'Should I…?'
'Make yourself comfortable. I'll help you in just a second,' he says, popping through another door for a second and returning with a bottle of amber liquid and a couple of brushes. 'Sable.' He waves them at you.
You clamber onto the cushions, which are more stable than they look and lay back. 'How do you want me to pose?'
At the moment, you're laying on your side, half curled up with your back to the wall and your arms in front of your breasts.
'It'll come to you, don't think about it.' He comes and sits on the edge of the pile and opens the bottle. A sweet but light smell wafts out and he dips a medium-sized brush into it, lifting it out and shaking droplets back into the bottle, releasing more of the fragrance.
'Just put your arms back for now and tell me your favourite fairy story.'
You think for a few moments, watching the oil as it drip, drip, drips. The studio isn't a tower like any tale you remember but the feeling of being above reality pervades. Towers makes you think of the painting of the girl with long hair…Rapunzel…what's that other one with R…?
'Rumpelstiltskin!'
Julian's eyes catch yours. 'Interesting!'
'I'm not sure it's my favourite but there's something about it all the same.'
'Tell me about it.' He brings the brush up and brings it towards you, to the soft tip against one nipple.
Your mind instantly empties of the half-forgotten story as the brush twirls over your nipple, puckering it even though it touches you with the faintest of grazes.
'I can't remember it now. A dwarf and-' You break off to gasp as the brush leaves and returns laden with more oil. '-a spinning wheel-'
He moves the brush to your other nipple and runs it back and forth across the tip, training his bright eyes on yours and making it even harder to recall the story you've not read since you were a child.
'And something about hair…and…gold.'
'Close your eyes and it'll all come back to you.'
You do, attempting to conjure up images in your mind that are something other than his eyes and your own nipples, hardening as they take on the shine of the oil. It's impossible.
'Wasn't there a King somewhere? Who rescued her?'
'Definitely not!' Julian says, trailing a painted line down the side of your breast. He shifts in his seat and the next brush stroke is broader as it circles from the nipple outwards and outwards in a spiral. 'The King enslaved her, and so did Rumpelstiltskin in a different way. Who would you be slave to? The King with his riches and cruelty? Or the fairy dwarf with his magic power to turn straw into gold?'
'Rumpelstiltskin helps her! I remember!'
'Yes and no. Do you remember what he takes from her in exchange for his help?' The brush moves downwards over your stomach, teasing a path downwards, slipping over your skin, tickling as it goes.
'Jewellery or something, right?'
'In the children's version, yes. But I think he would have taken something only she could give him. This was a creature that could spin gold from straw, remember? He could make trinkets any time he wanted. What could she give him instead?'
'Ahhh!' You'd never thought of that before but it makes perfect sense. Or as much sense as anything could under the bewitching of your senses at the aroma of the oil and the sensation of it working its way to the mound of your pussy. You let your legs fall open, outer thighs resting on the smooth velvet. 'Herself.'
'Again, yes and no. The King let her know he would marry her if she pleased him. That was her only way out of her slavery. From a miller's daughter to the Queen? Obviously, she'd take that way out if she could. But she had to guard the thing both men wanted the most while at the same time securing Rumpelstiltskin's help. So, on the first night – there were three nights in all, you remember? There are always three of everything in fairy tales, just like here.'
He sweeps the brush between your legs, with a gentle pressure at your clit, so fleeting your answering throb comes as if minutes later, and moves down to dip into your pussy and pass lower between your cheeks to your ass. You raise your hips in response – or request.
'My subject is almost ready,' he says. 'What does she do to Rumpelstiltskin on the first night?'
You breathe in and out and lick your lips, trying to gather breath enough to speak instead of the less coherent noises coming from the back of your throat.
'She lets him see her,' you say. 'She knows that she has to keep him from touching her – ah!'
Julian uses the brush as if he's painting you, in smooth strokes up and down, pinning your lips apart as the brush passes and whispers past your clit. You swallow and continue, picturing yourself in a candlelit, stone-walled cell, dropping a coarse, long sleeved robe to the floor.
'Rumpelstiltskin is paralysed, staring and panting. She lifts her long hair from her breast and turns around. The light from the flame plays over her and throws shadows of her curves on the wall. Her ass, her thighs, her breasts. And she's never seen herself because they don't have mirrors anywhere but in royal palaces. She's scared so she's shaking, but she completes one whole turn and, when she looks back – he's gone but the straw has turned to gold.'
'Teasing,' says Julian. You hear the clink of wood against glass and for the moment the brushing stops. 'The next night?'
You bring your hands to your own breasts and slide them over your oiled skin, pinching your nipples as hard as the oil allows before your fingertips nip at the air as they slip off. Your body has heated the oil so it moves like the finest of veils and you moan aloud as a smaller, more precise brush finds your clit. It swells under the brush, so full you can feel it standing up, eager for the pressure to increase.
'The next night, the king has left even more straw than before and she is half scared Rumplestiltskin won't come, half scared he will and about what she might have to give him.'
'Maybe she's scared what she might want to give him?'
'Mmmm,' you agree but the sound turns into a moan of appreciation as the brush swirls around and around your clit in pinpointed circles, closing in on the peak with each sweep.
'This time, he tells her his price is higher because there's more work. She doesn't know what to do, not even what more means because her father has always been so strict with her and she never had a mother to tell her what men want. She takes off her clothes again and when he comes towards her she steps back until she's against the wall.'
The brush is moving faster now, flicking your clit with just enough pressure to excite but not to tip you over the edge. Your hands are still toying with your breasts and you imagine yourself with the cold stone at your back and the ugly, dark-eyed face of the little man staring at you.
'He's watching her so intently she follows his gaze as he licks his lips and she sees that his eyes rest between her legs often. She thinks maybe she needs to show more and all she has left is what's there, under the hair she's started to grow but that she instinctively knew not to ask her father about. So she puts her feet wider apart and she knows immediately that it was the right thing to do as Rumpelstiltskin's mouth drops open and he smiles.'
Julian replaces the soft brush with something small but stiffer and he begins dabbing at your clit as if touching up tiny gaps in his work. You break off again, unable to speak even though in your mind's eye, the dwarf is standing closer, his face level with your pussy.
'He breathes in and then he dips his head forward so he's pressed right up against her. And she's never felt anything there before but her hips push out from the wall and she presses herself back at him before she even knows she's doing it. She can't see his face anymore but she can feel what he's doing.'
'And what's that?'
'His tongue. He curls it up and it's long