Muse

Creampie

It was one of those boring days again. John would make me sit as still as I could, and use me as he always did whenever he had a sudden epiphany to paint. “keep quiet and just help me, darling,” he would mutter whenever I made a peep of complaint, and he would silence me completely with a long and hard kiss before he stepped away from me, his eyes never leaving me, and sit again at his infernal favorite position, behind  the painting easel with the paintbrush held in his left hand.You see, John is a painter, an artist, and I am his muse. We have lived together ever since it was legally OK to do so, which would be about seven years ago. I am now twenty five years old, committed to my fifty year old man. I hold quite a good job at a publishing company. John, of course, procured it for me by pulling a few strings here and there. By day, I would work as a personal assistant to the head of the cosmetics department, Anne, and after that I devote all my time to John. It’s been like this for seven long years. I don’t think I can say I have any friends outside of my work, and my contact with family would be called estranged at best, non-existent at worse. John consumes me completely, and his presence makes up for everything that I lack. We have an amazing life together. But sometimes, I get so tired of this posing business for him. He would paint beautiful artwork of me; usually in the nude. He would make me sit, lie down or stand on a small velvet platform with cushions to make me comfortable. Occasionally I would be required to wear a ‘prop’: a mask, little ballet shoes or sexy high-heeled stiletto shoes. Sometimes I would dangle a silk shawl on one foot, or cover my hair completely in a little French beret or pageboy cap. But more often than not I would be completely naked. When I first started sitting for him, we would both always become very sexually aroused as I played the role of muse and he the master. He would take me right there at the platform and I would freely let him. It came to a point where he would orchestrate his work to make love at the same time. It became a highly erotic game that both of us enjoyed, me especially. He was very into the whole sex-play etimesgut escort thing then and would become more obsessed over it that I did. He used to sometimes make me spread my legs apart as I sat on the platform, and paint a gross image of my exposed pussy while masturbating with his other hand. Then, unable to take it any longer, he would come to me, go on his knees and lavish his mouth and tongue between my legs, giving me the climax that I wanted so badly. And as I became slippery and wet he would take off his clothes and feed his large, hard cock into me and fuck me hard until he came, shooting his hot cream deep into me.After, he would primly button up and put his on clothes again, wipe me up with tissues and arrange my shaky, exhausted limbs to the previous position as before. And he, again, would take a step back, pick up the paintbrush with impressive calmness and sit behind his easel.    I guess I am an exhibitionist, because I become very sexual when I pose for him. I cannot help it, and don’t know why. Whenever I see John, this most serious, intense and handsome man concentrating so hard on painting me as I lie down as still as a mouse, I would become consumed by dirty thoughts. My pussy would become swollen and wet. John knew this, and used this knowledge to deliberately torture me, then give me the release I wanted. We used to fuck all the time while we worked together. It made me happy and secure with what I was doing with my life for him, and posing for John became bearable because it came with the sex. But at the same time our little game became detrimental to my advancement as a model because John would never let me pose for another artist. It was because he knew I became sexual when I pose for art, and he was afraid I would fuck other painters and artists who would commission me. And I’ll let you know that I have received a lot of offers. Too many offers, in fact, to the point that John became increasingly jealous and possessive of me. He became obsessed with me, and made sure I never had a single opportunity to pose for another or to even just make casual friends at all. I suppose it was also because of eryaman escort our age difference. I am half his age, and when we met he was still considered a young-ish man at forty three . Now he is well into his mature age and I guess time has more or less caught up with him: we don’t have much sex as before. At first, when I noticed how our little sex games became increasingly rare, I would beg him to have sex with me. As I posed on the velvet platform I would spread my legs and masturbate in front of him, letting him see how he affected me by showing him my aroused state. I would spread apart the petal-like lips to show him my little hole, and put my finger inside me to draw out the moisture that sprang deep in me to take up to the clit. I would massage my little nub with a single finger as I lay there waiting for him, begging him to please, please come to me at the platform and fuck me. But he would resist, first very reluctantly. Sometimes I would win, and with womanly satisfaction I would see him unzip his pants to release his dripping hard cock as he walked towards me. But, later on, he started to become immune by my antics, even irritated by it. “Please, I need to concentrate. Pull yourself together and pose for me properly,’ he would demand with a huge frown on his forehead. Now, today, we have completely stopped the sex. Of course, we do often make love at nights or early in the morning when we wake up, but never again while both of us worked on his art. It is something I miss, something I need and crave. It is almost like a physical pain when I pose for him and receive nothing in return. He was my teacher and he taught me the pleasure of posing for him, but like a stern disciplinarian master he took it away from me without even a single regret. At first we fought about it many times. But the arguments would always end with him winning, because he was so much more brilliant that I was with his words and he was very persuasive and could make me accept whatever he said, even despite myself. He would point out that I did indeed receive something from sitting for him, and that would be my immortality etched on canvas. “Look here,” sincan escort he would say with increasing anger, motioning to the art he was doing. “This is you, this is all you. I’ve made you and your beautiful young face and body live forever. Can’t you just be satisfied with that and not just want a fuck for it?”So that night, while I sat where he wanted and stayed as still as I could as he wanted, I decided to take up a lover the moment he had to go away. You see, John was not only a painter, but a lucrative salesman as well. He did not employ any agent to help sell his work but did everything himself. So there were times when he would have to take extended trips abroad the country and he would leave me alone at home.John left for a European destination not long after that sitting. After kissing me goodbye and promising he would not take up too many days away, he left me all alone in our beautiful house. It was a sunny morning when I went to work, and at evening after a full day running after Anne, I decided to visit the closest art gallery from the publishing house. I was wearing a little spaghetti-strap dress made of light chiffon material in light grey. It was a very sexy dress and left nothing to the imagination because it was so sheer. But, because I had a very girlish body and my breasts were not large though they were quite perky with pointy nipples, I was not vulgar in the least so I could get away with its skimpiness. On top of my dress, I roped around a long woolen scarf and had on my best leather bag and simple kitten heels. As I was admiring the sculptures in the gallery, I knew that I was being watched. I did not need to turn around to confirm my guess. Because you see, after being trained for years to sit and post for an artist, one starts to possess a magic knowledge of knowing when one is being watched, and through this second sight one learns to anticipate how one needs to react and pose as a model. I could guess that the person who was staring me was not far from me. I ignored him completely and turned to walk around the gallery. I knew he was following me. Suddenly the strangest thing happened: just as I would get aroused by John watching me while he painted, I was experiencing the same thing from the stranger of the gallery who was following my every move with his eyes. My pussy began to turn hot as the blood from my body rushed between my legs, and I found myself breathing faster than normal since my pulse had quickened.

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