of each girl as she manoeuvred them across you; whether in long, sweeping curves or delicate, feathering flourishes.

Always this was followed by the cooling breath of the paint: Highlighting every slight breeze that passed in fading intensity as the liquid dried. They crisscrossed your back in perfect symmetry, but alternating paces. Misting your mind into guesses of who was where and where else they might head next. They passed up to your neck and shoulders, then down to your arms and calves. You half expected avoidance of your bared ass, or giggles. Yet everything was done in perfect seriousness, except for one smiling comment from your daughter… About how it would be a lot easier if you’d let her wax your legs. You hurriedly declined.

And then it was done… or at least your rear half was. You were in such a coma of relaxation that you hardly noticed the dropping of tools or ceasing of caresses until their ghosts had truly faded. You certainly didn’t need to be told not to move still, just to let the last bits dry. What did wake you up however was the next instruction, not directed at you:Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.