We did that over and over, each time he would go deeper and deeper. I was in horrible pain, but somehow, I felt like I needed to take it. He kept goin... and going, deeper every time. It seemed like there was no end to it. He would push in a bit deeper, than pull almost all the way out, then back in again. I began liking how it felt on the way out, and hating how it felt going in. I screamed a load moan every time he went in, and moaned again as he pulled back. It felt so relaxing having him pull. His hand ran up the side of her leg, leaving a trail of warm oil. He’d been painting. She could smell it on him, feel it in the skin, hardened even on his earlobes. It was caked on parts of his body, plastered dry and flaky in some areas and like watery mud in others. She felt the warm slippery feel of the wet paint as he slid against her and rubbed his hands along her arms and then shoulders, unwittingly massaging her with the oils already soaking his skin. There was a dab of red on his cheek. More

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