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She paints her lips. Slowly, carefully, with a small brush. Following the arch of the bow, down to the corner of the mouth where it tickles; pouting slightly, she looks at the shiny line she painted. Parting her lips, smiling, white teeth just showing.

She paints her lips red. Within the line she just made, she applies the rich red, taking pleasure in every stroke. Pausing, pulling the brush slowly across the lower lip... They shine, her lips, wet and slick. The line is darker, frames the lips. Accentuates them.

She paints her lips bright. And she knows he is looking at her, as she applies the final gloss. She knows he follows her every stroke, only waiting. He will be tasting her lips soon, smearing the lipstick she so carefully put on. He is part of the reason for the shiny, red lips.

She paints her lips shiny, and the strokes of the brush makes her close her eyes. The brush travels down her chin, leaving a shiny trail. Soon strong hands on her shoulders turn her around; his breath on her face makes her catch her own. His lips touch hers, softly at first, rapidly wanting more, craving all. All she has to give him, she gives him, leaving lipstick traces where no one will see.

She paints her lips once more. Each stroke reminds her of his touch, of his kiss, of his warm breath on her skin. His hands through her hair. Following her slow, contented smile, the brush paints this trail that he will follow.