Lipstick

This is in honour of and inspired by @HerKnight‘s (Knight’s Errant) first piece of long fiction: I Servant.

Greta pressed her freshly painted lips together and smiled at Adrian’s reflection in the mirror. “Let me put some on you.”

“Don’t be silly. And,” he sat at the bottom of the bed, bare-chested and bronzed in the lamplight, “what are you doing putting that on, anyway? It’s bedtime.”

“I’m making myself beautiful.” Shifting sideways on the padded seat before the dressing table, she patted the space she’d made. “Don’t be a spoilsport, come here. Don’t you want to be beautiful too?”

“Greta! It’s late. Just come to bed.” The tiniest whine crept into his voice.

She straightened her long naked back and the smile in the mirror disappeared. “Here. Now,” she ordered. The words curt, clipped.

Behind her, Adrian’s body stiffened. Pushing himself to his feet, he came to her and sat down beside her on the bench.

Still she didn’t turn her head, but addressed him through the mirror. Her smirk was not the smile she’d worn before. “That’s better. I hate it when you make me wait.”

Adrian let out a sigh. To the observer it might have been mistaken for a breath of bad temper, but Greta knew better. She turned the tube, revealing more of the lipstick’s obscene red tip. And still, without turning, she reached across and, using the mirror to guide her, began to smear first his upper lip, and then his lower one with colour.

“Touch yourself,” she whispered.

A trapped whimper forced its way up his throat, but he didn’t move. His brows furrowed – a man climbing an impossibly steep hill. But between his legs, his nestled cock filled with blood and bloomed in his lap.

“You’re such a pretty slut,” said Greta. “Don’t deny it. You know you want to touch yourself.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Adrian wrapped his hand around his tumescent prick. And turning then, Greta used the lipstick to make a gaudy mouth of his encircling fingers, carefully avoiding the skin of his cockhead.

“There. That’s much better, isn’t it?” she murmured, kissed his bare shoulder and left her mark on his flesh.

With a noisy exhalation, Adrian began to stroke himself. The mouth that was his fist slid effortlessly up and down the shaft, streaking it with crimson, the oil from the lipstick easing his way.

She capped the lipstick, rose from the bench and moved behind him, draping her arms around his shoulders. Her flattened hands drifted down, over his chest, rising and falling with his breath.

With her cheek pressed to his, she stared at his reflection and whispered. “You are, aren’t you? My special little wanton slut?”

Again Adrian’s brows drew together and he nodded.

“Say it, you little whore.”

“I am. I’m yours.”

“My what?”

“Your slut.”

With every word, the hand that jerked his cock picked up speed, stroked harder. She looked down to see the garish pole it had become before raising her gaze to the mirror once more. Her left hand curled, forefinger and thumb closing around his nipple, ruddy and seized with arousal. With the other, she reached up and touched his rouged lips.

“Open,” she hissed.

It was as if the moan obeyed her, forcing his mouth to let her fingers in. She slid two into the warm, wet interior.

“Suck.”

His lips closed, his cheeks hollowed, his glazed eyes shut. And the fingers penetrated his painted orifice with slow precision. In his lap, his fist pumped with cruel abandon.

“Now,” said Greta, pressing her own lipsticked mouth to his ear, “moan like the gorgeous slut you are.”

As the first plaintive, needy sound reverberated around her fingers, his body went rigid. Three vulnerable shudders later he spewed the first of his releases, spattering his chest with thick white seed. Adrian choked on his sob, and the cum rivered over his fisted hand, white on red.

Withdrawing her hand, Greta leaned over his shoulder and kissed his ruined mouth, adding colour to colour, eating the breath he tried to catch.

“Good boy,” she murmured against his lips.