They emerged, hand in hand, into an evening set cold underneath a mix of cloud and deep blue sky. The bright ball of the moon hung high stage left, bathing the city in light and infusing the unclouded parts of the sky with a deep and iridescent blue.
He turned and kissed her. They paused. Her breathing was still slightly heavy with the daring and excitement of her performance. He looked at her and, kissing her lips once more, reached under the hem of her dress to trace a finger along her slit. Heat and dampness betokened her arousal.
She had, after all, just danced, quite naked, for a table of Japanese businessmen who had mistaken her for a stripper. Perhaps they had known she was an amateur. Perhaps they were congratulating themselves on their coup; their excitement had certainly been unfeigned. Equally unfeigned was the fact that she had accepted their money and, in return, shown off her pert breasts, her pink nipples, her ass, her waxed pussy to these strange men.
The moonlight caught a ribbon of her blonde hair. Her graceful arm swept up trailing a moon shadow. He met the arm and pulled her into an arched doorway. They began to kiss even as his finger returned to its exploration of her warm, slicked slit. Their movements drew waves of shadow across the bright white puddle of moonlight draped across the entrance to the doorway like a mat. Tongue met tongue as his middle finger parted her folds - tight and well-formed - and began to penetrate.
He continued to marvel how her beauty had been augmented and refined with the passing of years. Her face - lovely and defined by angular and fresh Nordic lines rather than Hollywood standards - was framed by a cascade of blonde hair; hair that tumbled past a graceful and long neck to well-presented shoulders. Her B cup breasts verged on Cs, and were firm and set off by tightly defined pink nipples. She was lean and athletic, but the athlete's muscles were subtly masked by gentle curves of elegant femininity.
They kissed and he slid his finger in. Her warmth and slickness enveloped his digit. He curled slightly and tickled towards her g-spot. He slid his finger out, then in. He used a knee to nudge her knees more widely and then began to finger fuck her. Her hand reached down to trace the outline of his cock through his trousers. His other hand rose and held up the hem of her skirt in order to slip a second finger in. Cold air caressed his hand and her bare pussy lips.
He glanced over and a man, wearing a blue field coat and baseball cap, perhaps 25, was gazing rapt at her exposed pussy and his drenched fingers emerging from her. Her eyes were closed and her face was buried in his neck.
"You're being watched" he whispered.
Her head rose and she locked eyes with the young man. The hem of her skirt remained where it was. Half of her was bathed in shadow, but enough was on view that it could only be regarded as wanton display. He lasted a moment and then scuttled off.
They emerged from the doorway and crossed the street. The diesel chugging of a taxi advertised it presence. The light was on and they hailed it, both arms outstretched.
In the hotel she undressed by the window, moonlight bathing her curves. He placed her on her knees and they fucked, slowly, deliberately. Moonbeams caressed her skin, soft and pale and lovely. She toyed with her clit as he fucked her: she came first with three moans and a slight shudder. He extracted his cock and, throbbing, shot sperm over her ass crack.
The next morning broke somewhat cold. His first meeting was at ten in the morning. He had time to walk her to artist's studio. The sun had finally won its battle with the clouds and was emitting a weak, northerly light that caught flecks of gold in her flowing hair and trailed feeble shadows behind her long legs and shapely torso.
"Are you coming in?" she asked.
He answered. "I rather think not. I have meetings."
She slipped in and he paused outside the door. It was a quiet and somewhat gloomy day. The artist had put the lights on inside the studio. The street was even emptier than usual, though a growl of traffic spoke of the nearby boulevard . A soft rain began to fall. It dawned on him, as he opened his umbrella, that anyone scurrying by would not notice him, particularly with his umbrella blending into the seven foot hedge between him and the road. The occupants of the studio, with their lights on and gazing onto the dark green wall of hedge would be also hard pressed to see him. The weather and time of year were almost indulging him with an opportunity to spy.
He edged over from the gate and set his umbrella angled back against the hedge. He had an unobstructed view into the studio.
For ten minutes he watched the two of them chat. Her throaty laugh tumbled out muffled by glass and rain. She was standing chatting animatedly, half turned and facing the unseen artist.
She had clearly acquired a comfort and confidence when taking her clothes off in front of other people. He appraised her.
She undressed quite mater of factly, shrugging out of her shirt and skirt, peeling down her tights and slipping out of her bra in a matter of minutes. She gazed at her breasts and then at the artist. Her nipples were at attention. There was a laugh from her, and then his baritone response. She was evidently locking eyes with him and then she slid her last item of clothing down, over her thighs and down her legs. Her ass swung towards the window as she did so. She stood and, back to him, her hands went to her hips. Lucky artist.
Her ass was tight, a bit larger than she professed to like but lean, toned and beautiful: more Nordic than classic Dutch. He gazed admiringly.
He was intrigued when she sat down and assumed the pose of the day before (seated, legs slightly parted) and then rose again to stand. From his vantage point her right breast swayed as she stood. He was undoubtedly aroused, curious and slightly dry-mouthed with apprehension. She laughed and did a small pirouette, blonde mane twirling as she did. Once again she stood and sounds of laughter emanated from the room.
She seated herself and then the artist disappeared from view. There was a faint sound of rearranging of boxes and then the painter appeared, back turned, in the window. He stepped aside towards the front door and the hidden angle. No point in being caught, he thought. After a minute he stepped down the path, opened the gate and passed beyond the hedge.
--
Inside the painter's house she was sitting on the sofa, quite naked, appraising the man capturing her on canvas. He much older than her but nonetheless a man who clearly exercised. On the other hand he was moving with an uncertain gait. He stood before her and she, nude and quite unashamed, gazed up at him. He began to talk, rapidly, nervously. He spoke of his past, of past lovers, past women he had painted.
An hour passed. "May I see?" she finally asked.
"Normally not at this point. It can ruin things, not least because it imports a self-awareness into the picture."
"Please"
She looked at him searchingly.
"Alright"
