It was one of those boring days again.
John would make me sit as still as I could, and use me as he always did whenever he had a sudden epiphany to paint. “keep quiet and just help me, darling,” he would mutter whenever I made a peep of complaint, and he would silence me completely with a long and hard kiss before he stepped away from me, his eyes never leaving me, and sit again at his infernal favorite position, behind the painting easel with the paintbrush held in his left hand.
You see, John is a painter, an artist, and I am his muse. We have lived together ever since it was legally OK to do so, which would be about seven years ago. I am now twenty five years old, committed to my fifty year old man. I hold quite a good job at a publishing company. John, of course, procured it for me by pulling a few strings here and there.
By day, I would work as a personal assistant to the head of the cosmetics department, Anne, and after that I devote all my time to John. It’s been like this for seven long years. I don’t think I can say I have any friends outside of my work, and my contact with family would be called estranged at best, non-existent at worse.
John consumes me completely, and his presence makes up for everything that I lack. We have an amazing life together. But sometimes, I get so tired of this posing business for him.
He would paint beautiful artwork of me; usually in the nude. He would make me sit, lie down or stand on a small velvet platform with cushions to make me comfortable. Occasionally I would be required to wear a ‘prop’: a mask, little ballet shoes or sexy high-heeled stiletto shoes. Sometimes I would dangle a silk shawl on one foot, or cover my hair completely in a little French beret or pageboy cap. But more often than not I would be completely naked.
When I first started sitting for him, we would both always become very sexually aroused as I played the role of muse and he the master. He would take me right there at the platform and I would freely let him. It came to a point where he would orchestrate his work to make love at the same time. It became a highly erotic game that both of us enjoyed, me especially.
He was very into the whole sex-play thing then and would become more obsessed over it that I did. He used to sometimes make me spread my legs apart as I sat on the platform, and paint a gross image of my exposed pussy while masturbating with his other hand. Then, unable to take it any longer, he would come to me, go on his knees and lavish his mouth and tongue between my legs, giving me the climax that I wanted so badly. And as I became slippery and wet he would take off his clothes and feed his large, hard cock into me and fuck me hard until he came, shooting his hot cream deep into me.
After, he would primly button up and put his on clothes again, wipe me up with tissues and arrange my shaky, exhausted limbs to the previous position as before. And he, again, would take a step back, pick up the paintbrush with impressive calmness and sit behind his easel.
I guess I am an exhibitionist, because I become very sexual when I pose for him. I cannot help it, and don’t know why. Whenever I see John, this most serious, intense and handsome man concentrating so hard on painting me as I lie down as still as a mouse, I would become consumed by dirty thoughts. My pussy would become swollen and wet. John knew this, and used this knowledge to deliberately torture me, then give me the release I wanted.
We used to fuck all the time while we worked together. It made me happy and secure with what I was doing with my life for him, and posing for John became bearable because it came with the sex. But at the same time our little game became detrimental to my advancement as a model because John would never let me pose for another artist.
It was because he knew I became sexual when I pose for art, and he was afraid I would fuck other painters and artists who would commission me. And I’ll let you know that I have received a lot of offers. Too many offers, in fact, to the point that John became increasingly jealous and possessive of me. He became obsessed with me, and made sure I never had a single opportunity to pose for another or to even just make casual friends at all.
I suppose it was also because of our age difference. I am half his age, and when we met he was still considered a young-ish man at forty three . Now he is well into his mature age and I guess time has more or less caught up with him: we don’t have much sex as before.
At first, when I noticed how our little sex games became increasingly rare, I would beg him to have sex with me. As I posed on the velvet platform I would spread my legs and masturbate in front of him, letting him see how he affected me by showing him my aroused state.
I would spread apart the petal-like lips to show him my little hole, and put my finger inside me to draw out the moisture that sprang deep in me to take up to the clit. I would massage my little nub with a single finger as I lay there waiting for him, begging him to please, please come to me at the platform and fuck me.
But he would resist, first very reluctantly. Sometimes I would win, and with womanly satisfaction I would see him unzip his pants to release his dripping hard cock as he walked towards me. But, later on, he started to become immune by my antics, even irritated by it. “Please, I need to concentrate. Pull yourself together and pose for me properly,’ he would demand with a huge frown on his forehead.
Now, today, we have completely stopped the sex. Of course, we do often make love at nights or early in the morning when we wake up, but never again while both of us worked on his art. It is something I miss, something I need and crave. It is almost like a physical pain when I pose for him and receive nothing in return. He was my teacher and he taught me the pleasure of posing for him, but like a stern disciplinarian master he took it away from me without even a single regret.
At first we fought about it many times. But the arguments would always end with him winning, because he was so much more brilliant that I was with his words and he was very persuasive and could make me accept whatever he said, even despite myself.
He would point out that I did indeed receive something from sitting for him, and that would be my immortality etched on canvas. “Look here,” he would say with increasing anger, motioning to the art he was doing. “This is you, this is all you. I’ve made you and your beautiful young face and body live forever. Can’t you just be satisfied with that and not just want a fuck for it?”
So that night, while I sat where he wanted and stayed as still as I could as he wanted, I decided to take up a lover the moment he had to go away.
You see, John was not only a painter, but a lucrative salesman as well. He did not employ any agent to help sell his work but did everything himself. So there were times when he would have to take extended trips abroad the country and he would leave me alone at home.
John left for a European destination not long after that sitting. After kissing me goodbye and promising he would not take up too many days away, he left me all alone in our beautiful house. It was a sunny morning when I went to work, and at evening after a full day running after Anne, I decided to visit the closest art gallery from the publishing house.
I was wearing a little spaghetti-strap dress made of light chiffon material in light grey. It was a very sexy dress and left nothing to the imagination because it was so sheer. But, because I had a very girlish body and my breasts were not large though they were quite perky with pointy nipples, I was not vulgar in the least so I could get away with its skimpiness. On top of my dress, I roped around a long woolen scarf and had on my best leather bag and simple kitten heels.
As I was admiring the sculptures in the gallery, I knew that I was being watched. I did not need to turn around to confirm my guess. Because you see, after being trained for years to sit and post for an artist, one starts to possess a magic knowledge of knowing when one is being watched, and through this second sight one learns to anticipate how one needs to react and pose as a model.
I could guess that the person who was staring me was not far from me. I ignored him completely and turned to walk around the gallery. I knew he was following me. Suddenly the strangest thing happened: just as I would get aroused by John watching me while he painted, I was experiencing the same thing from the stranger of the gallery who was following my every move with his eyes.
My pussy began to turn hot as the blood from my body rushed between my legs, and I found myself breathing faster than normal since my pulse had quickened. My legs turned to water and I struggled to compose myself as I walked around, pretending to gaze and admire the sculptures around me.
I received the shock of my life when the stranger came up very close to me and lightly touched my arm. I almost jumped out of my skin because by then, my entire body was ultra-sensitive and I was already wet between the legs. I turned around, and faced a beautiful tall young man who looked even younger than I was.
The slim-bodied man had a shapely and full mouth, and possessed large doe eyes completely in black. He was smiling at me whilst I gazed at his utter perfection; his smile and eyes were confident and made him look cocky and very sure of himself.
Immediately, I knew what he was and recognized that he was actually akin to me. Meaning, this young stranger was also a model and an artist’s muse just like I am.
“I’m sorry I gave you a fright,” he said in a deep, cigarette ravaged voice that contrasted with his baby face. “I need to talk to you. Please don’t be alarmed. Can we speak privately? Here, let me take you to a quieter place.” He smiled at me again, and led me to a little corner room off the main gallery that had no one in it except for ourselves, and ugly paintings of cows and moose.
I was as helpless as a doll and my body was vibrating with sexual energy and need. Please, I silently said to myself, let this young man fuck me right now, here.
The young man pulled me and pinned me against the wall, away from the immediate view of anyone who entered this corner. Judging by the awful paintings surrounding us I had the hilarious notion that we would have this place all to ourselves. I let him lead me there, and I did not do anything to resist his hands from circling my small waist.
Emboldened, the man smiled again, this time an adorably leery one and he pushed his body against mine. He felt so good: he was already hard, and his muscular body felt so very young compared to John’s. He smelled fresh and clean, like the kind of soap one’s mother used on her child when very young.
“You knew I was staring at you, didn’t you,” he said, his palms rubbing against my skin and going further up to rest below the weight of my round and pointy breasts. His face was close enough to mine for me to easily reach up and kiss his beautiful mouth. “I know what you are. You’re looking for someone like me, aren’t you?”
I finally found my voice and decided to tease him back. “Well,” I said, “You want me, don’t you? I could feel your eyes all over me for almost half an hour. Do you do this often? Accosting lone women in this art gallery?”
He laughed and so did I. the sexual tension was so strong that it had to be broken by humor. “You can’t really blame me, you’re dressed like a hooker but you don’t look like it. You are very beautiful. You are an artist’s muse, I can tell you that. You know by now that I am one too. It’s funny that I never met anyone who looked like you. And I can tell you,” his voice dropped lower as his thumbs finally found my nipples, “I’ve never done this before, like you have never done it too.”
He kissed me then. It was deep, and exactly what I needed. Our tongues met and flicked around each other’s and he opened his mouth wider to kiss me deeper. His thumbs, rubbing against my hard nipples and his mouth against mine was like a drug; I moaned deeply and shifted my body to ease the throbbing sensation between my legs. Immediately he pressed his thighs against my pussy and I rubbed shameless against him, feeling completely out of control. I was forgetful that I was in public: all I wanted was him.
His mouth left mine and trailed against my neck, going down to capture my left nipple he had exposed by simply pushing away the thin straps that held my dress up. His tongue was curling around my tiny nipple and his other hand was unzipping his pants. Eagerly I helped him, and drew my hand inside the zipper’s opening to catch his cock. He gave a start as I circled my grasp around his large hard cock, and began to masturbate him slowly. I could feel the drops of pre-cum running from the little slit of his cock head and wetting my hand.
“Ah god,” he said, “I’m going to fuck you right now, right here. Don’t say a word and keep quiet. OK?” he spoke to me as he would a child, I thought. That made me wetter and I rubbed harder against his thigh as his mouth went to my other nipple. He suckled me hard once, then stood up to roughly lift me.
He pinned me hard against the wall and I wrapped my legs around his waist. As my hands pumped his cock, now completely out of his pants, he grabbed the thin fabric of my panties that covered my pussy and shoved it aside to play with my little clit. He was kissing me hard then, and he laughed as he felt my wet dripping pussy against his palm. “Oh, you really need a good fucking,” he said, his rough voices breaking up as he spoke softly.
“Fuck me,” I begged, and took his cock to aim it into me. He let go of my mouth, and as we stared into each other’s eyes he pushed himself in, locking and fusing our bodies. I almost cried out because he felt so good. So strong, and so very hard.
He slowly fucked me and my arms wrapped tightly about his neck and shoulders. I gave a quick look above his shoulder to dart around the room and was thankful that no one was around to catch us. Then I completely lost myself in the sensation he was giving me.
My pussy has a very tight opening, and from the way I had to stretch to accommodate his large cock I knew that it was giving him intense pleasure. He gave long strokes, burying himself deep in my pussy and drawing until his cock head was almost completely out of me. “You feel so good, please don’t stop,” I begged.
The man seemed to anticipated what I needed, so he reached down between our bodies and pressed a finger against my clit. He began to circle the little pink flesh as he fucked me long and hard, and he did so in a way that made me understand that he knew women’s bodies very well. I bit his shoulder to keep from crying out loud as I felt my body building to a climax. I could feel myself coming.
“I’m going to come,” I whispered, and in a frenzy he quickened his momentum and gave me very hard and short strokes. Immediately I felt myself toppling over the precipice and so I came, one of the biggest orgasms I had ever experienced. I couldn’t help myself. I cried out loud, almost as if I were sobbing. The little room filled with my voice, and the scents of our mingled juices. The young man laughed delightedly at me and watched my face as I gulped in breaths of air.
My pussy tightened even more after I came, and I knew my intense wet tightness was milking the young man off his very last reserve. He shifted his body and tried to fuck me a little less harder, but it was no used because just a few seconds later he came too, drawing out a harsh cry as he slammed his body into mine.
I could feel the young man shooting his come into me, it was very strong and he spurted out so much of it that his white juices leaked and ran down my ass in a hot trail. He fucked me until he was completely bone dry then stopped, crushing me with his weight and hugging me tight until both of us quieted down. He looked even more beautiful after he had come, because a softness and vulnerability appeared in his face and the cock-sure attitude he had before was gone.
After that very public coupling, we disentangled ourselves and still reeling from the intense pleasure of the sex we just had, we kissed each other, firmly held hands and simply walked out of the little nook. We smiled secretly at each other when we realized we were not caught or even noticed by the other visitors.
I took him back home to the house after that, and spent three days and nights with him. I learned about his body in ways that I never did with John. I also learned that he was just like I was, that he was a kept man and his girlfriend was the artist and he the muse. My lust and desires lifted from John, and was now permanently imprinted on the young man.
After those intense few days, he had to leave because John was about to come home. John never found out about my lover and was even delighted about my detachment whenever I sat for his paintings after that. In fact, he seemed very relieved that the pressure was off and that he could concentrate on his work without having to deal with my hang-up.
So John’s arrival home never stopped our affair. The young man and I always met in the art gallery, and if our desires for each other could not wait we would find ourselves back in that little room with the ugly paintings of the cows and moose. We never did get caught, and sometimes we would fantasize about leaving our partners and moving in together.
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