I am standing at my easel, staring at the blank canvas, my brushes in my hand. I feel the gently blowing warm breeze caress the exposed, slightly damp skin on my chest and between my bosom. The noise at the door causes me to turn, and I see you standing there, shifting nervously from one bare foot to the other.
My lips curve gently upwards as I see your hand holding the towel where it is knotted at your waist. My eyes travel over your body, your bare feet, your wonderfully muscled legs, over the towel, to your nicely muscled chest and arms, and finally your loving face.
I see the indecision on your face. I lay my brushes down, adjust the loosely tied scarf at my waist, which is the only thing holding my dress. I walk over to you slowly. I smile and take your hand, the one that was clutching the knotted towel.
I lead you into the sunlit room, across to the low divan, upon which I seat you. I stand for a moment in front of you, considering how to pose you for this portrait, that you have so reluctantly agreed to do. I gently push your thighs apart, then slowly bend down to kneel in front of you, between your powerful thighs. Your unsure eyes stare into mine.
I know you didn’t want to do this. You don’t really like your photo taken… but for me, you agreed. I place my hands on the knot of the white plush cotton towel, never letting my eyes leave your own intense gaze. I smile, then ever so slowly release the knot.
I spread the edges of the towel open. I place my hands, palms down, just above your knees. I see the slight frown forming on your forehead. The frown disappears as my palms move ever so slowly upwards, over your firmly muscled thighs. My green eyes lower to your thighs, then your wonderful masculinity, so hard and firm. So wonderfully smooth, hairless.
But just as my hands reach the gift they seek, I stop. I lean back slightly, moving my hands to the scarf at my waist. I feel your eyes widen briefly as you realize…. I release the scarf and let it float gently to the floor. I shrug my shoulders, and my dress slides off my white shoulders, to pool at my knees.
I move forward again, my palms resting on your thighs. I slowly ease forward as I whisper gently, my words causing gentle warm puffs of air to caress your hard, swollen manhood. “Even though I love to paint, you know I would always rather make love to you….”
“Even though I love to paint, you know I would always rather make love to you…”
