Artists Wives

I'd always had a thing for artists.

What was it about them? Not their looks—that's for sure. Didn't matter what a guy looked like, whether he was embarrassingly young or decrepitly old, big or small in any direction. If he was an artist, I was into him. From afar. I never had the confidence to actually approach a guy. I figured I wasn't an artist's type.

So my friend Luxanne hooked me up with some work as a life model. She'd been doing it for years and told me what to expect. Nothing.

"You hear all this bullshit about painters seducing naked girls on velvet sofas," she said. "Pure romanticism. Never happens."

And if it never happened to her, there was no way in hell it would happen for me. Luxanne was slim and blonde, undeniably desirable. I was pretty much the opposite of that.

I gave it a shot nonetheless, hopes sky-high. A private session, too—none of that posing for a class of students stuff. Stripped bare, I laid my naked self out, but Master Reinhardt didn't take the bait. He was all business, all brushes and oils. I could see it in his eyes. No lust there. And I felt pretty crappy about that, even though he was rather old and not what most women would call handsome. None of that mattered. He was an artist, and that made me all butterfly-bellied the whole time I was sitting for him. Even though he was looking at me completely naked, I felt like he wasn't really seeing me at all. Maybe he was gay. I secretly hoped he was, just so this wouldn't be a case of yet another man gazing right past me. Why was I invisible?

The great master set down his brush and looked me in the eye. Would he make a move now? My heart raced. See me! Love me! Want me!

No such luck.

"I have business to attend to." His voice was dark and rough, like gravel. It made me tingle all over, especially below my belly. "My wife Ethel will bring your luncheon. Please pardon my absence. I shall return post haste."

"Okay, sure." He'd already left the room by the time I said, "No problem."

I wasn't sure where to go, or if this wife of his was bringing lunch to me. Hell, I couldn't even remember where I'd put my clothes! I definitely wanted to get dressed before some old lady came in the room and spotted me in my birthday suit.

Too late.

A wheeled cart pushed the studio door open, squealing as it entered the room. Behind it stood a young Asian woman, long black hair tucked behind her ears. She had on a tight black T-shirt and frayed jogging pants covered in paint.

"Hey." She sounded uninspired, like she'd rather be any place but here. "Lunch."

There was a spring salad on the cart, with cherry tomatoes and little bocconcini balls alongside grilled chicken. It looked amazing. So did she. I didn't want to admit my attraction, even to myself, but I couldn't deny that tingle in my pelvis. Artists...they did it for me every time.

Still, I felt jumpy and weird with this stranger seeing me naked.

"Sorry." Should I cover up my boobs and my bush? No, she'd think I was an idiot. "Master Reinhardt said his wife was bringing me lunch."

She raised an eyebrow, seeming unamused in the extreme. "Okay."

"You're obviously an artist too." I didn't know why I was talking. I felt so stupid. "Do a lot of artists work out of the house?"

"A few." She shrugged. "Students use the extra studio space in exchange for household chores, a little cooking and cleaning. It's a pretty good deal."

Ahh, so this girl was an art student! My pussy pulsed as I looked at the globs of paint coating her clothes. What was it about artists? God, there was even paint on her bare arms. She was irresistible!

Stretching out on the sofa, I said, "I'm Tara."

"Okay." She turned, and I was sure she would leave, but she didn't. She locked the door! I couldn't believe it. My belly did flip-flops as she inched between the master's canvas and the lunch cart, coming toward me. "You're naked."

I could hardly breathe. The look in her eyes, that dark lusty look, made me feel jittery and scared. I didn't know why.

"That's quite a bush." She was staring at my pussy.

I was so embarrassed I just wanted to die! "I'm sorry."

She laughed and shook her head. "No, I like it. I'm sick of shaved pussies. You don't see a nice thick pelt very often these days. Girls are so ashamed of hair."

Something inside me clicked from no to yes, and I lifted my arms to show her I didn't shave there either.

"Wow." She nodded, and the look in her eyes was so ruthless I really didn't know what would happen next. My guess was she was about to jump on me, but she didn't. She just looked. Stared.

I let my arms fall at my sides. The words came out of nowhere: "Do you want me?"

Her eyebrow went up. "Do you want me to want you?"

"Yes." I'd never been so forward in all my life. "I want you to lick me."

"Where?" She was playing with me, teasing, taunting.

I was too turned on to play games. With two fingers, I spread my pussy lips to show her the glistening pink inside. I'd been wet all morning. "Here."

She smiled, a half-smile, like half of her was deliriously happy and the other half was aching with desire. That's how I felt, too. I would have begged if she weren't so willing.

When I opened my legs, setting one bare foot up on the sofa, she fell to her knees like my pussy was a force she just couldn't resist. I wanted to feel humiliated that this beautiful student had commented on my pubic hair, obviously comparing me mentally with all the other women she'd been with, but instead I felt strangely proud.

She stared straight into my pussy as I held my lips open for her. My heart clamped as I awaited her reaction. I felt hot and cold in pulses, waves of heat and ice soaring through my body.

"Please." I couldn't wait any longer. "Lick me."

I watched her full lips open and her pink tongue emerge, soft as velvet. Her black hair shone like oil streams against the washed-out cotton of her T-shirt. It felt like millennia passed as her mouth approached my pussy, like she was moving in slow motion. Maybe she was.

And then her tongue met my clit, and I felt it like a sizzling streak through my core. Throwing my head back, I hissed, trying not to buck up and smack my wet pussy against her nose. It was hard to keep still. My body wanted to move, wanted to rock and writhe against her face. She had so much to give me—I could see it in her eyes.

When she dove at my pussy, I gasped, struggling to hold my lips wide open for her. Were my knuckles pummelling her nose? Did my pussy taste good? Was it sweet or was it musky, or could she taste only my juice? There was so much it was dripping down my ass crack, probably soaking Master Reinhardt's sofa. I'd have a lot of explaining to do when he came back.

But right now all I cared about was this sensation, her tongue lapping my clit in quick strokes. I'd never been licked by another woman. The sensation defied belief. She wasn't slow and steady, not at all. She attacked my cunt like she was running out of time, like she needed me to come right now.

I felt all the energy drain from my shoulders. My hands went numb. So did my toes. It all gravitated to my pussy. My clit felt full and huge, big as a cock, and when she sucked it into her hot mouth I felt like she was giving me a blowjob. I'd never in my life felt so wildly aroused. She gave me everything. Her mouth was my pleasure.

"Oh God!" I couldn't keep quiet. It felt too good. "Yes, please! Suck my clit, suck it harder!"

She did! My God, I wouldn't have believed it was possible, but she somehow managed to suck my clit and my pussy lips into her mouth and devour them en masse. Now I couldn't keep quiet and I couldn't keep still! I writhed against her face, still holding my outer lips open for her, trying desperately not to scratch her cheeks with my long fingernails.

"Fuck yeah!" I didn't usually swear like that, not even in bed, but the naughty words came streaming out beyond my control. "Fuck yeah, suck it, baby! Suck my fucking clit. That feels so fucking good you fucking slut!"

I'd never called anyone a slut in my life. I don't know where that came from, but it worked! She growled and shook her head side to side, putting a delicious strain on my clit. I was nothing but a big throbbing pussy being devoured by a beautiful stranger, and that was fine by me.

The edge was so close I could taste it. My climax was an ache pounding at the base of my pelvis, almost in my ass. It swelled each time she sucked and each time I swore, but I knew what would put me over the precipice. I'd been there before.

With my free hand, I pinched the closest nipple and lost all sense of time and place. My feet started kicking above the head between my legs, and I knew I was hollering like a fiend, but all I could hear was the rush of my heartbeat, like the ocean in my ears.

My legs began to ache, and I wrapped them around that black cotton back, forcing my pussy flush to her wet face. I couldn't stop myself. I thrust against her mouth, her chin, her cheeks, tracing my pussy juice all across her face until she was dripping with the stuff.

All at once, the pleasure was too much.

I tried to back away, but she kept eating me, kept sucking until I cried out, "Stop! Stop! Oh fuck, you have to stop!"

That's when I heard knocking on the studio door.

For a moment, everything buzzed. The world became too real.

Then I heard Master Reinhardt's voice. "Ethel? Ethel, would you let me inside?"

The girl between my legs glanced at the door, looking rather more nonchalant than I felt.

"Just a sec." Drawing away from my pussy, Ethel murmured, "I wish he'd stay out longer. I never get a turn."

I hadn't yet moved when she opened the door. I think I was in shock. My legs were still splayed, my pussy dripping juice all down the sofa. I was going to get fired for sure, wasn't I?

But Master Reinhardt simply looked from the food tray by the canvas to me on the sofa. As his wife slipped out the door, he picked up his brush and asked, "You didn't like your salad?"

How to respond? "It...I...I don't know."

I'd always had a thing for artists.

Now I have a thing for artists' wives.