The Artist the Model

"I... I want you to paint me," she said.

My own mother, standing next to me, staring at a painting I had been working on of a woman and her boyfriend in an intimate moment of sexual bliss, was asking me to paint her.

Were I any other kind of artist, the prospect of painting my mother would have been a nonchalant idea. A few lights, a careful pose, perhaps even her turned away with her back revealed.

But I wasn't that kind of artist. I painted women and men in the most erotic of situations. I brought their naked, sexually charged bodies to the canvas to be captured forever by paint in that moment when they were completely revealed. Often times, I was the reason they were thusly aroused and enflamed into orgasmic release.

"Michael?" She peered up at me, eyes veiled by a strange mixture of fear and excitement.

"Sorry. I just..." I paused, trying to pull all of my thoughts back in where I could actually make sense of them. "I'm just a little startled I suppose."

"You don't want to paint me, do you?" Her gaze darted away, past the painting in front of us and back to the floor. Slender shoulders slumped against my hand, her body seeming to curl down against itself just slightly.

Moving my hand across her back, I grabbed gently at her shoulders and urged her wordlessly to face me. I was smiling, beaming perhaps, when her gaze drifted back up to mine. "That's not it at all, Ma. It's just... well... you know what I usually paint, the kinds of situations I choose as my inspiration."

She tried to stifle a small giggle, recalling as vividly as I was the night before. I could still see her so clearly in my memory. How beautiful she had looked pleasuring herself while looking at some of my other portraits of naked women doing the exact same things to themselves. "Yeah, I know, baby."

"So, you can understand why I'm a little, stunned?"

Slowly she nodded, glancing sidelong at the canvas next to us. "Yes, Michael, I do."

Letting a slow, deep breath, I brought fingers to cup beneath her chin and guide her eyes back to my own. I was made so very aware of how beautiful she looked in that moment, with the city lights filtering in through apartment windows and catching along her still smooth skin. How her every breath made the heavy weight of her breasts rise and fall with graceful waves. She was an absolutely stunning woman, and the idea of painting my mother in any situation was as arousing as anything else I could imagine.

Finally, I made up my mind. "When do you want to get started?"

It was her turn to be stunned. Those beautiful eyes widening as she looked up at me, realizing that she'd been called on her words and I was mentally prepared for the task. Her words stumbled from her lips as she blushed a deeper shade of crimson, making her look all the more radiant. "Um, let me go put on something else, hun."

Begrudgingly I let go of her shoulders and nodded. She turned away, trying to suppress the giggle of excitement that fairly bubbled from her throat. A moment later she disappeared into the bathroom with her arms filled by her shopping bags.

I was left to contemplate just exactly what I had gotten myself into. On one hand, I was rather excited to get my mother naked, to see everything that I had missed out on seeing the night before. To find out what she looked like completely undressed and exposed, baring all to my critical eye.

On the other hand, I was completely mortified by the whole idea. Not that I was thinking it was wrong. If anything, I found it all so very right. What bothered me was just how right I felt it was. I could feel the blood pumping through me, engorging my shaft with renewed life and making my skin feel on fire. It was almost like being in love, but I knew that already loved my mom.

Getting everything setup for work was easy. I'd done it so many times before that I had a system of sorts. A fresh canvas was set upon the easel, paints squeezed out in the shades I thought I was going to need, and lights turned on to just the right setting for the best possible contrast of highlights and shadows.

With everything ready, I found myself waiting. Waiting and wondering. It was almost painful to sit there doing nothing, thinking of everything, and warring with myself about the decision I had come to.

There were a couple times where I almost put everything away and was ready to tell her that I'd changed my mind. But just as quickly, my 'other head' reminded me that this was her idea, and I was just following through with it.

Before I could change my mind again, she was there.

My throat suddenly went dry as I looked up to see her stunning frame barely clad before me. Inches of skin pleasantly exposed while still more lay hidden behind veneers of black silk and nylon.

She had found a pair of leather, thigh-high boots with a high stiletto heel that forced her already curved backside to sit higher still. Creamy thighs were offered to my hungry gaze, then abruptly her skin was covered again my a nearly-sheer thong that did little to truly cover anything at all. A brief glimpse at her tummy, still flat, and trim. Then the black embrace of a corset that snugged so intimately close against her body that I could have sworn it moaned in pleasure. Those full swells of her breasts hung free and openly display, stiff nipples a light shade of pink as they throbbed and begged for attention. Around her neck was a simple, sequined choker catching glitters of frosted light and bouncing it back. And her slender arms, hugging up beneath her breasts, were encased in silk gloves that rose upwards past her elbows.

All of that wondrous beauty was literally capped by a black fedora hat tilted at a rakish angle which sent a deep shadow across her lovely face made up delicately with just enough makeup to smooth out those barely-there lines of age. Every inch of her screamed of desire and lust and dirty things. I wanted to scream back that I'd have her.

Nervously she stood there as I took it all in. Her hips shifted from side to side, and I could tell she was fighting against herself.

"You look... amazing," I finally managed to breathe out. It took every ounce of effort to get that much out without sounding like a complete idiot.

She giggled softly at that, still suffused with nervous energy. "I hope I'm as sexy as those young girls you're always painting."

Nearly choking, I couldn't hide the lecherous grin that swept across my lips. "Ma, you make them look like just that, girls. My god, Ma, you are a stunning woman."

Colored flooded across her cheeks, played a dance down her throat, then swept out across her chest as she giggled again. "I feel like such a fool dressing up like this, baby."

"A damned sexy fool, if you are." Again I grinned, this time moving across to her and resting my hands on her shoulders. Her naked skin beneath my touch felt good, felt electric as I realized that I was touching her in a different way now.

There had been so many times before when I had laid my hands on her shoulders, bare and without sleeves to cover them, and those times had always felt innocuous. Now I was inches away from my barely dressed mother. I was within breathing distance of her exposed breasts and her barely covered mound, and I wanted her.

Again my thoughts struggled. This time, it was a battle between that part of me that was a painter, and the part that was a lust-addled son desiring his own mother.

Swallowing against the dryness in my throat, I stepped back and moved towards my easel. Every part of my body thrummed with sexual tensions that I knew would only fuel my urge to paint her. There was a strange sort of addiction to that feeling, a necessity to hold onto it while I could, and make it linger as long as possible. Seeing mom dressed the way she was, made me all the more aware of just how easy that would be.

Clearing my throat, I looked to her, then the bed, and back again. "Go ahead and lay down, Ma." I motioned towards the bed.

She nodded, a little coyly, before moving towards that wide mattress with sheets slightly disheveled. Her body moved with stuttered, jilting motions that were afforded her muscles by the nervousness that locked itself through her. Even her pose, as she moved onto the bed, was something that felt wholly mechanical.

Beautiful as she was, I knew well enough that she'd never want herself to be painted as a statue done by a novice.

Whatever battle had gone on in my head, a clear victory had been made by the side that always won out when confronted with a sexual creature. That victory was evidenced by my moving to the bed, coming in to settle next to her as I slowly curled my arms around her.

She stiffened, then, afraid of what I was about to do, afraid that she had maybe crossed a line that she would regret later. Perhaps she was just as afraid that she wouldn't regret it at all.

No matter what was going on in her head, I didn't give her the opportunity to struggle against herself or me.

My hands were upon her, gentle touches that played at her exposed breasts. Those taut nipples throbbed against my fingertips as they brushed across each turgid peak. I felt her chest rise and fall against the trapped exhale of a moan, then finally release it in a whisper-sound that filled the immediate air around us.

I was aware the whole time that I was touching my mother, the woman who had given birth to me and my sister, had raised us from bawling infants to struggling teenagers, and gave us strength to be proper adults. She was the reason I had become an artist, and she was also the reason I was a lover of women.

"Relax, Ma. Let yourself go a little and enjoy it," I breathed in her ear.

She tensed a moment, muscles stiffening as if she was preparing to run. Then all of her body surrendered, a physical release of tension that bled out into the loosed exhale of another moan. Her body quivered with the excitement that replaced her nervousness, flutters of her racing pulse causing tiny shadows at her neck and breast to dance within the soft lights.

"Remember last night?"

She nodded, a soft giggle spilling from her throat. "Yes, Michael."

"You remember how you felt when you were alone, staring at that painting?"

Again she nodded, the giggle no longer there. Instead, her hand instinctively moved down over her corset, coming to rest at her wide hips.

"Your panties are in the way, aren't they?"

Her voice was a purr of sound that pulled at me. Those long, slender fingers hooking into her thong at the waist and slowly teasing it down off her hips. Little by little, the black fabric eased further down until I could just barely see the tiny shadow of her cleft revealed. "They're in your way, baby."

I smiled at that, moving a hand from her heavy breasts to glide down the same path her own touch had followed. Down until unlike her fingers, mine were slipping beneath the semi-sheer material to cup against her mound.

She nearly writhed at the touch, giving me a soft sob of excitement as my fingers rubbed at her swollen folds. Her eyes were closed tightly, lips pursed and puckered as if kissing the air.

Slowly I leaned down, then. I was ill-content to let the air taste her kiss, and moved to replace it against her mouth. Pressing my kiss to her lips and finding my own moan of pleasure easing rapidly from my throat to be captured by her sudden, suckling breath.

In all the years that I had been seducing women, been making love or outright fucking them, I had never once kissed any of them as wantonly or lovingly as I kissed my mother that first time. The feeling was electricity that surged through us both. Both of us shuddered from the ecstasy of it as her body slid tighter against mine.

Within moments our tongues were entwined, slithering against each other to taste everything we could. Exploring each others mouths as if searching for some treasure to be held within each, and not at all disappointed that we never found it.

Time became a meaningless thing as we held each other close, lost to the whims of man and woman. We could have only been together for seconds, or for days, and neither one of us would have cared. There was only her body, and mine, and we both wanted the other.

Without invitation, one of my thick fingers parted the slippery folds of her smooth slit. I felt her go rigid, hips press upwards as the tip circled her tight, throbbing entrance. She wasn't afraid any more. Every part of her demanded that I thrust that finger into her body. Perhaps, it demanded that I push something else into her as well.

It was at that moment I knew I was ready to paint her, and she was ready to be my model.

My body nearly rebelled as I began to pull away, and it took a moment longer to disentangle my mother from me. She looked up, eyes opening as her lips curled into pretty little pout, thinking that perhaps I was having second thoughts. But when she saw me pulling off my shorts, sliding them off my legs and revealing just how excited I was, any confusion she held was quickly wiped away.

Aroused, excited, on the verge of surrendering to instinct, I stepped back towards the canvas. My hand, a finger wet with her nectar, dropped down to my aching length and wrapped those digits around it. Slow strokes, teasing myself and in turn teasing her as well, as I looked into her eyes and silently let her know that I was going to paint her, and then I was going to make love to her.

I could tell by the way she looked back at me, she was ready, too.