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Portraits of You

Portraits Of You

This piece was written for the amazing and wonderful Alison Tyler. Although the anthology has been axed by the publisher, I hope you enjoy this gentle tale of artist and muse.


I’ve sketched your portrait a thousand times, but I’ve yet to grow disenchanted. Every inch has been carved so deeply into my memory, I could draw an intricate map of you with my eyes closed. Each freckle, scar, dimple and curve has been rendered familiar in charcoal and acrylic, watercolor and gouache, ink and pencil. You, my divine muse, how I adore the way you pose for me, each graceful limb placed just so, a study in glorious femininity.

You stretch while you wait for me to set up my easel, anticipating a long evening of holding still while I capture you on canvas. You’re wearing the dressing gown I bought for you in New York City. Do you remember our trip? We had a grand time traipsing through the city, window shopping and drinking in the sights. Your eyes lit up when you spotted that vintage boutique, and you practically dragged me through the front door.

I think I found it first. Red silk, the image of a jade dragon exquisitely embroidered on the back. The shopkeeper claimed it was an antique, owned by a famous Broadway actress, long since passed. You fretted over the price tag, but I wanted you to have it. When I draped it over your shoulders, I noticed an exotic, spicy scent steeped into the fabric. You were convinced it was the lingering essence of the previous owner’s perfume, and refused to have it dry cleaned. Later that night, we made love while you wore it.

We requested a room with a view, and our twenty first floor suite did not disappoint. Beyond the panes of glass, the lights of the city sparkled, bringing shame to the stars in the sky. I moved the chaise lounge closer, and we sipped wine while gazing out at the cityscape. Inspired, I opened my sketch book and sat at your feet, stub of charcoal clutched in my fingers, determined to capture the moment. You smiled that smile of yours, and, well, I never finished my drawing, did I?

Your lips tasted of Cotes du Rhone mingled with their usual sweetness. Right in front of the window, I opened your robe and licked my way down to your velvet cunt, stopping only to catch my breath. You pretended the whole world could see us, a fantasy that ignited our lust even further. I remember the moment like it was yesterday, you were so tight and hot, I was compelled to slide two of my greedy fingers inside you. You clenched them tightly as you climaxed, my tongue on your clit, your fingers in my hair, for all to witness, if only in our imaginations.

Later that night, while you were sleeping, I sketched you again. Curled up on your side, the gown yawning open, revealing those beautiful breasts. I used pastels for the piece, hoping to mimic the contrast of vibrant crimson against mocha skin. The end result was one of my favorite portraits of you, so much so that it’s framed and hanging above our bed, a memory preserved in color. You’re in a similar pose right now, only your hypnotic eyes are open, red lips curved into a smile.

Yes, I’ve sketched you a thousand times with various mediums, but tonight, things are going to be a little different. You see tonight, I don’t want to paint your portrait.

I want to paint you.

I feel your eyes watching me when I leave the room, and I smile at your confusion. My bare feet slap against the kitchen floor while I ready my palette. Each well is filled with color: brown, yellow, white, red and amber. When I return to my studio, you are tapping your foot impatiently.

At my nod, you remove your robe, placing it carefully over the back of a chair. Even three years later, it still carries that exotic scent, as if haunted by the young actress who owned it before. Languidly, you stretch out on the chaise and look to me for guidance. Your brow creases when I ask you to lay flat on your back, but you do not question. Ready to begin my latest masterpiece, I swirl my brush into the pot of yellow lemon curd. You giggle when I paint a crude vignette of the sun around your belly button, then erase it with my tongue. I clean the brush with my mouth, then dip it into the raspberry jam. It’s sticky on your lips, but I kiss away every speck. Delicious.

Next, I coat your nipples with a delicate wash of whipped cream. Each nub hardens when my tongue removes the coating, revealing the pink flesh underneath. I repeat the process, enjoying the way you sigh and squirm, reveling in the taste of your skin mingled with the cream. Putting the brush aside, I cover the tip of my finger in chocolate syrup and paint your lips. Your tongue can’t help but dart out to capture a taste before me. Chocolate was always your weakness, wasn’t it? I paint another layer, and we share the flavor with soft kisses.

Using the lemon curd, I paint large dots all over the front of your body, then border them with chocolate, giving the illusion that you’re covered in cheetah skin. You purr for me, and it’s my turn to chuckle. More chocolate covers the tip of your nose and spreads across your cheeks to create whiskers.

My little sex kitten, how I adore cleaning you up with my mouth.

I fill your navel with honey, and you giggle, causing the sticky puddle to drip down your waist, but my tongue is there to catch it before it stains the lounge. Not that we really care. The chaise is old and tattered, and if it could talk would reveal many bawdy stories of our escapades while on top of its worn cushions. Remember last week? Of course you do. You bent over the armrest and demanded a spanking. Your lovely bare bottom turned the color of rose petals before you would let me finish.

I open your legs. Your cunt is already covered in a layer of its own honey, but I add to it with mine. Using a wider brush, I coat your clit with a generous dollop, then watch as it drips down.  The amber liquid seems to magnify the skin beneath, making it come alive in glorious detail. Once my eyes are satisfied, I dive in, licking and sucking each fold until you are writhing under my mouth. I direct you to turn over and you willingly arrange your body so you are on your knees, head down, round ass pointing up, every inch between your legs exposed.

I use more of the raspberry jam to finger paint a heart on your ass, a smiley face on the small of your back, and dot the bottom of each toe. The scent of ripe fruit hangs in the air, and coats my tongue, intoxicating my senses. You laugh loudly and protest when I lick your toes, but I don’t stop until they are pristine. I lean back to examine you, and am struck by the vision. Your mound beckons, so plump and wet, framed seductively by your silky ass and thighs.

More honey drips down the valley of your ass, and you mewl loudly when my tongue laps at your puckered entrance. This is your secret kink, and one I gladly partake in, first by teasing my tongue inside, followed by a finger-tip. You moan and push back, inviting me deeper, but I make you wait, just because I can. Completely aroused and damp with sweat, I peel off my tee shirt and shorts, revealing a cock that is fully erect and throbbing with desire. But my needs will wait, for it’s yours I am concentrating on at the moment.

My brush dips into each color and makes quick strokes all over your skin. Using your body as my canvas, I create a free form study in light and color. When finished, your bottom looks like a painting by Monet. I snap a picture with my phone and show you the screen. You laugh loudly over my masterpiece. Once again, I clean your flesh with my mouth, so many flavors mingle together, a symphony for the taste buds. My favorite flavor is you, musky and sweet, with a scent that taunts my cock. I long to plunge the hard length inside you, but instead, I use my fingers, one in each hungry hole, while my tongue brings intense pleasure to your clit. All too soon you are crying out my name and clamping down on my fingers while you dissolve into bliss. Your cunt is still twitching, but you demand more and I am only too happy to oblige.

Afterward, you take my hand and lead me down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the French doors. The grass is wet under our feet as we make our way deeper into the back yard. Here sits our pride and joy, a vintage picnic table we found at a yard sale last summer. We quickly discovered that the table put your body at the perfect height to receive my cock, and ever since, it’s been our favorite place to fuck. Of course, your exhibitionist nature likes the fact that the single gentleman who lives next door can possibly catch a glimpse of our wild lovemaking.

The air is humid and smells like rain, the moonlight filtered through clouds. You lay back and put your shapely legs in the air. I stand between your thighs, gripping my hard cock while I shiver with anticipation and longing. Slowly, I enter you, the sensation causes me to lose my breath, like always. Your cunt is heaven, and soon I’m buried deep, with your ankles crossed behind the small of my back. I lean over on my hands, doing my best to thrust hard and fast, the way you crave. You pull me closer and capture my lips under yours, a gesture that makes me melt. We kiss while we move in silken rhythm, skin brushed by a sultry breeze, as if the night itself wants to join in our wanton revelry.

You use one hand to play with your nipples while the other massages your clit. Masturbating in front of me is one of your other secret pleasures. I’ve even painted you this way—fingers buried in your slit, mouth open, eyes shut in ecstasy. I thrust deeply and ride the wave, feeling it build until we’re both swept away. Sated, I rest my head against your shoulder, while you stroke my hair and sigh happily.

Neither of us has plans to move any time soon, until the rain begins to fall. We hold hands and laugh like children while we sprint through the cold drops. Once inside the kitchen, you pause and grab the bottle of chocolate syrup before leading me back upstairs.

I’m not sure what will happen next, but I know it’s going to be delicious.

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