Cary stood in the doorway of David’s studio, her silver-blonde hair catching the late afternoon light like strands of silk. At sixty-two, she carried herself with the poise of a dancer, long, toned legs, a trim waist, and curves that drew the eye without effort. David’s eyes lingered on her, first as a man, then as an artist.

“You’re even more beautiful in person,” he said, clearly in awe of her. His voice was warm, steady, the kind of voice, confident, that could sketch lines across canvas just as easily as across her body.

Cary smiled, a little shy, a little playful. “And you, David…you look exactly as I imagined, maybe even more handsome up close.”

They had met weeks ago online in the Lush Stories chat. Cary’s sultry photographs had caught his attention, and David’s watercolor paintings, raw, honest, and emotional, had captivated her.

When he offered to paint one of her pictures, she agreed. The result brought an “OMG.” Cary was stunned at how he’d captured her essence in soft strokes of shadow and light. That painting had been the spark, and this meeting…the inevitable fire.

There was an easy banter between them, turning a bit flirty, a definite mutual attraction. The conversation meandered, each feeling comfortable in the other’s presence. They discovered they both dug Miles Davis, prompting David to put on the Kind of Blue CD. When they discussed their favorite movies, it was karma that they both chose The Shawshank Redemption.

“Sit for me,” he said, gesturing toward the worn but comfortable chair in the center of the studio. His easel was already positioned, brushes laid out like instruments waiting for the music to begin.

Cary slipped onto the chair, wearing a simple white blouse and thong panties, nothing else. No bra. Her nipples brushed against the fabric, betraying her excitement.

David dipped his brush into the paint and began to work. His strokes were confident but distracted; Cary’s presence filled the room like perfume.

She waited until he was deep in his lines before casually opening the top button of her blouse. Just enough to hint at cleavage.

David paused mid-stroke, his eyes flicking up to hers. She met his gaze and smiled, as though daring him to look. He did, swallowing hard before returning to the canvas.

Another button slipped free. The blouse parted wider, showing the swell of her breasts, their soft curves framed by the crisp fabric.

David shifted on his stool, his pants tightening over the growing bulge she had already noticed. Cary smiled, oh that smile. She loved the effect she had on men, but this felt different. The air between them hummed with heat.

She stood slowly, letting the blouse slide from her shoulders. It drifted to the floor, leaving her topless, magnificent. Her D-cup breasts, full and proud, crowned with swollen pink nipples that begged to be touched, worshipped, devoured.

David dropped his brush.

The sound of it hitting the floor was the only warning before he crossed the room in long, purposeful strides. Cary rose to meet him, their mouths colliding in a kiss that was all passion and pent-up desire. His hands seized her waist, pulling her against his hardness, while hers tangled in his hair.

The kiss deepened, turned frantic, and by the time they broke for air, David was already guiding her to the couch tucked at the back of the studio.

“God, Cary,” he muttered against her lips as he eased her down onto the cushions. His hands covered her breasts, kneading, massaging, thumbs circling her aching nipples until she cried out. He bent his head, capturing one nipple in his mouth, sucking greedily, then the other, his tongue flicking like fire.

Cary arched beneath him, her body thrumming, hips writhing. “Yes, David…more.”

He slid lower, kissing down the plane of her stomach, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her arousal. Her thighs opened for him instinctively, and his tongue found her wetness. The first stroke made her gasp; the second sent her clawing at the cushions. He licked and sucked with the hunger of a man starved, burying his face in her pussy, tasting her, feasting on her.

She shattered quickly, overwhelmed by his skill. Her body shook as she came on his tongue, a cry echoing off the high studio walls. David held her down, devouring every drop, not stopping until she had fully succumbed to the pleasure.

When she finally stilled, Cary pushed him back with surprising strength, her eyes blazing with desire. “My turn.”

David let her position him on the couch, sitting back against the cushions. His cock strained against his pants, a thick, urgent presence begging to be freed. Cary wasted no time. She unzipped him, releasing him into the open, and her breath caught at the sight.

He was gorgeous, thick, veined, a proud seven inches of masculine perfection.

She knelt between his legs, her breasts swaying, and took him in her hand. Her tongue teased the head, circling slowly, then traced down his shaft to the base, a long, torturous lick that had him groaning aloud.

Cary smiled against his skin. “You taste as good as I imagined.”

She took him deeper, swallowing him inch by inch until his head nudged her throat. No hands, just lips, tongue, and suction. She moved rhythmically, her silver hair spilling around his thighs, her free hand massaging her own breasts, pinching her nipples to heighten her own arousal.

David was undone, his hips jerking as he fought for control. “Cary…I’m close…”

She let him slip free, replacing her mouth with her hand, stroking him fast and sure. He erupted, groaning her name, thick ribbons of cum shooting across her chest, splattering her breasts, coating her nipples.

Cary gasped at the heat of it, her eyes blazing with lust, her hand hungrily rubbing his juices as if they were finger paints.

David leaned forward, licking his own cum from her breasts, sucking her nipples clean as she moaned in delight.

Their mouths met again in a messy, hungry kiss, the taste of him mingling between them.

The easel, the painting, the brushes, they were forgotten. For now, there was only Cary, radiant and dripping with desire, and David, the artist who had found his ultimate muse.

The painting would wait until later; inspiration had never burned so hot.