Just outrageous; how could my University allow a dirty old man to advertise for a nude model on their student-job website? The gross Sam Jones no doubt camouflaged an erection under his anorak while pointing a box brownie at women.
Repulsed, about to swipe left on that job, the word painter caught my eye. An artist, not a pervert? Too subtle a distinction? Maybe, after all Norman Lindsay was seen as both.
Googling gobsmacked me. Not only was Sam Jones a she, but she was also Professor of Art at Sydney’s ‘other’ big university. Surely too sophisticated to know what anoraks were. Let alone to actually wear one outside the stylish apartment, overlooking Bondi beach, where she lived in with her wife.
We met at her place. Sam was so cultured and elegant, totally rocking designer jeans and an apricot blouse. I also couldn’t help admiring a white-gold diamond choker; her taste was Tiffany, not Swarovski.
I must have made a good impression as she asked to see me naked. Her artist’s gaze travelled intensely over my body and she even asked for a pirouette. Seemingly more reserved than shy, she didn’t offer any comment but did offer me the position.
Maybe artists don’t need to speak to models sprawled naked on their chaise longue. Or was it simply that my curves only became worthy of comment when she reimagined them on canvas? But, whatever, we only ever really chatted after I had dressed.
So, to ward off the boredom I studied her painting me. She was so cute, absorbed and pulling faces with each brushstroke. Hot too, her nipples jutting against a grubby painting smock and paint-splattered cut-offs accentuating long legs. Occasionally rewarding me with a dimpled smile when we caught each other staring.
One afternoon Sam’s wife burst into the studio to say goodbye before going out. Not to me of course, she gave me a condescending look after checking out the painting. Then she kissed Sam, her fingers trailing over the choker.
“That new lipstick tastes yummy,” Sam said.
“Don’t make that painting too crude baby,” her wife replied.
After her wife left, Sam stared intently at her artwork. It was the first time I had seen her disappointed and it was infectious; after all, that was me on Sam’s canvas.
So, when Sam finally glanced at me, I trailed my fingers, aching slowly, across my inner thigh. She froze, puzzled, her brush hanging in mid-air like a conductor’s baton. Spreading my legs, I ran a fingertip across my perineum, corralling a stray drop of honey that had leaked from my pussy.
Her eyes locked on my finger as it curled through my wet folds harvesting my juices. Spellbound she watched me dab my mouth with that finger and paint honey across my pouting lips.
I said, in a joking tone, “My lipstick tastes better, Sam.”
The palette clattering on the hardwood floor, spattering paint, surprised me. As did her partnered eyes clouding with desire. But not the raw lust I had seen in other women’s eyes, there was something intriguingly enigmatic about Sam.
Her paintbrush still pointed at me, however, Hermione Granger like, as if she felt obliged to defend against my dark arts.
“Drop the brush,” I ordered. It clattered on the floor.
No longer able to hold my gaze, Sam focused on a paint splatter halfway between us.
“Your wife doesn’t like me?”
“Doesn’t like how I paint you.”
“Should she worry?”
Sam demurely raised her head and shivered when she caught my eyes. She imperceptibly nodded. Then intertwined her fingers behind her back and refocused on that paint splatter, seemingly the only thing she could bear to look at.
“Answer me, Sam!”
“But, …. She shouldn’t, … I shouldn’t ….”
Wow, I thought. “I painted my lips for you. Taste them!”
“Fuck.”
I stood and she instinctively stepped into my embrace. Her lips grazed mine, arms still clasped behind her. Her tongue slowly licked across my upper lip. Then even more slowly savoured my lower lip.
“Do you like how I taste?”
“Way too much.”
“You know you’re going to taste the source of my honey.”
“Oh, God. Would that please you?”
Sitting back on the chaise longue, I spread my legs, my weeping pussy inviting. And whispered, “Yes. On your knees!”
She knelt respectfully, almost reverently, closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of my arousal.
My fingers stroked her cheek and, opening her eyes, she looked up at me and poked out her tongue. Eyes locked on mine, she licked, achingly slowly, up my perineum and rasped her tongue through my wet folds.
Her tongue, sticky with strands of my honey, repeatedly flicked my clit, drawing whimpers from me. Sam licentiously painted her saliva on my slick pussy; first wide brushes of my slit with a flat tongue, followed by dabs on my clit.
Then she mashed her face into my pussy. Taking my folds between her lips, she shook her head like an eager puppy. My juices dribbled off her chin and splattered onto her diamond choker.
With hands gripping her head, I ground my pussy hard on her face. Then, slamming my clit onto her tongue, I orgasmed in a screaming gushing mess.
When my eyes opened, Sam’s glistening face was gazing in wonder at the juices oozing from my puffy pussy.
“May I paint your pussy, just like it is now?” Sam asked.
“Sure, with art you are the boss.”
“She says it’s erotica, not art. Bad for our image.”
“I’ll bind most things, but not your creativity.”
Sam nodded enthusiastically. “I love to please. But I need to decide what I paint.”
“Sure. But I’ll be getting you a new collar. A cheap and tawdry one.”
Sam shivered. “Fuck; I’ll look like a twenty-dollar whore.”
“Humiliating?”
Sam sucked on her bottom lip. “Oh God, yes!”
“You want to paint dirty, so you’ll do it for me, won’t you baby.”
“Fuck. Sorry. I mean, yes Miss. Thank you.”
