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- Herausgeber: Boruma Publishing
- Kategorie: Erotik
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
A Stroke of Desire
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A Stroke Of Desire
By Mena Thrace
Copyright 2015 by Mena Thrace
Cover Design by Mena Thrace
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses or establishments, groups, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is meant for sale to adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit scenes and language which may be considered offensive. All sexually active characters in this work are eighteen (18) years of age or older.
Thank you for supporting the work of the author.
Contact Information: [email protected]
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Table of Contents
A Stroke Of Desire
A Note To My Favorite People In All The Worlds
If You Liked This Story…
A Stroke Of Desire
Isa painted like a woman possessed.
The only sounds that whispered through the small loft as she worked was the sound of her bare feet on the floor and the movement of her fevered paintbrush as it rained stroke after stroke onto the wide canvas.
She had been going hard on her latest particular offering for close to twenty hours and had only stopped for long enough to take care of the kind of things which would not be ignored.
One of those being the constant delicious ache between her thighs. She’d already taken at least four of those kinds of breaks; the latest time she had just stopped where she was and laid back onto the sheets messily spread over the bare oakwood floors and taken care of business right then and there.
Her foot nudged over a bottle of unused brushes but she didn’t notice. She continued to paint, her eyes locked onto the canvas as she zeroed in on a detail in the creature’s eyes.
She wanted his eyes to be perfect. A hint of malevolence, a tease of cruelty but nothing truly evil. A stroke of desire here, a dab of lust there...The right colors in the right places because anything less than perfect would have been the true sin.
She barely breathed as she lightly trailed the softest bit of crimson with the skill and precision of a surgeon. The colors were perfect. The paint was perfect. She had bought her newest art supplies from a new store that had recently opened up within walking distance of her loft and she had never been more pleased with a purchase.
They had definitely earned themselves a repeat customer.
She sighed in pleasure as a deep burgundy added just the right gleam where it was needed the most.
“Yes…” She whispered in a reverent tone, not realizing she had spoken out loud. She might have been talking to herself or to the lovely paint or even, and this was probably the closest to the truth, to the figure she had become obsessed with getting out of her head and onto the blank canvas. He had to be just right.
He had to be perfect.
A small smile curved her full lips as she broke her painting’s gaze just long enough to look down at her pallet. Her brush dabbed two colors into one and she eyed it a moment before adding more indigo.
Yes. There. Wonderful.
She returned her attention to the canvas standing before her and the figure it had taken her the better part of a night to day cycle to get just right.
“You’re beautiful. At this point I can’t ruin you.”
The brush glided down the canvas before her as her smile grew just a little. She’d had the surreal revelation perhaps nine hours ago that she was not painting anything.
The painting was painting itself. The brush in her hand was not the tool; she was. Like any artist in love with her craft she had always felt that she did not produce or create so much as she was moved in the directions she was needed in order to bring a piece to life. She was not consciously the creator or painter of anything. She was merely the vessel used to give birth to whatever needed her intervention.
The figure in the painting was bringing himself to life.
“We’re almost done, handsome.” She soothingly whispered as she stopped long enough to wipe the sweat on her brow with the upper arm of her white button-up shirt. It was no longer purely white and hadn’t been for awhile. Dots and streaks and blobs of rainbow were scattered across old faithful. The shir [...]
