AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a fantasy based on Madonna's public persona. It is in no way intended to defame the character of the real-life Madonna Louise Ciccone.
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By the time I got back to the modest little loft where my wife and I had been living for the past 3 years, I felt like I was going to explode. The way Madonna had climaxed right there in the passenger seat, squealing and writhing on my fingers, had driven me wild with anticipation.
As soon as I pushed open our door I could smell the paints and turpentine. Hannah had the windows drawn wide open but that never seemed to help much. I smiled when I saw her. She was down on her hands and knees on a huge cushion, splattering dark blue paint from a brush onto her most recent canvas. Her white panties peeked at me from beneath the long paint-splattered man's shirt she always wore whenever inspiration struck (which could be any time of day or night).
"You're back early," she said, without bothering to look round.
I didn't say a word in response - just moved up behind her, kissing her neck and smoothing my fingers over the soft peachy cheeks of her ass.
She shivered. "Hey, what's got YOU all fired up, loverboy?"
I reached an arm around her, covering her mouth with my hand and pressed my teeth into her shoulder, gently biting into the pale flesh, causing her to moan softly.
Hannah instinctively dropped her head forward and her fiery hair fell into the fresh oils that she'd splattered across her canvas (she was currently exploring her fascination with Jackson Pollock).
"Oh, shit," she giggled. "Look what you made me do. That'll take days to wash out." She shook her head like a wet dog, splattering paint across the room as her hair swung out around her.
I reached my arms around her waist, cupping her breasts through the material of the shirt and drawing her up on to her knees so that my stomach was pressed into her back and my erection nudged against her buttocks through our clothing.
"You're rock hard," she exclaimed, laughing loudly but with a real excitement in her voice. I could feel her nipples hardening against my palms. She pushed herself back against me.
I reached for the buttons of the shirt, fumbling to unfasten it. Hannah helped me with the last two and I pulled the whole thing off over her shoulders and arms, hurling it across the room.
I reached around her waist, caressing her warm stomach and taking her breasts in my hands, flicking the hard nipples with my thumbs, brushing my lips up over her shoulder.
Hannah let out a soft appreciative moan and I smiled to myself.
I drew back, tickling a fingernail right down her spine then snatched her panties down.
She gasped, excited and started turning her head to look at me but I mischievously nudged her and she fell forward, her hands splattering down onto the canvas, splashing paint out over her belly and breasts. "Well, thank you," she giggled.
I grabbed hold of both legs, drawing them back and apart so I could see the soft wisps of red hair and the pink glistening folds of her sex.
My wife shivered, arching her back, expectantly, as I noisily unzipped my trousers, dragging them down to my knees along with my shorts so that my erection sprang up, bouncing over her soft thigh and nestling against her moist labia.
"Oh yeah, babe, fuck me," she groaned.
I took my cock in my fingers and guided the head up towards her pussy lips, slipping it between the pretty folds and sliding it deep into the silkiness of her hot centre.
Hannah fell forward so her arms smudged across the canvas and her forehead dropped forward, her hair a mess of sticky oils - yellow, green, blue, red. She attempted to push back against me, wanting more of me inside her but I gripped hold of her hips, holding her steady. I snickered to myself and smacked my palm against her right buttock with a slapping sound.
"Hey, you!" she said, shocked but laughing.
"That's for not looking to see who I was," I said, laughing as I stroked my fingers softly over her shoulders. "How far were you going to let me go before you checked?"
"And who ARE you?" she asked, giggling as she slid right back onto my cock so I was buried deep inside her.
"The post man."
"Oh, I see," she purred, "Special delivery."
We began to fuck like that right there on top of Hannah's painting, building to a steady rhythm of slippery thrusts and strokes.
And, that's when I told her about Madonna. "I met a girl in my cab today, baby." I drew back so my cock was only just inside her, the head resting right at the entrance of her vagina. Her moist labia seemed to quiver around me.
She stiffened, like she was unsure how to respond. "Oh, really? Is this what's got you so horny? Did you fuck her, honey?"
"No." I slid my erection deep back into the warmth and she moaned, despite herself, her fingers moving automatically to her clit.
