Dutch Painting Ch. 03

They emerged, hand in hand, into an evening set cold underneath a mix of cloud and deep blue sky. The bright ball of the moon hung high stage left, bathing the city in light and infusing the unclouded parts of the sky with a deep and iridescent blue.

He turned and kissed her. They paused. Her breathing was still slightly heavy with the daring and excitement of her performance. He looked at her and, kissing her lips once more, reached under the hem of her dress to trace a finger along her slit. Heat and dampness betokened her arousal.

She had, after all, just danced, quite naked, for a table of Japanese businessmen who had mistaken her for a stripper. Perhaps they had known she was an amateur. Perhaps they were congratulating themselves on their coup; their excitement had certainly been unfeigned. Equally unfeigned was the fact that she had accepted their money and, in return, shown off her pert breasts, her pink nipples, her ass, her waxed pussy to these strange men.

The moonlight caught a ribbon of her blonde hair. Her graceful arm swept up trailing a moon shadow. He met the arm and pulled her into an arched doorway. They began to kiss even as his finger returned to its exploration of her warm, slicked slit. Their movements drew waves of shadow across the bright white puddle of moonlight draped across the entrance to the doorway like a mat. Tongue met tongue as his middle finger parted her folds - tight and well-formed - and began to penetrate.

He continued to marvel how her beauty had been augmented and refined with the passing of years. Her face - lovely and defined by angular and fresh Nordic lines rather than Hollywood standards - was framed by a cascade of blonde hair; hair that tumbled past a graceful and long neck to well-presented shoulders. Her B cup breasts verged on Cs, and were firm and set off by tightly defined pink nipples. She was lean and athletic, but the athlete's muscles were subtly masked by gentle curves of elegant femininity.

They kissed and he slid his finger in. Her warmth and slickness enveloped his digit. He curled slightly and tickled towards her g-spot. He slid his finger out, then in. He used a knee to nudge her knees more widely and then began to finger fuck her. Her hand reached down to trace the outline of his cock through his trousers. His other hand rose and held up the hem of her skirt in order to slip a second finger in. Cold air caressed his hand and her bare pussy lips.

He glanced over and a man, wearing a blue field coat and baseball cap, perhaps 25, was gazing rapt at her exposed pussy and his drenched fingers emerging from her. Her eyes were closed and her face was buried in his neck.

"You're being watched" he whispered.

Her head rose and she locked eyes with the young man. The hem of her skirt remained where it was. Half of her was bathed in shadow, but enough was on view that it could only be regarded as wanton display. He lasted a moment and then scuttled off.

They emerged from the doorway and crossed the street. The diesel chugging of a taxi advertised it presence. The light was on and they hailed it, both arms outstretched.

In the hotel she undressed by the window, moonlight bathing her curves. He placed her on her knees and they fucked, slowly, deliberately. Moonbeams caressed her skin, soft and pale and lovely. She toyed with her clit as he fucked her: she came first with three moans and a slight shudder. He extracted his cock and, throbbing, shot sperm over her ass crack.

The next morning broke somewhat cold. His first meeting was at ten in the morning. He had time to walk her to artist's studio. The sun had finally won its battle with the clouds and was emitting a weak, northerly light that caught flecks of gold in her flowing hair and trailed feeble shadows behind her long legs and shapely torso.

"Are you coming in?" she asked.

He answered. "I rather think not. I have meetings."

She slipped in and he paused outside the door. It was a quiet and somewhat gloomy day. The artist had put the lights on inside the studio. The street was even emptier than usual, though a growl of traffic spoke of the nearby boulevard . A soft rain began to fall. It dawned on him, as he opened his umbrella, that anyone scurrying by would not notice him, particularly with his umbrella blending into the seven foot hedge between him and the road. The occupants of the studio, with their lights on and gazing onto the dark green wall of hedge would be also hard pressed to see him. The weather and time of year were almost indulging him with an opportunity to spy.

He edged over from the gate and set his umbrella angled back against the hedge. He had an unobstructed view into the studio.

For ten minutes he watched the two of them chat. Her throaty laugh tumbled out muffled by glass and rain. She was standing chatting animatedly, half turned and facing the unseen artist.

She had clearly acquired a comfort and confidence when taking her clothes off in front of other people. He appraised her.

She undressed quite mater of factly, shrugging out of her shirt and skirt, peeling down her tights and slipping out of her bra in a matter of minutes. She gazed at her breasts and then at the artist. Her nipples were at attention. There was a laugh from her, and then his baritone response. She was evidently locking eyes with him and then she slid her last item of clothing down, over her thighs and down her legs. Her ass swung towards the window as she did so. She stood and, back to him, her hands went to her hips. Lucky artist.

Her ass was tight, a bit larger than she professed to like but lean, toned and beautiful: more Nordic than classic Dutch. He gazed admiringly.

He was intrigued when she sat down and assumed the pose of the day before (seated, legs slightly parted) and then rose again to stand. From his vantage point her right breast swayed as she stood. He was undoubtedly aroused, curious and slightly dry-mouthed with apprehension. She laughed and did a small pirouette, blonde mane twirling as she did. Once again she stood and sounds of laughter emanated from the room.

She seated herself and then the artist disappeared from view. There was a faint sound of rearranging of boxes and then the painter appeared, back turned, in the window. He stepped aside towards the front door and the hidden angle. No point in being caught, he thought. After a minute he stepped down the path, opened the gate and passed beyond the hedge.

--

Inside the painter's house she was sitting on the sofa, quite naked, appraising the man capturing her on canvas. He much older than her but nonetheless a man who clearly exercised. On the other hand he was moving with an uncertain gait. He stood before her and she, nude and quite unashamed, gazed up at him. He began to talk, rapidly, nervously. He spoke of his past, of past lovers, past women he had painted.

An hour passed. "May I see?" she finally asked.

"Normally not at this point. It can ruin things, not least because it imports a self-awareness into the picture."

"Please"

She looked at him searchingly.

"Alright"

She stood and walked over to step around the canvas. He moved back to let her stand, but not swiftly enough to avoid a hand grazing her bare thigh.

She saw herself painted with an erotic intensity that belied the slightly frivolous nature of the commission.

She turned to him. Almost pleadingly he caressed her hair, his hand tracing down to a shoulder. As he spoke a softness stole over her features, a wash of sympathy that gave her beauty an unaccounted radiance. She reached forward and stroked his arm.

She did not actually hear what he said. It was said softly, almost murmured. It was reassuring, gentle.

He stroked her shoulder, her chest, her hair, her cheek. Randomly, kindly his hands strayed nearer her breasts. And then her hands strayed to his stained corduroy shirt, and she began to unbutton it. She tugged it off as his hands fell away from her shoulders. She reached for his belt, her eyes still locked on his unseen face, and she began to undo his trousers. He was surprisingly fit and muscled, and he wore unexpectedly modern and tight-fitting briefs. Her hands began to trace up and down his torso and then she hooked her index fingers into the side of them and she tugged them over his bum. There was some resistance in front, and she laughed with surprise when the obstacle sprung free to swish by her face: a thick, circumcised penis that was average in length but pipe-like and set off with a large, outsized even, mushroom head that had swelled dark red.

Kneeling now by the easel, she leaned forward to examine the cock and gave the head a tentative lick, a tongue flick really that grazed the head and caused the shaft to pulse. She extended her tongue licked one side, then the other. A pause and she gazed up. He was staring down at her, intently, almost manically. She grabbed the thickness of the cock with her left hand and pulled him forward. Her fingers grazed a vein down the side, and she opened her mouth as she did. She took an inch of head in, then the full size of it. It felt like an outsize and firm cherry in her mouth. Her tongue swirled around the full orbit of it, arriving again at the underneath. She slid her tongue under the sensitive, divided underside of the cockhead. Again the shaft pulsed and he emitted a satisfied, appreciative moan.

His hand reached forward to twine her blonde hair. He pulled her forward and she complied. At three inches she felt the cockhead deep in her mouth and was sucking on the bananlike shaft. The artist was arching his back, head bent with pleasure.

Again the painter's right hand twined itself in her hair, urging her to take more in, and she did. Four inches, then five, as heroes approached his pubic hair she gagged and began pulling back. As his cockhead popped from her mouth a trail of saliva remained to connect the two of them. She smiled at her portrait painter and opened her mouth to receive the swollen length once again. It filled her mouth to capacity.

She pulled off it and traced the underside of the artist's cock. Dropping to her knees from her perch on the sofa she began to tongue the painterly balls. She licked to contours of each and then took one part way into her mouth. The painter's cock was throbbing as it rested on her upper face. She raised cock and balls up and for a moment let her tongue lap at the skin under his balls, exploring that sensitive patch of perineum. Her hand began to trace the crack of his ass. He edged it down to invite her to explore, but she avoided that invitation.

She returned to the artist's cock and inhaled it a second time, pulling it deeper into her with hands on the artist's tensed buttocks. The painter held her head as she slid up and down the length until she forcibly pulled back.

She rose from her knees and looked to the window. Anyone gazing through the hedge would have seen her gripping the thick, pulsing pipe of the artist.

Holding his cock she walked backwards to the sofa and sat. Her legs parted and she gazed down, inviting him to look at the inflamed state of her pussy.

She leaned back on the sofa invitingly, legs spread wide, pussy lips red and displaying an excitement. It was a completely wanton pose. The artist now fell to his knees and buried his face in her pussy. He lapped at her labia and then, inexpertly but enthusiastically, licked at her clitoral hood. Her left hand reached down to part the lips in order to enhance access and maximise access. His hands were mauling her breasts, rolling nipples between thumb and finger.

The painter was enthusiastic but brief and he rose, cock bobbing, to position it at the entrance to her pussy. The thick cockhead rested at the entrance to her pussy. He paused, staring intently at the sight. Trancelike he pushed the bulbous head past her pussy lips, which slowly opened and then wrapped around the red cherry tip of his cock. He began to slide it into her cunt.

The artist began fucking her with deep strokes, slapping balls against her ass and burying the length of his cock with each thrust. There was no subtlety or variation. He splayed her legs wide by holding her knees. His eyes greedily devoured the site of her spread pussy and the cock driving into her. Her C cup tits bounced with each thrust.

The painter pulled his slick cock out and stood, motioning her to suck it. She looked at the artist - this was not something she particularly cared to do - before opening her mouth and engorging the head, tongue swirling around it.

After half a minute of this the artist directed her onto hands and knees. His view was more sideways and he saw the artist position himself and thrust in. The painter grabbed a hip with one hand and forced her upper back down with the other until her face was planted on the sofa. The painter may have won a fuck with a plea for sympathy, but he was not the most gentle of lovers once launched in. The painter accentuated his thrusts and then, leaning forward, reached his left thumb down and had her suck it before returning to an upright position. The painter took the wet thumb and began to worm it into her ass, finger splayed on her lower back. She seemed to like it and edged back on his outthrust. The artist was pumping deeply in her with his cock, balls slapping against her cunt, thumb penetrating her other hole more fully with each slip forward of the cock.

Her face was buried away, hidden from the artist's gaze in a mass of blonde hair, but her hips were moving rhythmically as her right hand toyed with her clit. Her tits swayed with his rhythm.

The painter pulled out and sat her at the edge of the sofa. Her face was flushed as she leaned forward and began to suck the first third of the painter's shaft, her left hand gripping and stroking the exposed rest.

And then she pulled the painter's cock out, stroked him twice and, smiling, let him shoot one, two, three jets of cum onto her face. A large stream decorated lips and chin, from whence it began to drip on to the floor. She took the cock in her mouth and hoovered it in once again.

"Suck it clean". He was mild and gentle no more. "Suck it". He almost begged.

She tasted herself and then began to suck. It remained surprisingly thick and tumescent. Her hand caressed his ass.

She pulled off.

That evening she was standing before the bath. Her husband came into the room and, having taken his coat off, entered the bathroom and stared appreciatively at her nude body.

He prattled about his day and then asked about hers.

"A good session. I think he is lonely... and I had a peek. I think you shall like it." She turned to look at the bath. When she swiveled back towards him his face had shifted into a more severe set.

"You have paint on your ass, and a fingermarks on your back."

She opened her mouth.

He pre-empted her. "What are we going to do about this?"