Female Arms Drawing Novels & Stories

When she heard his question, she looked at him and smiled at him frankly. "Mr. Fergerson, your hands are as pretty as a picture. It makes me want to draw them." In the eyes of painters, hands were nearly as important as faces when it came to the human body. Hands were also the most difficult part to express when painting or drawing bodies. Penny had developed the habit of observing other's hands. Caleb had a cold temperament. His wrist bones were long, and every part that was exposed looked perfect. The movement of his fingertips when he was deep in thought was extremely gentle.

I kept working on my art and trying new ways to express myself, even though it was difficult. After much reflection, I grabbed my paintbrush and was able to bring into existence the precise image that I had so vividly imagined. Deliberately and confidently, I blended the colors of black, yellow, red, orange, and blue within my paint tray, knowing exactly what I wanted to achieve. With great precision, I skillfully painted the image of a female silhouette, her arms raised high in the air. I was surprised at how easily it came to me. And then, with great care and attention to detail, I drew a butterfly being released from her open hand.

Firm. I closed my eyes. I tried to paint in my mind. The lines were still wrong. I opened my eyes. She was licking my underarm now. Her tongue traced the muscle. The hair. The scent of me. She moaned against my skin. Her hand never stopped stroking my cock. I reached for the sketchpad beside the bed. Charcoal in my other hand. I started to draw her. The line came out clean. Sharp. Alive. I drew her eyes. The way they looked up at me. Endearing. Devoted. I drew her mouth. The way her lips wrapped around my balls. I drew her hair. The way it fell across her shoulder as she licked my underarm.

Azriel commanded in an utterly casual tone of voice, as if he were only showing a drawing of a natural landscape. Isolde, with trembling fingers, turned the paper to the second page. There, the strokes of the drawing were far more bold and wild. There appeared a sketch of Isolde sitting leaning back with her pair of plump legs forced wide apart. Azriel's head was depicted as buried between the mounds of Isolde's large breasts, as if nursing greedily there. Not stopping there, one of Azriel's hands in the drawing appeared to grope downward, with detailed fingers depicted as penetrating Isolde's sensitive vagina area.

It was a study in charcoal and white chalk on paper mounted on canvas. Less color, more form. And the form was a seated man. The face was blurred, merely a suggestion of shadow where the eyes would be, a stroke for the nose, a line for the tightly clenched mouth. But the rest… the shoulders were broad, angular, carrying visible tension in their slope. The chest, hinted at beneath an open shirt (or was it just shadow?), had the breadth and definition of a man who had once played sports and still retained the structure beneath the patina of office years. The hands, resting on the knees, were drawn with anatomical detail—prominent veins, protruding knuckles, broad palms. They were hands that bu

With a few quick, confident strokes, I sketched Alexander's sharp, stoic profile— gold-rimmed glasses, tailored suit, all restraint and cold elegance. And yet, he was holding me in his arms, my dress hitched up to reveal a sliver of pale, smooth leg wrapped around his waist. A string of sandalwood beads circled his fingers, and his head was bowed, his lips pressed to my collarbone. The drawing oozed with raw, unbridled desire. I finished it in minutes, the lines fluid and charged with tension. I nodded in satisfaction, then uploaded it to my long-forgotten account in one smooth motion.

I looked down at the drawing. The coat was enormous, billowing out to the edges of the page. The legs were different lengths. One arm appeared to be somewhere in the vicinity of the shoulder and the other was making independent decisions about its location. “That’s me?” I said. “Obviously.” “Right,” I said. “Yes. I see it.” “Mama.”

She felt full, but not full enough. The walls of her pussy squeezed her digits as she added another. Three fingers moved in and out of her in an ungodly speed, and gods, it was so good. So, so good. Again, she pictured a man standing in front of her. His raging erection was just an inch away. Expansive shoulders encased in the short sleeves of a fitted tee. Like stone sculpted to perfection, his arms, were thick and muscular. Veins traced the path of his strength. His chest was broad, a solid wall of strength that tapered down to a trim waist, where the sleeves of his overalls were tied.

The moon shone brightly down on its body, allowing me to see its dark and light grey fur with tints of black and brown clearly. As if I were under a spell by its beauty, I felt myself slowly creeping toward it and stopped close to its side. Unable to fight the urge to touch its fur, I reached out a hand to touch it, but when I did, his body morphed so fast that I was stunned to see his arm holding mine, now naked. Even in his human form, he still avoids looking at me, despite our closeness. I was used to it; after all, I dwell in a house with a mother who can't even stand to see the face of her own daughter.

Lila asked, her voice lower, like the storm demanded they match its mood. “Yeah,” Maya answered, her voice soft. “Makes me feel… less stuck.” Lila pushed herself up from the chair and moved closer. Maya’s blanket slipped down a little, exposing more of her thigh, and Lila leaned over the back of the couch, peeking into the sketchbook. The drawing was of two hands, fingers locked together. One hand looked rougher, the other softer. “Interesting,” Lila murmured, close enough that Maya felt her breath. “Whose hands?”