The Painter Pt. 01

She had gotten used to only the odd glance at her husband's less than impressive, unkempt member (in real life, anyway - if she was being honest, yes, from time to time, she may have watched a porn video or two on the internet) but the cock in front of her right now... well... it seemed like it existed for the sole purpose of having a tongue run up and down the length of its hard, smooth shaft. At this thought, her nipples began to feel like they were trying to poke their way out of her bra.

As she continued to thrust her middle finger in and out of her wet hole, she watched as the painter took the black panties he had been sniffing and wrapped them around his cock. And then started stroking himself with them. Again, the inherent intimacy of it took her breath away. Her pussy, indirectly, so close to the painter's engorged cock. She imagined pre-cum seeping out of the tip and realized it could very well be dampening the same bit of material that her arousal had dampened more than a few times. This dirty little thought again almost caused her to climax, and she was in very real danger of making enough noise to draw his attention.

She thought, with the intense wave of arousal that had just hit her, that she actually had called out or moaned, because the painter stopped stroking himself for a moment. She felt a thrust of nervousness in the pit of her stomach, like she was going to get caught - and then realized how turned around everything had become. She felt like a voyeur in her own home - like she was invading his personal space by covertly watching him masturbate. With her underwear wrapped around his cock. How had he managed to do that? To turn her into the perverted voyeur, secretly getting off on such a naughty and depraved display? But she was being a voyeur... and truth be told, she had not felt such intense desire in her whole life.

The painter had not stopped because he had heard anything, for she had in fact managed to stay silent while her clit was throbbing against her palm. He had only stopped to make an adjustment, and she felt her want hit her so viscerally that she had to lean against the door frame as he pulled the waistband of his boxers lower and freed his balls.

Ok, being totally honest with herself, she had a thing for men's balls. She always had. It had felt like the cruelest of cosmic jokes that she could end up with the only man on earth who didn't like having his touched or played with. (She knew, as a matter of fact, that that wasn't true - she had a girlfriend who had been with someone for a while who also didn't want to be touched there. Her girlfriend had treated it almost as a relief... and she had played along with that - but secretly she couldn't imagine why her friend didn't want to touch, scratch, kiss, nibble, grab, suck, tug and lick her partner's sack for as long as he could stand it. Just the thought of it was enough to make her wet.)

So watching the painter now tickle, tug and tease his gorgeous balls while he went back to using her panties to pump his cock - his eyes closed, lost in the sensation... well, it was just too much, she thought. It was too much. She momentarily thought back to imagining him as her dressing servant. At this moment, the desire to feel dominance over him was almost impossible to conjure. All she wanted was to serve him. To crawl in front of him on her hands and knees and worship his manhood. With two fingers now jammed up inside herself, her pussy hungrily contracting around them with delicious pleasure, she could not remember wanting anything more in her whole life than to have that beautiful fucking cock in her mouth. She would take it anywhere he wanted to put it. She would kneel at his feet and beg if he wanted, but if she did not get to run her tongue over that perfect pair of smooth balls and feel that engorged cock head pass her lips, she didn't want to go on living.

This last bit of hyperbole was the last thing she thought before her orgasm hit her. Not having a moment to think of how funny or cliche it was, she actually bit her hand (the one she was not fucking herself with) to keep from making a sound. It was all she could do to stay upright against the door frame as she came as hard as she could ever remember coming, her eyes focused on the painter's sumptuous sex organ.

When the waves of her climax had subsided, she still wanted the perverted, unbearably sexy young man currently jerking off in her bedroom - she still felt a longing she had never known. But her he ad had cleared up just a tiny bit, and she managed to take stock of the situation. Despite the fact that she now felt like the trespasser - the naughty girl peeking at what was none of her business - she, in fact, had the upper hand. This could go any way she wanted it to, because she had caught him. He just didn't know it yet. And as she took her hand out of her soaking panties, straightened up and took one last surreptitious look at the painter pleasuring himself, she thought, yes, he didn't know it yet. But he's about to find out.