'She's very knowing for an innocent miller's daughter,' Julian says and you can hear the smirk in his voice. 'Open your eyes!'
He gets up and everything stops, the tickling, the brushing, the pressure. But your clit is still throbbing, and your eyes flicker open, bleary and unfocused. It takes a couple of seconds for them to clear and, by then, Julian is behind the tripod, adjusting the camera that's pointed at you.
'Carry on,' he says, beginning to click the shutter. 'You're ready. You're perfect.'
You want to beg him to come back and fuck you but you can see that this is what he brought you here for. The canvas has been prepared and if anything else is going to happen, the art comes first. Literally.
You talk into the camera, still holding the images in your mind's eye and letting the story play out as if the characters are acting and you're just the witness, not the creator. 'Rumpelstiltskin's tongue unfurls right into her and it's fat and solid, but flexes and twists and she has to put one hand over her mouth in case she screams and the guards hear.'
Click, click, click. The shutter opens and closes in rapid fire.
'Then he pulls his tongue out, forever pulling and pulling with its rasping surface until he kind of slithers it against her clit. She didn't even know she had another place there. And she's so hot and wet and turned on and all these feelings she's never had that she orgasms into his face. And when he steps back his mouth and nose and chin are shining wet.'
'Good ending!' Julian straightens up and grins. 'Those are going to be amazing shots.'
'That's not the end though, is it?' Your voice is hopeful, almost pleading.
'Of the story? Noooo.'
You let out an aggravated sigh and prop yourself up on your elbows. 'Come on! You can't just take photos!'
'A good artist knows when to stop,' he says, but he comes back to sit on the cushions and you can see his shirt is sticking to his bony chest and an erection is pushing against his tight jeans.
'Lay back again and I'll finish it,' he promises.
You close your eyes and sink back as he starts talking.
'On the third night, the miller's daughter is sitting in a room piled to the ceiling with straw and the King has told her he will marry her for sure if she can turn it all to gold in one night. She's scared she looks different to him after her torrid night, so she keeps her eyes down and tries to look subservient while all the time she's thinking about Rumpelstiltskin and what he did to her. But she knows that whatever it is men want from women, it's more than what he took the night before and that she's in terrible danger.'
You gasp as something hard parts your lips. It's smooth and cool and it's definitely not Julian. But he returns a brush to your clit and you stay quiet as he moves what you realise is the handle of another brush inside you.
'So when he arrives, she asks him what he wants and he says this time he wants her. He tells her he is going to fuck her and she'll be the Queen he fucked. And she says no. He's angry, you know, he tasted her just the night before and he wants his prize. Giving her gold for straw is nothing to him but he wants what he wants. She's clever though. She tells him she will be the Queen he fucks instead. He makes her promise and he says he'll take her first born son if she doesn't keep her word.'
The handle and the brush work together now, plunging in and out, painting pleasure over and around your clit. You work your hips, rising and falling to speed yourself to the edge and over. The miller's daughter didn't get her satisfaction on the third night but you're going to. Everything pulls into the centre concentrated at the tip of your clit and then suddenly expanding outwards to take in your pussy, thighs and spreading upwards across your slick stomach, tightening your nipples and shaking your arms and legs. You cry out and the image in your head vanishes with Rumpelstiltskin's completion of the deal.
You lay limp against the cushions and the handle slides out of you. 'Story's over?'
'Not quite.'
You open your eyes expecting to see Julian stripping off but he's busy re-corking the bottle and wiping the brushes on a cloth.
'She becomes Queen and she forgets about Rumpelstiltskin. Until she has her first baby. Actually, even then she doesn't remember him. But then he appears in her bedroom and demands his price. She's used to her Queenly power now and she refuses. But he says he'll take the baby prince if she doesn't give him what he wants. But she still says no so he makes her another deal. That if she can guess his name, she is free of her debt. She makes two guesses on two days and gets them wrong. But the third day, after she's sent messengers everywhere to learn the name of the dwarf, one of them comes across him, dancing around a fire, singing about his victory and how she'll never guess his name is Rumpelstiltskin…'
Julian gets up and takes his camera off the tripod to bring it back and show it to you. You sit forward and curl your legs up, crossing your arms over your breasts. It's clear that he's not going to jump on the cushion bed with you but you can't complain. That was pretty sensational and, you have to admit, you're curious what the camera caught.
'When she guesses his name, he's so furious he stamps his foot all the way through the floor – here you are.' He holds the camera so you can see the screen. 'And gets stuck.'
He flicks through the images, close ups on your face and long shots of your whole body as well as very graphic photos of your spread pussy, everything gleaming with the oil he painted you with. Even in the pictures where you can see only your eyes, you can tell something is dilating your pupils and giving that glint you saw in the paintings.
'He's even angrier then and he tears himself in half trying to get out.' The last of the pictures whizz past. 'And they all live happily ever after.'
'That's quite the story!' you say, sitting up as he goes back to hook the camera up to a laptop and pulls his easel around.
'It was the way you told it,' he says, distractedly.
You can't help asking, 'Do you ever…ahh, go for the happy ending for yourself?'
'Nah,' he says. 'I never touch, remember?' Now what he said in the bar downstairs makes sense.
'Never?' You can't believe it.
'Nope. This is love, sex, fucking. The work. I'm, like, superstitious about it. What if I know and then I can't capture it here?' He taps the canvas with his finger.
'You can't paint the same thing forever though.'
'Maybe. Maybe not.' He shrugs. 'Do you mind? I'm really turned on and I need to channel.' He nods his head towards your pile of clothes. 'This next piece should be up in a week or so. Stop by and have a look. I think you'll like it.'
You get dressed. He's not unfriendly but you can just tell he's entering another mode and, although he smiles when he thanks you and says goodbye, you descend the stairs alone and let yourself back out into the bar. It's not much busier than it was before and you exit onto the street, sure you'll be back to see the painting.
Ten days later, you're at X3 again. Only this time you're dressed as yourself, casually. You find your painting hung in the centre of the wall in the most prominent position. You're instantly recognisable but the strange thing is, he's captured you more than Giselle by painting you as you were under the makeup you had on that night. Your hair swims around your ethereal face and you're reclining with your legs wide, just as you remember, in all your pink and slippery glory, nipples hard and glossed.
But between your legs he's painted something that wasn't there in reality – the grey, stunted form of the dwarf, bending over you on all fours. He has a long black tongue that's so realistic it strains with tension as it laps inside you.
You're not surprised when you look back up at the eyes – your eyes – and see they remember all too clearly the story that was spun that night.
The end