Painted Prey
by rustbecci
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Erotica Story: Ada volunteers as a nude body-paint model for an erotic “Naughty Bugs” art session. Three artists—including her local grocery clerk are ready for the job. Warning: Includes AI Text Generation and Editing.
Caution: This Erotica Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual Fiction Futanari Humiliation Nudism AI Generated .
Ada arrived at the community art center a few minutes after 6 p.m. on that chilly January evening in 2026. The large main room was already alive with preparation: bright overhead lights flooded the space, casting no shadows, while the air carried the sharp, nostalgic bite of acrylic paint, the chemical edge of turpentine, and the faint mustiness of decades-old hardwood floors. Three wooden easels had been positioned in a loose semi-circle around the central raised platform—a sturdy, carpeted dais about two feet high, bathed in the warm white glow of four adjustable spotlights. The setup felt clinical and theatrical at once.
The three painters were already there, waiting with quiet anticipation. Mark, mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair neatly trimmed, was someone she recognized immediately—he worked at the local grocery store where she shopped every week, always polite behind the counter, scanning her items with a quick smile and small talk about the weather or weekend plans. Tonight, his eyes held something new, darker. Beside him stood a younger man in his twenties, arms sleeved in colorful tattoos that disappeared under rolled-up shirt cuffs, his grin equal parts nervous and eager. The third was older, sixties, silver hair swept back, posture straight, hands steady in the way only long practice could make them. He looked like someone who had painted dozens of bodies before and knew exactly how far art could stretch propriety.
Ada approached the platform in her thin white cotton robe, loosely belted at the waist. The fabric was so light it barely registered against her skin. Beneath it she wore nothing—freshly waxed smooth from neck to ankle, the silver barbell of her clit piercing a cool, secret weight between her thighs.
The older painter stepped forward first, offering a small, professional smile.
“Thank you for volunteering,” he said, voice calm and measured. “Before we begin, I want to be very clear about what this session will require. The theme is ‘Naughty Bugs,’ and the organizers want maximum detail—realistic textures, shading, layered effects. That means we’ll be applying paint directly with brushes, and quite often with our hands. We’ll need to steady the skin, blend edges, reach difficult angles. In practice, that means touching ... everywhere the design calls for it. Your breasts, your stomach, your thighs, between your legs—every intimate place where the bugs need to live. We’ll be spreading skin, holding you open, working very close. I need to know you’re completely comfortable with that level of physical contact before we start.”
His words landed like stones in still water. Ada felt heat bloom across her chest, her nipples tightening instantly against the robe. She swallowed once, then met his gaze.
“Yes,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “I’m okay with it.”
She stepped up onto the platform. The carpet was soft under her bare feet. With fingers that trembled only slightly, she reached for the belt and untied it. The robe parted, then slipped from her shoulders in a slow cascade, pooling at her feet like spilled milk.
Naked.
Completely.
The spotlights felt hot against her skin. She stood tall, arms relaxed at her sides, chin lifted, letting them look. Heavy breasts, full and slightly pendulous, nipples already dark and erect from nerves and the cool draft. The gentle curve of her belly, the flare of her hips. Between her thighs, the silver glint of the piercing caught every beam of light, drawing the eye to the smooth, bare lips below. A faint flush had begun to spread across her chest and throat, betraying her.
She looked at each man in turn. Mark’s eyes widened, pupils dilating with recognition and something hungrier—she knew him from the grocery store, those weekly exchanges of pleasantries over produce and receipts now twisted into this intimate exposure. The younger painter’s grin froze, then softened into open awe. The older one simply studied her with the detached appreciation of an artist facing excellent raw material.
The older painter cleared his throat. “Pose?”
They worked together to position her. Weight mostly on her left leg. Right leg lifted, knee bent, foot placed on a padded wooden block about eight inches high so her thighs parted wide—pussy completely open to the room, inner lips slightly separated by the angle. Arms raised overhead, elbows softly bent, hands gripping a horizontal metal bar they quickly bolted into place above her. The stretch elongated her torso, lifted her breasts higher, exposed the tender skin of her underarms, the vulnerable undersides of her breasts, the deep crack of her ass. Every inch of her was on display. Nothing hidden.
The first touch of air against her exposed sex made her shiver. She could feel herself growing slick already—the humiliating, undeniable evidence of her arousal gathering at her entrance, glistening under the merciless lights.
They began.
The older painter started on her shoulders and upper back, painting delicate fireflies—glowing yellow abdomens pulsing with luminescent paint, wings half-spread as though in flight. He held her arm steady, fingers tracing the soft skin beneath her shoulder blades, brushing lightly over the curve where neck met shoulder. Ada exhaled slowly. This isn’t so bad, she thought. Just pretty little glowing bugs on safe places. It almost feels ... normal, other than her being completely naked.
Then the older painter paused, selected a fresh brush, and said calmly, “Now let’s move to the breasts for the black widow.”
Her stomach dropped. They’re going straight for the most sensitive parts—no more gentle warm-up.
He cupped her left breast in his large, warm hand, enveloping it completely. His thumb settled directly over her nipple and began a slow, rhythmic drag—back and forth, back and forth—as he painted the plump, shining abdomen of the black widow, legs curling sensually around the full curve, tips disappearing under the swell or trailing toward the peak. The constant friction made her nipple throb, tightening to an almost painful point. Oh God, she thought, he’s practically jerking it under the pretense of art. I’m already soaked and they’ve barely touched the real parts.
Mark moved to her right side. He chose bright cadmium red for the ladybugs, mixing in tiny dots of glossy black for the spots. He painted a loose cluster—six or seven beetles—scattered across her ribs, trailing upward to disappear beneath the underside of her breast, then one final, plump ladybug perched directly on her nipple, its shell split slightly as though about to take flight. He gripped her breast fully, fingers digging in just enough to hold the soft flesh steady while he blended the red into her skin. His thumb circled her nipple in slow, possessive spirals, pressing lightly, then harder, then lightly again—each pass disguised as blending, none of them accidental. “Hold still,” he murmured, voice low and rough, eyes lifting to meet hers. Ada’s mind spun: This is the guy who knows I buy the same brand of yogurt every week, and now he’s playing with my nipple like it’s his. The thought made her clit pulse against the piercing.
The younger painter knelt between her spread thighs. He started low on her inner thigh, drawing a meticulous procession of tiny black ants—each one no larger than a grain of rice, carrying minute fragments of green leaves. The trail curved upward, growing bolder as it approached her sex. When he reached her pussy, he set the brush down and used both hands. His fingers parted her outer labia gently but firmly, then spread the delicate inner lips wide, exposing every glistening pink fold, the swollen entrance, the erect clit framed by the silver barbell. The brush returned—soft bristles stroking along her slick inner lips, painting ants that appeared to vanish into her wetness. Then came the praying mantis: vibrant emerald green body, angular triangular head, translucent wings folded along its back. He positioned it just above her clit, front legs outstretched toward the piercing as though ready to seize and devour. As he added the finest details—tiny spines on the legs, delicate eye spots—his thumb “slipped,” grazing the barbell directly. Ada gasped, hips jerking involuntarily. Her arousal coated his fingers, shining wetly under the lights. He looked up at her, eyes dark with hunger, and whispered, “You’re the perfect canvas ... so wet it’s like the paint is already here.” She wanted to die of embarrassment and come at the same time.
They moved behind her next. The older painter placed both hands on her ass cheeks and pulled them apart slowly—deliberately—exposing her tight, puckered hole to the cool air and their collective gaze. Ada clenched instinctively, then forced herself to relax, trembling. The younger painter joined him, brush loaded with earthy brown and muted green. He painted stink bugs—plump, segmented bodies with tiny legs splayed—crawling out from between her ass cheeks, some halfway emerged as though burrowing from within. The brush dragged between her spread cheeks, bristles circling her sensitive rim in slow, teasing spirals, then pressing gently inward—cold, wet paint mimicking shallow penetration.
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