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Erotic Fiction: read The Artist

Will her encounter with the sensual artist get physical this time? She certainly hopes so... by TABITHA RAYNE OCT 22, 2018

One Thirty. He'll be waiting. Damn. I wriggle my dress down hoping the tops of my stockings aren't showing. I splash cold water on my neck, trying not to disturb the makeup I so carefully applied less than an hour ago. more from cosmopolitan 10 of Netflix's sexiest shows Oh well. I'll have to do. I smear on red lipstick until my lips are heavy with the sticky colour. 'Alarm'. His favourite shade. I love the ritual of getting myself ready for him. The illicit thrill. The anxious excitement about what he might do to me. Will he just look this time? Will he touch? Will there be more? Or will he just paint, cigarette in mouth, ignoring me while I burn for him. The taxi is already waiting at the designated meeting point and he throws open the door. As we begin to drive, he blindfolds me and we make the journey to his studio in silence. In all the times I’ve been there I have no idea where it is. When we reach our destination and the blindfold is removed, we’re in familiar territory. Louche figures in various stages of undress and eroticism stare at us from all angles. His paintings remind me of the 1920s, somehow carefree and decadent with sizzling, dangerous undertones. "Stand there." He sweeps his hand in the direction of a wooden pillar. He removes his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. I take my place and face the easel.

"Take off your top half."

His voice is gruff and sticky in that way that tells of a life lived on good whisky and cigarettes. Or is he a brandy drinker? The faint lingering scent of debauchery on his breath and skin, even after bathing, I imagine, gives me a thrill. He gives me a thrill. The fuck you attitude of a man who will not be told what he can and cannot do. I like it. My pussy quivers as he licks his lips and sighs in a contemplative way, while he studies me removing my blouse. I reach up behind my back to unhook my bra but he holds out his palm.

"No. Leave it." He stares at me, my form, with an analytical eye. There’s no human-to-human emotion, but he’s so concentrated in an artist-to-subject sense that I’m overwhelmed with need.

But what do I need? What is it that brings me to him? He’s never touched me. Not once. And I’ve never even caught a glimpse of a sketch. When we’re done, he simply sends me on my way, smouldering. His brow furrows as he concentrates on my chest. My nipples strain and peak, yearning for attention.

He steps forward with both hands outstretched and I hold my breath as he reaches in over the top of my bra and eases out my breasts. His touch is cool, and I let my head fall back as he tugs harder. I sway on my heels as he keeps working, until both tits are free and hanging out. He manages to fold the top half of each cup into itself to arrange it like a balcony. Perfect. Did I just imagine it or did he roll my nipples between his thumbs and fingers?

If he would slide those artist’s fingers up between my thighs, oh, the heat and sodden need he’d find there. One touch. That's all it would take. One tiny circle of a finger tip on my clit and I would be spiralling into that heady place of oblivion. But he doesn't. He leaves me standing. Every hair is raised and reaching out to him. Every inch of my flesh is crying out, but I’m silent. His gaze is intense, as he directs me to move to the side of the post.

He pulls my hands backwards, around the pillar, so that I have to arch my back as he draws the wrists together. He takes his time. He always does. Once, it took him a whole hour to position me, millimetres apparently making a difference to the scene. This time, he’s directing me with his touch, not just his voice. I feel suspended in a dream.

He bids me clasp my fingers while he rifles through an overstuffed drawer and brings back a length of strapping. It looks like a cotton sheet torn into strips. A shiver spreads through me.

"I want you uncomfortable, this time," he says, with a hint of an apology — like he's making sure to let me know that it's not him that wants it, it's the painting. Like there's a difference, I think, then think again. Maybe it is a separate part of him. A symbiotic dark twin.

I shuffle my heels apart as an answer, stretching the already taught fabric until I hear a stitch in the hem pop. A groan deep in his throat signals his approval and I push further, my legs shaking with the effort and constriction.

He pulls the strapping tight around my wrists and ties it. Sweat breaks out over my forehead and chest and my palms are clammy. I’m hot and bothered, which is making me a little embarrassed. But I can't stop this torrent of arousal.

He comes to stand in front of me.

I sink into the pillar, releasing the tension in my knees, and sag slightly. Now, he’s looming, and a squeal escapes me. He takes my hair in his fist and twists my head to face him.

I brace myself for cruel words but he dips into my exposed neck and inhales deeply, then kisses the base of my throat, tonguing my clavicle as if it were my c*nt.

Oh my god. I'm going to come. His other hand is at my nipple, rolling and kneading, pulling it to a point and releasing. My head is still fixed in his grip at an awkwardly divine angle and my chest is heaving.

He releases my breast and abruptly shoves his hand up my skirt.

He moves to take my other nipple in his mouth, suckling and rolling. My pussy is on fire. I imagine juices flowing like lava, spilling out over the tops of my thighs. He releases my breast and abruptly shoves his hand up my skirt, still holding my hair in the other. I stumble off balance but his strength keeps me up against the post. His mouth is back at the base of my throat and he is growling into my neck, while he dips a little. I can just about see his curls as he works me. His fingers squeeze at the fleshy pillows of my inner thighs, then he hooks the tips into my panties and yanks them to the side.

I’m groaning now. My head falls back as he slides his digits into me and pulses, fingering me in a frantic fuck. My pussy is stretched and slick and he pumps fast. His thumb circles the top, bony part of my vulva, just above my clitoris. He presses hard. It’s an odd sensation. Almost painful, experimental, but good.

I visualise the sight — me with my skirt hitched, his forearm up in between my legs, elbow pumping. Who would know how deep he was? Who could tell how much I could take?

I whimper as his thumb finally reaches my hungry clit.

He releases the pressure on my pudenda and a strange sensation of blood rushing back into that place makes me ache with want. I whimper as his thumb finally reaches my hungry clit. Oh yes, yes. I rock and hump my pelvis into his hand.

"Yes, yes, harder," I whisper in a grainy fractured voice. That's how I feel. Fractured. As he fucks me hard with his hand I’m fractured. Falling into bits, over and over. The shuddering starts and my neck tenses. I try to pull my head forward in the usual pose of my orgasm but he holds my hair tighter. For a second, I panic. He doesn't know my quirks. I need to come with my chin tucked in. It's just the way. But he twists the fingers in my c*nt at such a strange angle that I surge and burst, head back, biting down and convulsing around his thick, clever, artist's fingers. He holds me until the quivering subsides, leaving a strange ache in its place.

He withdraws, slowly, carefully closing me up again and righting my head. As he stands, I see his cock straining through his trousers.

I nod to it.

"Don't you want me to...?" I whisper.

He shakes his head and gathers his brushes, wiping his hand on a paint stained rag.

My heart is still thundering as he retreats behind the easel and begins to mix the paint.

As is usual at the end of our sessions, he hands me a rolled up piece of parchment with instructions for our next meet. He doesn’t say goodbye. He just stares into me through the taxi window, with those intense artist’s eyes, and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

I put my hand up to wave as the cab pulls away but he’s already turned. The cigarette butt smoulders in the gutter.

The sway and lurch of the taxi ride is hypnotic and I unroll the note to see how long I’ll have to wait until next time. Sometimes, it’s weeks, sometimes months.

My breath catches as I spread the paper out on my lap. There is no time and date. No promise of a future. Just a beautiful, raw sketch. Uncomfortable and sensual, a woman is tied to a post, facing away.

It tells the whole story.

Tabitha is an erotic writer and sex toy designer. Her award winning Ruby Glow pleasure for the seated lady, vibrator is made by Rocks Off. She has a passion for painting nudes and creating sensual images. Tabitha is also a reclusive exhibitionist who believes orgasms can bring harmony to the mind, body and soul. Find her on Twitter and Amazon.

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