She sipped her champagne as she stared at the painting. She couldn’t really say what fascinated her about it. The colours, of course; she was always attracted to the colours in art. This reminded her of the fauvist movement: bright and bold, but with tempered lines — not quite real. Except that she couldn’t actually make out what it was. She peered at the title beside the canvas: ‘Woman’, it said. Perhaps she didn’t have enough perspective.
She began to walk slowly backwards, trying to find the optimal distance at which to appreciate the artist’s expression. Her head tipped slowly from side to side, trying to see if a different angle would help. In the back of her mind, she knew also that it could be extremely abstract and that she might never figure it out on her own. But suddenly, her eyes widened as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. She took a couple more steps to the side and backwards, just to be sure she was viewing from the best angle, and bumped into someone, champagne sloshing onto her wrist.
“I’m so sorry!” she blurted, whipping her head around, “I should have…” She stopped short as she found herself looking into the most amazing dark eyes; rimmed with lashes so long a girl could weep.
“Please don’t apologize,” he replied graciously. “It could happen to anyone.” She realized she was staring and smiled slightly to acknowledge his comment, hoping she didn’t appear too inane. “What do you think of the painting?” he asked indicating the canvas with a flick of his head. She became aware that his hand was on her hip where he had steadied her as she had backed into him, and that her buttocks were brushing his body. She felt that decency required her to move away, but those eyes had latched onto something inside her and she found herself unable to.
She turned her head away so he wouldn’t see her blush. “Err… I’ve only just realized what the subject is…” she tailed off, but swiftly recovered, “I really admire the artist’s style, though. His use of colour is quite astonishing.” She wanted to keep the conversation going, to prolong the contact, “What do you think of it?” She was surprised when his comments on the technical details proclaimed him the artist.
Abruptly, she felt uncomfortable. Here she was, almost intimately close to a complete stranger; a stranger who had painted the most intimate details of a woman, and who had just explained to her that though he was happy with how he had rendered the subject, he felt that the painting was emotionally lacking. She could feel her mind boggling at the implications of that statement.
She took another sip of her champagne. The alcohol was beginning to work on her inhibitions, and she dared to look into his mesmerizing eyes again and ask, “Are you exhibiting other works here? Some that, perhaps, you feel, capture that emotional element better?”
He smiled warmly at her, his eyes twinkling. “Yes, I am. Would you like to see them?”
She wondered at that sparkle, felt some trepidation at what subjects she might see in his other paintings, but she allowed him to place his hand on the small of her back and guide her to another part of the gallery. They stopped some ten feet in front of another portrait, this time of a nude. Yes, she thought she could feel the emotion in this one; how the brush had stroked the contours of her body as his hands might have previously. The warmer colours seemed to be concentrated around the erogenous zones, the brightest ones not necessarily where you might expect. Even from so far away, she could tell the texture on this work was quite simply amazing.
“Did you know the model well?” she asked, unsure of why that should matter to her.
“We were lovers for a while,” he replied almost off-handedly, contemplating his canvas. “I painted many pictures of her, but this one is an amalgam of those previous works, a sort of tribute to her.”
She studied the painting again, moving forwards and backwards, trying to imagine the woman portrayed. It crossed her mind that here was a man who appreciated women, who loved sex. When she stood beside him again and felt his hand once more on her lower back, she became conscious of the waves of warmth his touch generated throughout her pelvic area. As if under some compulsion, she told him, “I was an artist’s model once, but I never inspired such soulful Escort Bayan Bahçeşehir works.”
His left eyebrow raised and his head cocked slightly to one side, “Really? Would you like to model for me?”
She felt her face reddening. It had not been her intention to suggest that she should model for him. She would never have been so pretentious. “I…err…didn’t m-mean to imply…” she stammered.
His hand began to move up and down just above her buttocks and she felt his breath hot on her neck and ear. “You inspire me, my dear,” he whispered. “I want to paint you. I want to discover you.” She closed her eyes, her breathing quickening. “Please say you will. Please be my muse.”
Her heart beat faster still as he took her hand, set her champagne glass on a passing tray, and led her out of the gallery.
****** Undressing behind the Japanese screen, she could hear him shifting things around, perhaps moving canvases, selecting materials. Naked now, she put on the silk robe and came out from behind the screen, mounting the dais covered in brightly-coloured scatter cushions and surrounded by electric heaters. He smiled at her as he looked up from his preparations.
Dressed now in his working clothes, he approached her, pulled the tie from the robe and the robe from her shoulders, allowing it to pool around her feet. He stepped back to take in her body. As always, she found herself surprised at how unerotic this was. His gaze took in parts of her: her right breast, her left hip, the roundness of her belly, the hue of her skin, the curve of her calf; but not the whole of her. She was a subject, not an object, and felt no self-consciousness at his stare.
He asked her to sit, to fold one leg beneath her, raise the other knee, then lean back on one hand — no — elbow. He paused, his finger on his chin, his brow furrowed as he surveyed the effect. He changed his viewing angle, standing slightly behind her, his eyes tracing her back, the curve of her buttock, the space between her open legs. He knelt on the dais just behind her, his hand grasping the underside of her thigh, just behind the knee, repositioning her with her foot on her other knee. He pulled a cushion over and placed it under the breast nearest the floor, and another under her upper arm, then stood back again.
Apparently satisfied, he returned to his canvas and began to sketch her outline in charcoal. It took no more than 20 minutes, but she was glad when he seemed to have finished, as her muscles were already beginning to strain. He stood back again and regarded his work, his eyes flicking from the piece to her and back again. When he smiled, she started to push up to sitting.
“No,” he all but commanded. “Don’t move yet.”
She was unsure why; it was usual for the model to rest every 30 minutes or so, and especially if the artist had reached the end of a stage. He walked towards her and knelt on the dais just behind her, placing his hand on her hip and reclining so his lips were level with her ear.
His breath sent shivers through her shoulders as he whispered, “I haven’t told you how I work yet. Do you trust me?”
The warm touch of his hand on her skin, his breath and words tantalizing her, made her throw caution to the wind. “Yes,” she whispered back. “Yes, I trust you.”
She felt him draw away from her and return to his table. She allowed herself to turn her head slightly and could see that he appeared to be gathering materials. As he returned with his tubes of paint and a selection of brushes, he told her, “Close your eyes.”
She obeyed. Deprived of sight, her hearing was intensified, and she realized that he had not stopped at his easel but was now kneeling back on the dais, just behind her.
She drew in breath sharply, and her abdominal muscles clenched as she felt the soft, silky hairs of a clean, wide paintbrush trace slowly over each vertebra of her spine. Her back arched as the bristles ran between her buttocks, over her anus, and then dug in to her perineum ever so slightly as the brush flipped over and began its journey back up again, retracing the whole of her backbone up to her neck. This time, when the bristles turned again, they leisurely traced her upper arm, raising goosebumps, down to the elbow that rested at her waist; over the hipbone İstanbul Escort that was turned upwards, to the crease where her thigh met her pelvis, before beginning a languid ascent of the outside of her raised thigh to her knee. Then, teasingly slowly, the silken hairs moved down, down the inside of the same thigh, brushed her own silken hairs as they travelled over her pubic mound, and slothfully sketched the line of the inside of her other thigh.
Her breathing was deep and she could feel herself getting wetter with each inch that the brush stroked along her skin, moving back up her thigh again now, creeping across her belly, around and then over her breast, electrifying her as it swept over her nipple, before caressing her collarbone and over her shoulder to begin, again, its descent of her spine.
She let herself be enveloped by the sensuousness of the touch of the brush against her skin, and so was surprised when she felt something cool and gelatinous drop onto and start to slide down her buttock. Paint! He had squeezed paint onto her ass and now she felt his fingers begin to circle around over her skin. His feathery touch made her insides clench as he spread the cool pigment over her cheek and down to the valley where the paintbrush had just passed. Her concentration was now on the latter as it travelled once again over anus, lingering ever so slightly, then descended again, further this time. Her splayed legs and the swelling of her pussy caused by the sensations of the brush gave him easy access to her opening and the juices that had gathered there. The bristles dipped into this new medium, causing her to gasp, twisted around to coat properly, and then trailed up again, to mix with the paint he had spread on her buttock.
The stress in her muscles caused by remaining in the same unnatural position for a prolonged period of time, and exacerbated by the tension provoked by his titillation of her senses, was becoming unbearable. She tentatively extended the leg that was raised and felt his hand support her beneath the knee and raise it higher than she would have done. His soft voice apologized for not having let her rest until now and encouraged her to stretch and relax her muscles. She opened her eyes and rolled on to her back, reaching up with her arms and straightening her legs with relief. He was still kneeling to one side of her, and now he looked down on her outstretched body. His eyes were no longer those of the artist.
He reached for more paints, selecting the tubes quickly, and began to squeeze thick, short ropes of the different neutral colours on to her abdomen and chest. The strangeness of it excited her, making her forget the ache in her muscles that was, in any case, slowly ebbing away. He stood up then, pulling his t-shirt over his head, kicking off his shoes, and beginning to unfasten his pants. She was transfixed, not knowing exactly what would happen next, rapt with anticipation.
Divested now of his clothes, he stood at the foot of the dais, his erection not yet full, contemplating her as if deciding how to proceed. She realized she had begun to breathe more quickly. Finally, he reached forward with both hands, gently pushing her knees apart so he could kneel between her legs. His hands moved up her thighs and his thumbs traced the V at the top, before he slipped one finger inside her glistening pussy. She moaned loudly and raised her hips, sliding over its length, inviting him to push in further. He pressed up as he slid his finger out again, and on his second inward stroke, an additional finger joined it.
As his fingers stroked her to a steadily-building climax, she heard his sultry voice again. “Back at the gallery, you wondered about the emotional element in my paintings. This is it. This is the secret ingredient that brings out the best in my work.” In other circumstances, she would have been surprised, perhaps even shocked, but now her consciousness registered his explanation from a distance. He continued, “It baffles the experts. They can’t quite work out what gives my paintings that texture. They all ask me what my process is, how I apply the paint. But I’ll never tell.
“You and your body won’t only be my subject, my dear, you’ll also be my palette and my paint.” The idea of her being an integral part of his painting Escort İstanbul pushed her closer to the edge. “I’ll make you cum again and again, as many times as I need for my work. Cum for me, my dear. Give yourself to me. Give yourself to my art.”
Her moans were closer together and louder now as he increased his pace, his hand curved so the knuckle of his thumb rubbed her clitoris and his textured ring teased up and down her inner labia. All the muscles from her pelvis to her neck tensed as her body was literally wracked with orgasm, shooting enough juices for several paintings into his cupped palm and along his arm.
He wasted no time in using it to thin and mix the pigments he had placed upon her body. She lay panting, blinking away the white lights behind her eyes, savouring the sensations of her climax and of his fingers moving in circles on her skin. She watched him get up and fetch the canvas from his easel, position himself once more at her side before asking her to assume the same position as before, adjusting her body according to his sketch, and dipping a brush into the colours blended on her front and beginning to paint.
He worked quickly, as if possessed. Watching the paintbrushes dip into the pigments on her stomach and breasts, she was aware that he started with the paints that he had thinned out almost completely using her cum, then added other colours and consistencies that he had carefully mixed with the aid of her juices. She recalled from her fine-art classes that oil painting was produced in this way: ‘Lean’ layers followed by ‘fat’ layers.
It was not long before he seemed to come to the end of another stage. He told her that he had finished his underpainting and now he would have to leave it to dry. She stretched out again as he returned the canvas to its easel, still amazed at the surreal experience she was having. As he approached her again, she realized that he was not quite finished with her: His cock was now fully erect.
He knelt before her again on the dais, his eyes taking in the paints blended onto her skin. She saw they were filled with passion, but was unsure whether it was she that stirred such feelings in him or the narcissism of the artist contemplating the results of his work, even unfinished.
His paint-covered hands parted her legs again, leaving beige, peach and ochre streaks on her knees and thighs as they caressed upwards. He lay between them, his shaft pushing against her pubic bone and his balls resting against her still-wet pussy. His palms mixed the pigments on her skin once again as he fondled her breasts, squeezing her nipples gently between his fingers, causing her to try to raise her pelvis.
His large dark eyes looked deep into hers, “Thank you, my dear,” he murmured. “Thank you for being my muse, for inspiring me today. You have given me a gift, allowed me to create — the greatest gift of all.” His words moved her emotionally and sensually and, when he kissed her, his tongue as sweet as his words, she was already close to a new peak.
He continued to whisper to her that she was an essential part of his creation as he lifted his hips and slid easily into her now-aching pussy. His hand caressed her back, buttock and thigh, pulling her leg over his waist, and then pushed against the underside of her thigh as he plunged deeply into her. She gasped, her eyes closing and her walls contracting. He felt so good inside her, circling slowly, layering sensations as he had layered paint. She felt him adjust her position, moving her higher where she knew he would be stroking her g-spot as he moved in and out of her.
Slowly, he began, almost all the way out and tantalizingly all the way in, his thrusts sure and steady. With each stroke she moaned, the volume progressively increasing as he pushed her gradually closer to orgasm. She was nearing the brink now, her insides contracting and then expanding around his thickness. His pace and depth increased as he saw and felt it, and he continued to tell her how she sparked his creative flame, how she kindled his artistic fire, and how most of all he had wanted to fuck her so hard since she had backed her delicious ass into his groin at the gallery. The mixture of romantic imagery and pure sexual vulgarity sent her over the edge, and she screamed loud and long as her body shook inside and out, bringing him with her in four long spurts deep into her hot pussy.
Her calves lay across his thighs as they kissed and allowed their breathing to slow. Still tingling from her climax, she heard him speak again, “Next time, I’ll cum on your belly, and then I’ll have final ingredient I need to detail my painting.”