Puppy’s Painted on Swimsuit

You don't wait for me to bring it up. You bring it up.

"Paint," you say, sprawled across the bed with my hand resting between your legs, exactly where I told you it would stay all night. "You said paint. I want the paint. I want to walk around this whole resort in nothing but paint, and I want every single person who looks at me to have to work to figure out whether I'm covered."

"Confident tonight."

"I'm confident every night. You're the one who makes me wait to prove it." You roll your hips up against my palm, shameless. "Paint my nipples, paint my pussy, paint my ass, and then plug me before we walk out. I want to feel it all day. Every step." You are smirking while you say it.

"Good puppy," I murmur, and your breath catches exactly the way I knew it would.

"Tomorrow morning," I tell you. "And tonight, you sleep with my hand right here and nothing else. You'll want to be desperate for this."

"I'm already desperate," you say. "I'm always desperate. You just like watching me admit it." I do.

Morning comes bright and hot, and this resort has no children, no families, no reason for anyone to pretend. The pool deck is adults-only and everyone on it knows what that means the women topless at the swim-up bar, the man in a mesh thong walking his drink back to his chair, the couple openly groping each other in the shallow end. Which means the artist's station at the far end of the deck doesn't even rate a second glance from most people.

Marisol doesn't need the folding screen here. She still sets it up, out of habit, and you walk right past it and drop your sarong in front of God and everybody.

"Good morning," you say to her, completely bare, hands on your hips. "I hear you're the woman who's going to make me look decent."

"I'm the woman who's going to make you look legal," Marisol says. She's maybe thirty, sun-darkened, paint permanently under her fingernails, with the calm of someone who's seen everything an adults-only resort can produce which is a lot. "Decent was never on the menu."

"She's the canvas," I confirm, settling into the chair with my coffee. "Paint her a swimsuit. Vaporwave type thing smething fun. Make it convincing from ten feet and a lie from three." I wink at you.

You look Marisol dead in the eye. "Make the lie a good one. I want people halfway convinced before they realize they've been staring at my bare pussy for five minutes."

Marisol's eyebrows go up and then she laughs, slow and appreciative. "Two hundred bodies I've painted. You're the first one who introduced herself by talking about her own pussy."

"She's proud of it," I say. "We are proud of it" I corrected myself.

"I earned it," you say, and sit down on the stool, arms up, chin high. "Do your worst."

She starts with the sponge, broad bands of pink fading into purple across your stomach, and you watch the whole thing in a mirror she's propped against the easel watching yourself become a lie, stroke by stroke.

Her free hand flattens against your waist to hold you steady, and instead of flinching, you press into the contact.

"Feel free to touch whatever you need to touch," you tell her. "I'm not shy. Obviously."

"I can see that." Her gloved fingers sweep up your ribs. "Most girls go quiet when I get to this part."

"Most girls aren't me." You say matter-of-fact.

She works up to the underside of your breasts and has to lift and shape you, one gloved hand cupping the full weight of your left tit, stretching the skin taut. Your breath goes shallow but your eyes stay on hers.

"Sensitive," she observes.

"Very. Don't stop on my account." A pause, and then, softer, honest: "It feels good. Her hands feel good. I like being handled."

"Baby," I say mildly, from my chair, "tell her what you like about it."

You do. Out loud, while she paints you tell her that you like the grip, that you like being shaped and held like material, that your nipples are aching already and she hasn't even touched them yet. She circles your left nipple with the sponge, slow, laying down a ring of teal, and you exhale a long, unashamed moan right there on the deck, and a man walking past the station stops dead and doesn't move again for a while.

"Morning," you say pleasantly to him, mid-paint. He raises his coffee cup like a toast.

She paints your right nipple the same way, and by the time she switches to the fine brush grid lines descending from beneath your breasts, a chrome sun with laser stripes over your left hip your nipples are swollen and dark under the drying paint, and there's wetness sliding down your inner thigh that has nothing to do with paint.

Marisol kneels between your legs with her palette, and her face is six inches from your cunt.

"Somebody likes being artwork," she says.

"Somebody likes being looked at," you correct her. "The artwork part's just the excuse. Paint my lips. Take your time. I know you can see how wet I am you might as well enjoy the view."

Her thumb and forefinger spread you open, cool air touching your slick inner folds, and she hums that quiet professional hum but her cheeks are darker than they were a minute ago. She paints your outer lips in sunset gradient, careful strokes following every fold, and when the brush drags across the hood of your clit an accident, maybe, or maybe not your hips jerk and she presses them down.

"Still," she says.

"I'm trying," you say, and your voice is wrecked but still smiling. "Do that again and I'll stop trying."

"Turn around and bend over the stool. I need to do the back."

The thong is the longest part. She paints a thin purple stripe down your crack, holding your cheeks apart for ten minutes, her breath warm on your most private skin, painting a lie of purple fabric over your asshole while a small crowd of morning drinkers gathers at a polite and then a much less polite distance.

"Hi," you say to them, upside down, bent over the stool. "She's almost done. You're welcome to stay for the reveal."

Two of them pull chairs over.

When Marisol finally sits back and says "done," you're trembling from your knees to your jaw, and you stay bent over for one extra beat because you know exactly what the view looks like from behind.

I stand, and I take the plug out of my pocket.

Glass. Teardrop. The one you know by feel. The crowd that gathered for the reveal goes very quiet.

"Bend back over," I tell you. "You asked for this."

"I did," you say, and you bend over the stool again, and you reach back with both hands and spread yourself open without being told. "I want it. I want to walk around all day with this in me and paint on me and nobody knowing either one."

I apply a large drop og my spit before I work it in slow you're soaked, and it's naughty, the way your body opens for it, the wet sounds carrying across the deck and you talk the entire time, because you're you.

"Everyone's watching," you breathe. "Everyone's watching you put a plug in my ass in broad daylight and I'm about to walk around and have a drink and eat lunch like I'm not full. Like I'm not stuffed. God... here... yes. All the way.... push... please."

It seats with a final slide, your rim closing snug around the base, and you stand up slowly with your hand pressed to your stomach like you're holding something precious inside you. Because you are.

"Perfect," I say, and walk a slow circle. The mirror shows you what everyone else will see a girl in a painted-on puple skyline one-piece. High-waisted. Thong-backed. Tanlines ghosting through the translucent paint, nipples visible as darker shadows beneath the sunset colors, your bare pussy lips outlined and on display for anyone who takes the time to really look. And a glass plug seated deep in your ass that no one can see and everyone will eventually suspect.

"From ten feet, it's a suit," I say. "From three."

"From three, I'm naked," you finish, and you're grinning at the mirror like it's Christmas morning. "And from zero, I'm plugged. I'm going to have so much fun today."

I tip Marisol generously. She's still staring at you at the plug, at your composure, at the way you're already walking.

"Every morning," she says. "If you want touch-ups, I'm here every morning."

"We'll be back," you tell her, over your shoulder. "I'm going to need a whole new lie by Thursday."

The day belongs to you, and you spend it like money.

The bartender squints at your suit, then at your chest, and you lean on the bar and give him all the time in the world. "Take your time," you say. "I know it's confusing. Sugar rim. And make it strong I've got a long day of being looked at ahead of me."

He pours your margarita without ever quite looking away from the slow realization crossing his face.

You order lunch at the grill, and when the waiter stares at the painted grid lines on your stomach, you stretch arms overhead, back arched purely to make the paint move with your breathing. "It's a great suit, right?" you say. "Fit's amazing. Like it was made for me."

"It was," he says faintly.

You sunbathe face-down on a lounger, painted cheeks catching the afternoon light, and every time you shift your hips you feel the plug roll inside you, and every time you feel it, you make a small sound, and the man on the next lounger has stopped pretending to read.

The wife from last night finds you at two o'clock. She circles your lounger twice, and then drags one fingernail across your hip the paint doesn't move, the skin beneath it does.

"I knew it," she breathes.

"Of course you knew." You roll onto your side, unhurried, giving her the full length of you. "Everyone knows, if they're honest with themselves. They just don't want to stop looking long enough to admit it. Do you want to touch more?"

Her husband makes a strangled sound. She does want to touch more. You lie there and let her trace the painted stripe down your hip, let her follow it toward your thigh, and you narrate the whole thing for her because you can't help it how the paint feels, how the plug shifts when you move, how you've been wet since nine a. m. and have zero intention of doing anything about it.

"You're plugged," she whispers, catching the way you clench when her finger drifts low.

"All day," you say. "It's my favorite accessory. Well. Second favorite. The paint's first."

By four, the sun has done its work. The paint has dried, tightened, whispering against your skin with every step.

You're walking back from the ice cream stand naked in paint, cone in hand, plugged and pleased when you feel it. A small cool line of air. Your left nipple.

The paint has cracked. A flake the size of a thumbnail has lifted right over the peak of your breast, and through the gap, your actual nipple is visible darker pink than the painted sunset, hard, exposed further with every swing of your arm.

You stop walking. You look down. And then you laugh a real, delighted, wicked laugh and you look across the deck at me, and I watch you make a decision with your whole face.

You're not going to fix it. You're going to help it. You finish your ice cream walking the longest possible route back past the swim-up bar where you lean over far enough to let gravity work, past the volleyball game where you stretch and roll your shoulders, past every cluster of chairs you can find. And when a flake curls loose, you don't brush it away you press your arm against your breast and drag, just slightly, peeling the sunset off yourself in purple-pink ribbons, letting your nipple fight free of its fiction like the truth escaping a lie.

A woman at the bar catches your eye and mouths oh my god. You mouth back I know.

By the time you reach my chair, half the painted top has flaked away entirely, your left breast bare and proud in the afternoon light, the right one splitting at the seam with every heartbeat, paint dust drifting down your stomach like confetti. Your thighs are pressed tight not from shy modesty, but because the plug is rolling with every step and you're drunk on the ache.

"Master," you say, and your voice is bright and sure. "Everyone can see."

"I know." I smile enjoying every second of this.

"The paint's losing. I'm winning." You look down at yourself with open satisfaction, then back at me. "My nipple's been out for twenty minutes. A woman at the bar bought me a shot because of it. I told her it was the paint's fault and she said she didn't care whose fault it was."

"I know. I watched."

"And I can feel the plug every single time I walk, and I've been this close to coming since lunch, and I haven't, because I'm saving it." You step closer, paint crumbling gently off you, and lower your voice to something meant only for me. "I want to come in front of everyone tonight. When the paint's mostly gone. When there's no lie left at all. Can I?"

I reach up and brush a flake of purple from your shoulder. It falls like confetti.

"You have two hours until the paint gives out completely," I tell you. "Dinner's at six. Walk the long way to the restaurant. Help the paint along I want you at that table with your tits out and your suit in ruins and the plug still in, and I want you to tell our waiter exactly what happened to your outfit."

You grin like I handed you a crown.

"And after dinner," I say, "you can come. On the walk back. In front of anyone who's still watching. That's my good puppy's reward for being the best thing this resort has ever seen."

"Deal," you say instantly, already peeling a flake off your right breast with your thumbnail, casual as adjusting a strap. "Now come walk with me. I want witnesses."

For dinner we find two stools at the far end of the swim-up bar, the afternoon crowd thin enough that we have breathing room. You order your margarita sugar rim, strong and I get whiskey, and for a minute we just sit there, you with your cracked paint and your exposed left nipple and your plugged ass, me with my hand on your thigh, watching the resort move around us.

"You're hard," you say.

I don't deny it. "Watching you walk across the deck with your tit out will do that."

"Watching me like it did that." You take a long sip, then set the glass down and turn on your stool to face me, paint flaking gently off your shoulder. "I felt it against my back when you pulled me close at the bar. You've been hard since Marisol finished painting me."

"I've been hard since you told her to paint your pussy carefully."

You smile slow, satisfied, knowing. "That's what I thought."

I let my hand slide higher on your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of painted fabric that isn't fabric. "So let's talk about that."

"Let's."

"You've never been like this before."

"No," you agree. "I haven't."

"What changed?"

You consider the question, swirling your margarita. When you speak, your voice is thoughtful but certain. "I always liked being looked at. I just didn't know how much. And I always liked belonging to you. I just didn't know those two things could live in the same place."

"And now?"

"Now I know." You shift on the stool, and I watch the way your breath catches when the plug moves. "Now I know that being yours doesn't mean being hidden. It means being shown. It means you decide who sees me, and how much, and when. And I just... get to be seen."

"Does that extend further?"

You know exactly what I'm asking. Your eyes meet mine, steady and warm. "Further how?"

"Further than looking."

You hold my gaze. "You're asking if I'd let you share me."

"I'm asking if you'd want me to." It was an honest question.

The afternoon sun catches the cracked paint on your chest, your bare nipple dark and tight in the open air. A man at the other end of the bar has been pretending not to watch for ten minutes. You don't look at him. You look at me.

"Tell me what that would mean," you say quietly. "Tell me what you're imagining."

I lean closer, my breath warm against your ear, my hand tightening on your thigh.

"I'm imagining watching someone else's hands on you. Watching them discover what I already know that you're soaked just from being looked at, that your nipples get sensitive when you're nervous, that you make sounds no one else has heard."

Your breathing has changed. Shallow. Anticipatory.

"I'm imagining deciding who touches you. Maybe that wife from yesterday the one who couldn't stop staring. Maybe her husband, if you earned it. Maybe a stranger at the bar who's been polite enough not to say what he's thinking."

"And what would I do?"

"Whatever you want to do."

Your hand finds my leg under the water, slides up until you feel exactly how hard I am, and you exhale a shaky laugh.

"You like this idea."

"I like watching you come undone."

"Would you fuck me? After?"

"Always or I'll fuck you during but maybe not first."

Your grip tightens. "What do you mean?"

I pull back enough to see your face. "I mean maybe you'd have to wait. Maybe you'd have to let someone else feel you first, let them see how wet you get, let them understand what you are and then, when they're done, when you're desperate and trembling and you've been good maybe then I'd take you."

"Jesus." You press your legs together, plug shifting, paint cracking further. "You've thought about this."

"I've thought about you." My chest swelled a little.

"Would you..." You stop, swallow, start again. "Would you let them fuck me? Actually fuck me?"

"Would you want me to?"

Your hand hasn't left my cock. You're stroking me through my shorts, slow and deliberate, right there at the bar where anyone could see.

"I'd want you to decide," you say finally. "That's the point. That's what makes it hot. I'm not choosing I'm being given. I'm being shared. That's what I want. I want to be yours so completely that letting someone else inside me is just another way you use me."

My hand slides between your legs. You're soaked through the painted fabric, slick coating my fingers immediately. "You're close already."

"I've been close since this morning." You rock against my hand, shameless. "I've been close since you plugged me in front of everyone. I've been close since that woman touched my hip and I felt the paint move."

"If I let someone else touch you tonight... someone we don't know... would you come?" I lock eyes with you.

"Without permission?" You consider it, honest. "Maybe. I'd try not to. But if they were inside me and you were watching and I knew I was being used I don't know if I could stop it."

"That's not a no."

"No," you agree, voice thick. "It's not a no."

I withdraw my hand, and you make a small wounded sound. Your nipples are both visible now, the right one fighting free of its painted cage, and the man down the bar has given up all pretense.

"Here's what's going to happen," I tell you. "We're going to finish our drinks. You're going to walk to dinner with your suit falling off and your plug in and your pussy dripping down your thighs. And sometime tonight maybe at dinner, maybe after I'm going to decide if you've earned being shared."

Your whole body shivers. "What would earn it?"

"Being obvious. Being proud. Being so wet that everyone who looks at you knows exactly what you are."

"I'm already there."

"Then be more." I brush a flake of paint from your collarbone. "Be so desperate that you can't hide it. Make them wonder if you're going to come just from walking. Make them want to be the one who pushes you over."

You finish your margarita in one long swallow and set the glass down hard. "Done," you say. "Now walk me to dinner. I want everyone to see what you've done to me."