The Artist's Den

"All art is erotic." - Gustav Klimt

I'd known him for years and had admired his work for longer than that. So I'd jumped at the chance when he asked to paint me. This was my third night posing for him. The first two were filled with photographs and sketches as we tried position after position, until he found the one that was just right. I'd never felt so comfortable in my own skin.I was standing by the window, my back to him, hands placed just so on the sill, leaning forward, head tilted up, looking at the moon. There was a slight breeze coming in from the open window. I was almost chilly standing there in heels, panties and a flimsy white t-shirt. I could hear him at his easel behind me. He was supposed to start painting that night, but was so restless I could tell something was wrong.  He kept coming over, adjusting me slightly -- the turn of my head, the position of a hand, shifting the cloth of my shirt. I could feel the frustration radiating off him as he stood back and stared.

That's when it happened. He reached down and picked up the knife on the table next to him and strode impatiently towards me.

"Can I cut your shirt?" he asked, as I felt the cold steel against my back.

"You can do anything you want."

I bit my lip when I heard the first rip of the knife against cloth. It sent chills down my spine. He worked deftly, circling me, his warm hand trailing the cold knife across my skin. By the time he was facing me, my panties were beyond damp.  He must've seen the way my eyes dilated when I looked down at the knife. He trailed the tip slowly up my stomach, resting the blade between my breasts under what was left of my shirt, his eyes glittering with danger. I leaned back against the open window, a dare in my eyes.  He circled my left nipple with the knife tip and then my right, causing them both to tighten and harden against the thin fabric. He quickly sliced open the rest of my shirt and I let the tatters flutter to the floor.

I stood before him now, bare breasted, bathed in moonlight, trembling with desire.  His mouth found my throat and he left a hot, searing trail from my neck, between my breasts and down to my navel, the knife tip following his lips. The combination of his hot mouth and the cool blade heightened every sensation. He knelt before me. I could feel his breath tickling my thighs. I knew he could feel the heat radiating from my panties.

He looked up at me and I nodded and closed my eyes. I felt the blade slip between my hip and the lace and heard the material give. The same on the other side. My panties silently slid to the floor. My thighs automatically parted. His free hand reached up between my legs and felt the moisture there as he stroked me. His fingers slipping easily between my lips. I held my breath. I never wanted this to stop.  He leaned in swiftly to plunge his tongue up and into me as the knife clattered to the floor.

I braced myself against the windowsill as he explored me with tongue, lips and teeth. He opened me wider and wider, using his fingers to stroke and tease me while he sucked on my clit. My body was as tight as a bowstring. I was humming with arousal. He reached up for my hands and pulled me down onto the floor so that I was kneeling over his face. His arms wrapped around my thighs, pulling me closer and closer. It was then that he began his true assault. He kept bringing me right to the brink of orgasm and then backing off, teasing me, torturing me.  Finally, he threw me down on my back and fucked me so hard with mouth and fingers that I couldn't hold back any longer and I came, squirting, all over his face. 

He looked up at me, amazed, and said, "Don't move."

He scrambled over to his easel then and began furiously sketching as my body shuddered with aftershocks. He painted all night as I reclined on the carpets, drinking wine and staring at him with punch-drunk eyes. At some point I must have drifted off, because somewhere around dawn I woke up and he was on top of me, his cock nudging against my still wet lips. I wrapped my legs around him and he slid into me with a sigh. We fucked for what seemed like hours. His hands leaving paint smudges on my breasts, back, and thighs. His cock leaving me breathless as I came over and over again.

To this day the smell of linseed oil still arouses me.

Find the audio version at: http://evaamoretales.tumblr.com/post/53025930004/the-artists-den-find-the-written-work-at