“The Artist” by Chiaroscuro

It is her turn in the pink upholstered chair.

Her body, rigid a moment ago at the peak of her passion, has passed
into a state of apparent bonelessness. She is sighing vocally but
weakly. She makes no move to lower the skirt wrapped around her hips.
Her legs are still spread wide by the bulk of his form, but her knees
sag inward and her hands hang open, limp, at the sides of the chair.
As a shudder rocks her one last time, he sits back on his heels,
licking his lips and smiling.black

His eyes are not so unfocused by the intensity of his delight in her
pleasure that he fails to notice a change in her topography. Her full
breasts, last seen swelling with her gasps of heightened arousal, no
longer bulge within the lacy confines of her low-cut black brassiere.
Both nipples are now exposed, erect, their rosy brown changed to a
deep ruddy violet, and he understands that she has been helping
herself to the rich complementary stimulation of her second-favorite
erogenous zone. A vivid image of her hands on her own breasts, her
fingers feathering her nipples as he whispers urgently to her with his
feathering tongue, delivers a fresh bolt of heat to his already
throbbing member.

Languidly she opens her eyes and smiles, a slow, sticky smile that is
so inviting, he is ready to jump to his feet and just shove it into
her, and to hell with pacing himself.

With a look half challenging, half mischievous, she lifts her left leg
and slings it over the arm of the chair, simultaneously draping her
skirt over her lap.

His cock lurches in recognition of the gesture as an insanely arousing
overlay of images crowds behind his eyes. She watches him. He stands,
his ramrod desire addressing her directly, and steps back to look at

“Remember when you posed for me in that position?” he says. His voice
is constricted by a surge of feeling he cannot control. “Twenty years
ago . . .”

“Of course I do,” she says, speaking as if from within a dream. “You
wanted me to pose nude, and I wouldn’t.”

“That little black velvet dress . . .”

“I still have it,” she says. “I haven’t worn that size in fifteen
years, but I couldn’t throw it away.” She laughs a small, lazy laugh
at herself.

“You know–” he says, and stops. She sees his impossibly stiff
erection stiffen even harder. Her body stirs, animation returning with
renewed desire. Now she is looking at his cock, thinking about
tonguing it, thinking about drawing all of him into her with one long,
engulfing swallow, thinking of him lost beyond all reason in the
flowing of his juices into her. She shows her tongue, inviting him.
But he backs toward the bed, sits down, and grips the flung-back
spread with both hands. She sees the telltale flow of wetness spilling
over now, but he clenches his teeth and holds back. She pulls her gaze
away from his pulsing sex and watches his face. His expression is a
strange mix of hunger, contrition, and pride.

“You know,” he says, “I did more than one painting from those

Her face brightens with curiosity. “I just saw the sketches,” she
says. “You gave them to me. You told me you sold the painting.”

“I sold one painting,” he says, his breathing coming faster. “But I
made two. In the second one…”

“Oh!” she cries, guessing. “You undressed me!”

He stands now and reaches to touch her skirt. With his left hand he
raises it just enough to expose the dark hollow of her cleft in the
shadow of the softly draping material, while with his right he grasps
his erection and aims it at her.

“I painted you with this,” he says, “and I painted you and I painted
you. A good thing the picture was done in oils. I had to wash it so
many times that I wore away the paint.” He is panting now, and his
words are nearly blown away. His heat touches off her own. She feels a
fresh gush of wetness between her legs, spent though she had been only
a moment before.

His right hand begins to move.

“Wait,” she says.

“I can’t,” he moans, almost sobbing.


She jumps up and grabs his hands, both of them, and places them on her
waist. His body is already arching with fever, but he fights to master
it, his wish to play out the scene with her even greater than the
hunger for immediate release.

“Paint me now,” she says. Her eyes are burning with command.

“Paint you?”

“Yes. Pose me as if I were your model. Position me any way you like,
any way you want to take me. And then do it. Paint me inside.”

He looks into her face. He kisses her, hotly, deeply, his hands
gripping her bottom, his fierce hard self pressing against her belly,
and feels her body tell him that she yields herself to his pleasure.
Her arms are around his neck. Still raised by the unstrapped bra, her
breasts mound against his chest. He encloses her in one great,
crushing embrace and then lets go.

Gently but urgently, he turns her around and guides her to the bed.
She follows his lead. He strips off her bra, and she unfastens her
skirt and lets it drop to the floor.

His pace quickening, he pushes her onto the bed. His hands shape her
body, a little roughly now, but she follows without a murmur: knees
here, hands there, back like this, shoulders like that. At his will,
his pressing, mounting will. Her head hangs low, her buttocks high,
her weight on her knees and forearms. Her breasts are heavy suspended
ellipses, swaying gently with the movement of the bed. She lifts one
hand and cups her right breast, the tip of her tongue tracing her

He passes out of all control. In one swift move he climbs onto the bed
behind her, seizes her waist with both hands, and pulls her
hindquarters firmly toward him, impaling her on his first great
thrust. A dark and ancient moan breaks from his chest. She looks back
around her shoulder to smile at him, but he is gone into the
stratosphere already. He grips her thighs and begins to pound.