“Makeup” Sex

How does that feel? Kailey asked, playfully running the soft bristles of one of her makeup brushes along the hollow between my neck and collarbone. I shivered imperceptibly, but she still noted the effect it had on me. She was cleaning and organizing her vast assortment of brushes\’ranging from narrow and firm to big and bushy–for a job we had the next day. She is a makeup artist and I am a television producer. And I had landed us a gig where she would do makeup and I would ask the questions for a series of on-camera interviews.

One of the most well kept secrets of my life is my obsession with makeup, because I spent my formative years as a tomboy and my adulthood as a makeup minimalist. But when I met Kailey, her dark eyes smoldering beneath shimmering eyelids, I felt weak all over.

After our first, luscious fuck, I traced the outline of a tattoo on her elbow depicting makeup brushes, over and over again while she slept–as if I might eventually feel the illustrated bristles gently yield against my fingertips.

Early in our relationship, she sat me down at her vanity and worked on my face, using different brushes and a palette of colors to render a gorgeously subtle effect that kept me looking like me–just the flawlessly-skinned, bright-eyed version of me. All the while, I closed my eyes–entranced by the soft, smooth fibers stroking my face in short, little licks. In private, her makeup skills served as my foreplay. What would happen when she practiced her skills publicly, on the same job as me?

We arrived at the studio the next morning and I tried to keep my mind on directing the set and lighting design for the interviews–all the while watching her strap-on her makeup belt, filled with her splendid assortment of nearly twenty different brushes, and go to work on our first interviewee. When it came time to sit the woman down in the hot seat where I would ask her questions beneath the lights and in front of the camera, I found excuses to have Kailey step in and touch her up periodically–while I watched the intent, rapid brush strokes in the monitor with matching, hurried breaths. I barely recall what I asked each person that day, but I do remember the growing agitation between my legs.

I couldn’t get her home fast enough after the shoot. She simply wore a serene smile that silently urged patience. She pushed me down on the bed and leisurely undressed first me, then herself, and strapped on her makeup belt again–this time just for me.  “We’re going to do this, one brush at a time, top to bottom, she promised, as she pulled the first one out and began her slow and delicious descent.


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