The mid-summer sun was cascading through the trees behind her as she rounded into the open portion of the plaza. Blonde hair fell in waves to her shoulders, and her lithe frame moved with a sense of determination. She retained a sense of feminine softness despite the clear athleticism; she wore a thin summer dress and a flimsier bra than many more conventional American women might favour, and the perfect line of her B cup breasts swayed. The dress itself -- a slightly flared blue cotton bought in Milan -- was almost translucent in the sun's glare. A stray breeze ruffled dress and hair. He gazed steadily and admiringly.
He was waiting on the plaza outside his office. It was a typically muggy East Coast day, the heat oppressive even in the shade of ranks of trees. The sun had yet to brown her pale North Sea skin. She flashed him a warm smile. Early 40s she could pass for early 30s, and quite often did.
"I imagine we will eat outside." She said, beaming.
Dinner was called for 730 and it was a ten minute walk. As she chatted about her day at the office -- politics with the CEO a constant strain -- a cooler breeze began to flow and he glanced sideways at her to admire her cotton-hugged figure. Not a Playboy body of exaggerated curves and Barbie-breasts, but a classic beauty, a composition of smooth proportion and line and elegance.
She was right. Setting her handbag by the door they advanced in behind a chatty hostess to discover that the table had been set on the terrace and drinks spilled from the kitchen and adjoining seating area through the doors to the table outside. Ten for dinner; the conversation swirled above the traffic below. The hostess was a darker blonde, shorter (perhaps 5'4"), hippier (in perhaps both figure as well as bohemian tendencies) and possessed of prominent, large breasts.
They separated to talk to other guests, never reconnecting amidst the conversational free flow. They were called to sit at the table half an hour later. He glanced across at her, smiling. She was utterly desirable.
The meal was well paced, and a summer rose gave way to a Burgundy and grilled halibut. The sun set behind them and the temperature dropped somewhat.
Seated two seats diagonal from him she asked "Would you mind fetching my wrap? Pale blue pashmina in my bag by the door."
As he went round the table her hand glanced against his and then held firm against his wrist, arresting his movement. She followed that with a caress that subtly caused him to lean in. She whispered, a soft voice halfway to gin and cigarettes at this volume, even if she did not smoke. "Carry on down the hall and look at the new portrait in the dining room."
The corridor was fashionably and restrainedly taupe and cream. The understated colour scheme carried through into the square dining room. Facing him was a wall displaying drawings and portraits of family members, amongst which was placed a new and rather attention-grabbing portrait of the hostess. This painting was not at all restrained. She was pictured against an indistinct background, kneeling at perhaps a 10 degree angle from the viewer with her thighs straight, her hips canted forward. Her arms reached up to hold her dirty blonde hair in a loose, Edwardian-seeming bun. She was quite naked, her breasts fell somewhat pendulously, adorned by dark red nipples smaller than he would have predicted. She was not waxed, but her pudenda were covered only by trimmed hair with the lips beneath presented quite distinctly by the artist.
"How interesting of her to have done that. It speaks volumes about the sexual power politics in that relationship." It was hours later and they were standing dissecting the party, preparing for bed and she was, as ever, cutting to the core of it.
"Perhaps he wanted it: 'darling you'll be posing for so and so'. Bit of a turn on for him."
"A fair point, but it really does seem to be all about messaging. "She's saying 'I control the sexual power.' Whilst staking out bohemian credentials."
"Would you want a painting?" he asked.
"Um..." and a thought "How odd. I reckon I'd be better doing it now than in a decade."
"Nonsense. You will still be incredibly alluring in a decade." He stood and kissed her neck.
"If I did, would you hang it like that to turn your male friends on?"
"No."
She began to undress for him. Dress off, underwear off. She pirouetted for him and idly stroked a hand over the gentle swell of a perfect ass. He undressed and then began to trace his hands slowly and wispily over her body. The under curve of her breasts was a constant delight to him -- she really had perfect tits.
"Bend over for me." She smiled at him and turned again. Folding at the waist she let her blonde hair fall, rising again to turn and look at him, head hip height. Her legs inched apart and one hand moved a cheek aside to better show. A hand traced down and under to her depilated mound and then back up against a nipple.
She rose and turned to imitate the pose in the painting of their hostess.
He dropped to his knees and cupped her breasts, rolling her nipples with his thumbs and forefingers, They were both impatient; no foreplay. As he slid into her waxed pussy she said "I know an artist for this job. He's old but good."
His pace quickened, as did his pulse. "We're flying next week..." he began.
"Curiously enough to where the artist is based..." she finished his sentence.
"Can I get on top?" and she did, soon climaxing.
"Was that about...?"
"Yes". Again she finished his question.
She clambered off him and knelt to take his shaft in her mouth. Her lips caressed his cock head and then she swallowed him, slowly working her way down the shaft. Up and down, deeper and deeper. She paused and then moved to lick his balls and under his balls before returning the kiss and stroke his shaft.
"I'll do the painting" she said. She held him steady and flicked a tongue at his head emerging from the foreskin. He erupted onto her face. She smiled.
-----
And so they found themselves in a foreign capital a week later on a long-planned trip. They were outside a large-windowed, north-facing 19th Century house on a small street off a busy boulevard. The house was fronted by a postage-stamp garden bordered street side by a gate and a dark green hedge of yew. They passed through the gate, the studio visible through the expanse of ground floor glazing.
The artist was old, a shock of white hair brushed well back in a stark contrast to a cornflower blue shirt betraying years of washes. A tie was knotted as a belt in an hommage to the style of decades past. He was spry and his eye glittered.
The conversation was curiously straightforward.
"As the one commissioning this what did you have in mind?".
It felt odd discussing her in the abstract, as a model. "She is observedly dutch. I looked at your catalogue with interest. Your work reminded me of a modern Jacob Backer, who I understand was a great painter of nudes. So I would suppose I had been thinking something more Jan Backer than Rembrandt's Suzanna -- would you think that pale, cool tonality he borrowed from Bartholomeus van der Helst would be something to guide?"
"As for pose?" white eyebrows crept up.
"A matter for you and the model." who smiled.
The artist was matter of fact: photos would be required (to work from) and some sketch work today. He would work on the oil tomorrow. Four sessions to bring this project forward -- perhaps 2 or 3 hours a day- ideally in the morning ("But I understand you are staying a week"). She was a good lawyer and provided a document outlining that all photos and drawings were her copyright. The painter grudgingly agreed. He was politely and firmly enjoined to leave; she laughed at the evident look of crestfallenness on his face. They made arrangements to meet at a café in roughly three hours ("Posing is tiring") and she would ring him.
He was shown out, pausing to adjust his scarf as the red door closed behind. And then curiosity overcame him. He turned to his right and gazed through the broad and uncurtained window into the studio.
Patience was required, for they sat and talked. Laughter grew and they both leaned forward in their chairs, complicity growing. Then she was beckoned to a blue-draped bed by the wall and the artist moved sideways:-- out of sight, presumably to array himself before an easel. He felt an enormous variety of emotions -- and a stiffening cock -- as she began to undress. Pullover, crisp white shirt, skirt. Matter of fact she stood in matching black bra and panties (she favoured thongs) and spoke an unheard question to the unseen artist.
