11 comments/ 25823 views/ 5 favorites Artist Ch. 01 By: Charlotte35f Note to readers: this is a slow, languorous story. Part I has only limited sex in it. If you want to get to "the good part", wait 'til part II (although reading part I will set it up). Thank to my risky friend Rae for reading and commenting on this. Feedback is always appreciated! ***** I can almost feel her pencil on the back of my neck as I watch her draw. The artist. I don't know her name. She's down here in the park every lunchtime, drawing intently as I watch. I nibble quietly on my salad, slowly letting myself relax after a morning of petty slights at work. "Get us some coffee, Jane." "Jane, this needs to be copied before the client gets here." "Hey, looking good today, Jane, got a special date tonight?" Event the guys who know I'm married leer at me. I don't know her name, but I know her every part as though I've been studying nothing else for months. Her left hand, usually with a little black on the paper side where she's been drawing. Her quick eye, dark chocolate brown, seeing much more than I can, flashing. Her little satisfied smile when her drawing is going well. Her little grimaces when she wants to change things. Long raven hair, just a few gray strands, pulled back into a pair of braids, usually pinned up on her head. Nice gray wool cardigan and jeans. Her neck, with the little stray hairs I always want to sweep away so she can feel on her neck what she's doing to mine. She takes my breath away sometimes. I don't remember when I started thinking about touching her hair and neck. Probably about the time I started really watching her draw. I usually only get glimpses of her drawings as she's flipping the page over for a new one, but I can feel the entire detail of her subject on my neck. As usual, she's drawing one of the lunching women on a nearby patch of grass. Her subject is oblivious to her attention. I have noticed that woman before. She's one of these women who don't know how beautiful they are, or don't seem to care. Strawberry blond, small high breasts, strong looking hands, long legs. She usually takes her shoes off in warm weather. Wears a sundress to work in the summer. Slacks and cashmere sweaters this fall. Wears just a hint of makeup. Flawless skin with no freckles. She's the one I sometimes mentally undress on the grass. I don't want her. Not really. I've never been with a woman. I love my husband. I... I'm just speculating about what it would be like to lie down with her and hold her. Naked. Yes. No. I don't know what I want, it's.... I don't know. I just want to take off that powder blue sweater and touch the breasts I know are bare underneath. And kiss her neck, smell her hair. I look up and see the artist watching me. I can feel her pencil on the back of my neck as she draws. Is she drawing me? The woman on the lawn? She stares at me looking at her for a few seconds, appraising me, then goes back to drawing, looking at the strawberry blond. I start to breathe again, feeling her drawing on my neck. My neck is how my husband seduced me. My most erogenous zone, he calls it. Actually, he calls it "ero-genius". Still seduces me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then cast a glance at her. She's looking at me again. The artist. I swear she can see my nipples trying to betray me through my camisole, through my red blouse. The washable silk my husband bought because he loves to touch me through it. I resist the temptation to cover my breasts with my hands or by crossing my arms over them, as I have to do all day at work. Instead, I sit and pretend to be looking at the sky, the trees just beginning to turn golden, the birds. Anything but her. And the blond on the lawn. And the ghostly touch on my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her as she nods to herself as if she has made a decision. She closes her pad, walks slowly but purposefully toward me. She quietly sits beside me on my bench. Doesn't look at me. Just sits there a minute. Then: "She's amazing, isn't she?" she asks without prologue. "I'm sorry?" "That girl on the lawn. You were fantasizing about her again." "I... what?" "Fantasizing." I pause, stare at her, taken aback. "Was it that obvious?" "Your breathing gives it away. Not to mention your breasts." She grins, and she opens her pad to show me today's drawing. The blond is there, lying on the grass. Half nude. The cashmere is crumpled up like a pillow under her head in the drawing. I'm in the drawing too, in the corner, sitting on the bench, obviously aroused. One of my hands is covering my breast, but not for modesty; it's circling my nipple. My very erect nipple. "I like to watch you draw. It's almost like you're drawing on my neck." "I know. Well, I didn't know it was your neck. I just knew you were ... well, aroused by watching me. Or her. Or both." I swallow, try to make myself breathe again. "I..." I swallow again, try to calm myself. "I didn't even know I was aroused until today." I continue to look at the woman on the lawn. Anything but meet the artist's eyes. She smiles, reaches over to touch my neck. Soft, gentle strokes, upward against the grain of my hair. "You like having your neck touched?" I nod, unable to speak. "I do too." She's massaging my neck now with her hand, slipping down into my collar a little to touch my shoulder. I tentatively reach up to touch her neck. The little soft hairs are all standing on end. She casually lifts the pad as if to show me the drawing, but really so we can hide and kiss softly. Her mouth is so sweet. She smells of jasmine. And arousal. Her eyes are smiling as I open my lips and touch tongues with her. "I... I have to get back to work." She smiles. "Take the afternoon off. Call in sick. Tell them your sister's sick, your kid's sick, your husband's sick." "But, what do I tell my husband?" "Tell him you were modeling for me." "I... I can't." I look back at the woman on the lawn. She follows my glance, and nods at the blonde. "Maybe we can get her to come along too." Grins. "How?" She grins again. "I'll show her the nude of you." Artist Ch. 02 I stare at her, shocked. "What ... what nude of me?" Her grin widens into a full-fledged smile. "Well, I guess you'll have to model for me so I can draw one." She reaches over to stroke my neck again. My nipples are tingling, my skin is all gooseflesh. She leans in for another soft, soft kiss, gently tugging at my nipple through the silk. Her eyes are full of mischief. My hand slips from her neck, "accidentally" brushing the nipple that is showing through the thin cardigan. She closes her eyes and sighs. Brings her fingers up to trace my mouth softly, as if memorizing my face for drawing. I take one of her fingers in my mouth, timing my little tugs on her nipple to my sucking. Another sigh. "I take it that's a yes?" I look down, nod silently. I can't say anything. Silently we get up together and head for her apartment. The walk across the park leaves me a little breathless. The breeze rustles the trees, scattering stray leaves on the sidewalk. The doorman looks pointedly at me, smiles knowingly at her as we pass, taking the elevator to her floor. The entry hall of her apartment has a series of drawings of women. Most are in the park, sunning on benches, lying on the grass. There is one of me from last summer, wearing the dress that got me the worst leers that first week at work, the one I have never worn to work again. The one that showed my nipples in the air conditioning. Even in the park, it seems almost transparent in her drawing. Around the bend, the women are less formally dressed, a few buttons open at the top, top open to the waist, sheer bra, topless. I find myself looking more at the yellow oriental carpet than at the drawings. On the door to the studio is a self-portrait. Of the artist. She is nude, arms overhead. It's hard not to stare at it. I turn to look at her. She has removed the cardigan and is standing there in a soft white camisole. Her nipples and areolas are plainly visible. "You like?" I don't know if she means the drawing or her body. I smile, reach back to put my hand on her neck. She comes forward, touches the tip of my nose with hers. A soft kiss on the lips before she steps back, looks at me appraisingly. "Have you ever posed nude before?" "No." I'm whispering, still can't quite speak. Staring at the leafy pattern in the carpet. I can't look at her, can't look at the drawings. "Am I going to pose nude today?" She looks at me appraisingly. Gives me a little ambiguous smile. "Would you like something to drink?" I nod. "Go on into the studio. I'll be back in a minute." Inside there is only one drawing. It's the blond from the park. She's lying on a divan, nude, looking frankly at me as if welcoming a lover. Then I see the divan, under the skylight. A sheer scrim lets the amazing light in, the soft breeze, the muffled sounds of the city. There isn't anywhere else to sit, so I go over and sit on the very edge. The woman in the drawing seems to smile faintly at me. The artist returns with tea. Fine alabaster china. A couple of little cucumber sandwiches. Had she known I was coming? I grin at the incongruity of a little plastic honey bear amid such an elegant setting. She places the tray on a little three-legged calling card table and gracefully hands me a teacup. Jasmine tea, my favorite. She takes a sandwich and gently brings it to my lips, caressing my cheek as she feeds it to me. The touch tingles the entire right side of my face, runs down my neck and arm, brings my nipple back to attention. I look away, sip my tea, trying desperately not to show how aroused I am. Out of the corner of my eye I can sense her amusement. I nod toward the drawing. "Has she been here often?" "Yes." "She's lovely." "I think so too." "How did you meet?" "She liked my drawing of her in the park." I swallow. "Are you... are you lovers?" "Sometimes. I mostly like to draw her making love to someone else." I will my breathing to start again. "May I see one?" She smiles. "Maybe sometime. You'll have to ask her." It's all I can do to keep my hand from touching my panties. I sip my tea and cross my legs. I look at her, see the amusement dancing in her eyes. "Are you ready to pose?" Sheepish grin. "I don't think it will get easier if I wait." I set the cup down, rise, and fumble with the top button of my blouse. She also rises, takes my hands in hers, lifts one to kiss the fingertips one at a time. Leans in to unfasten the buttons. Tugs the shirt out of my skirt, slides it off my shoulders. She leans in and kisses me softly on the side of my neck, stroking my back through the soft cotton cami. Then she unfastens the side button of my skirt, unzips the zipper, and lets it fall to the floor. She steps back to admire me, asks me to turn, touches my bottom through the white hiphugger panties. A gentle touch on my shoulder stops me, turned away from her, and she kisses my neck, tugging at the short hairs there with her lips. The blond in the drawing almost seems to lean in to watch. I have to close my eyes. The light breeze in the studio makes my goosebumps bigger. My nipples stand up to be touched. Her breathing is a little coarser. I reach back, take her hands and bring them around to put them on my breasts. She nibbles my earlobe in little strokes and tugs at my nipples through the cami. My skin is all electrified as she makes little circles with her fingers. She lifts the cami over my head in one smooth movement, and then lightly scratches my back, my armpits, my nipples. Tugs gently at the tufts of hair in my armpits. Strokes down my sides, my hips, my belly. Kisses my neck as she touches my panties. "You like?" I whisper. "Very much." She slips my panties partway down my thighs and starts to tug at my pubic hair. Another light breeze makes me realize how very wet I've become. With gentle tugs, she leads me back to the divan and lays me down on my belly. With sure fingers she starts caressing my neck, shoulders, back, buttocks, firm and light strokes bringing every inch of my skin awake. One hand keeps caressing while the other tugs my panties the rest of the way off. She massages my feet slowly, my calves, my thighs, my buttocks. Again, I have the sense that she is memorizing me with her fingers. Then, with one hand on my hip, she rolls me over, then sits back on her heels to admire me. "Lovely. You are lovely." I can see she is studying the contrast between my pale skin and the black pubic hair, eyes dancing over my body almost like caressing fingers. I can almost feel her pencil on my neck, my face, my neck, my armpits, my breasts, my belly, as the draws me in her mind. She leans forward to run her fingers through my pubic hair, tugging softly as she combs it straight down onto my lips. "Close your eyes," she murmurs softly. I do. She leaves her left hand just casually lying over my mound, softly runs her right over my nipples. I become more and more aware of the gentle pressure of her finger resting on my lips, aching to open my thighs more so she will really touch me, touch my five-alarm-fire center now. I call her my "little friend." I've known my little friend since I was 10, and she's never wanted to be touched more. My whole body is vibrating under the artist's touch. Especially my little friend. Her hand leaves my breasts for a moment as I lie there with my eyes closed. Suddenly I feel cool liquid dripping on one nipple. Honey, I realize, as she leans in to take my nipple in her mouth. Oh my God, the pressure from her hand, her finger resting there, is nearly unbearable as she sucks the honey off. She drips a thin trail up my breast, onto my chest and neck, and follows it with her tongue. A drop of honey on my lips, and her sweet tongue is kissing my mouth as her finger gently opens my little friend to the air without touching her. "Touch me," I whisper. She kisses me deeper but doesn't move the finger. She tugs on my nipple with her free hand as she kisses me, then leans back again. "What's the magic word?" she smiles at me. "Please." I am practically whimpering. "Please what?" "Please touch me..." "Touch you where?" "On my..." I start to say "little friend," but I'm suddenly embarrassed. I have never said the word aloud before. "On my... clitoris...." "Show me where." She lowers her face to between my thighs, taking her finger away. I groan, "Please touch me!" She laughs gently. "You have to show me how." Slowly, I bring my finger down, slip it between my lips, and touch the very tip of what is now the center of the universe. "Show me how you touch yourself," she says. I can't believe I am doing this, nobody has ever watched me touching like this before. I take the base between my thumb and middle finger and gently stroke the tip with my index. She strokes upward on my thighs, down my belly, always toward what I am doing with my finger. "Ahhhh." I am groaning. I am so near to orgasm, so close, I have never been this turned on. She leans in and captures my stroking finger, tugs it into her mouth. I am so close, almost in tears. I try squeezing with my thumb and middle, but this only makes it worse. "Please touch me!" I whisper. She smiles at me, softly sucking on my finger, eyes dancing. "Please." It's almost a whimper. Suddenly her tongue is there, right on the magic spot, she's licking me so softly, so slowly. I can feel each taste bud as one by one they touch me. "Please," I whisper. She stops moving, just leaves her tongue there, burning me, her eyes smiling at me, question marks on her face. "Please lick me harder!". "Ohhh", she almost hums, pushes a little harder, licks slowly, slowly, down to the tip of her tongue. I feel her hot breath on me as she blows gently on me. Her tongue goes down for a second lick, long, slow, just barely hard enough. I am groaning, unable to say a word. Once again she just rests the tip of her tongue there, humming. My hips rise up to try to press harder on her tongue. A third time she goes down, her tongue partway inside me this time. The long, slow rasp. Suddenly she licks me faster, harder, finally just hard enough, and I am over the edge, screaming, crying, gasping for breath, rubbing my nipples with both hands as she licks and sucks my friend, my clit, oh my God, please, keep licking, never stop, ohhhh, lick me, suck me.... I don't know when she stopped. I don't know how long I laid there in sleepy bliss. When I looked up, I became aware of light strokes on my neck as she was completing her drawing of me. I beckoned her to me. "Let me see." I tugged her arm to me, kissed her for all I was worth. She tasted amazing, like honey and vinegar and exotic spices. And me. The drawing made me realize I was still aroused, would be aroused for days. Would be coming here again. I slipped my hand under the hem of her cami, raised it just enough to bring her nipple to my mouth. She stopped me after a few seconds. "Next time." I glanced at the drawing on the wall. The blond was staring at my body, liking what she saw. "When do we show it to her?" ***** So, who wants part III? Feedback, please! Artist Ch. 03 "Ah, here you are, Jane, I've been looking for you for weeks!" I looked up to see the strawberry blond from the park. The park I had been avoiding for two weeks. The girl I'd been avoiding. Her smile was mysterious, like Mona Lisa's. Her accent was impossible to place, sort of French with a little British and maybe a little Swedish intonation. She smelled of fresh cut grass and flowers. "You don't like the other part of the park any more?" I blushed crimson. I'd been too guilty to go back after that day. That night, I had been disappointed by my husband for the first time. I'd spent the next few weeks trying to get interested in him, but I felt distant, distracted. He was beginning to question my excuses, my being tired every night. I was too tired even to fake orgasms. What had I done? I found my voice, or at least my whisper. "No, I just needed a change in scenery." She hesitated. "Was Marie too much for you? She can be a little ... direct." She smiled languorously at me. I turned even redder and looked away. "No, I just, um, had second thoughts." Actually, I had had hundreds, no, millions of thoughts. What was I thinking, having sex with a stranger? A woman? What was wrong with my husband? What was wrong with me? Why was I thinking about the artist all day? Why was I thinking about the blond currently standing over me all day? "I can imagine. Marie can make thinking, well, difficult." "Marie? Is that her name? She was incredible, an artist sexually as well as drawing." "I could see from her drawings a big change in you." "I'm sorry?" She laughed, gently. "You look different now than you do in her drawings of you from before she took you to her studio. And, of course, the after picture is very different." She gave me a tentative smile. Would I never stop blushing? I looked at her face. She was staring at me, almost as if trying to see that sated-and-aroused look in my eyes. "May I sit here with you?" I swallowed. "Yes. I guess so. What's your name?" "Elizabeth." She pronounced it almost like "Eleezabet". She sat with me, not too close but close enough that I was aware of her breathing. Of the scent of her hair. Of her breasts rising as she breathed. Of her nipples barely visible through her pale green silk top, peeking out under the lapels of her blazer. "Marie, she can be so infuriating. One day all she wants is to draw me. The next day she is using me as bait. Sometimes she will make love with me, but usually she just wants to watch me with someone else." She was blushing, too. "I would watch you." I couldn't believe I was saying this. "I mean, if you would let me. If you wanted me...." I looked away. "To watch you, I mean." She took my hand, brought it to her lips. "I would want you to do more than watch." I could hardly breathe. "I've been imagining touching you since ... since I first saw you in the summer." She smiled, shyly. "I know. I've been posing for you as much as for Marie." I stared at her. "How did you know?" "I could see you wanting me. Sometimes I caught you staring. Sometimes your breathing." She looked down, smiling. "Your breasts are so beautiful when you're aroused. Your skin, too." I sat thinking for a long time. Then I took her hand, kissed it. "What do we do?" She touched my face, then kissed my palm, my fingertips. "What would you like for us to do?" "I wish I knew. No, I do know, I wish I didn't want you so much. It complicates things." "I know. You are married, and I am living in a room in Marie's studio. She usually goes home to her husband at night." "Her husband?" "Yes. You don't know this about her?" She smiled a little sadly. "I am not surprised. He knows nothing about me, or you, or the other women she has had in the studio." I pondered this for a long moment. "Where is she now?" My heart was pounding. "Who knows? She may be home, or seducing someone in the park, or in the studio." I stammered, "we could go to your room." "Do you want to see Marie?" "I don't know. Not really." She thought a bit. "Frank will know if she is there." "Frank?" "The doorman." "He knows a lot about what happens in that building." "He does." She smiled ruefully. "He owes me a favor. Let's ask him if she is there." Taking my arm, she steered me to Central Park West, to Marie's building. As we came in the lobby, for an instant Frank looked surprised, then the amused look came back over his face. Elizabeth looked up toward the ceiling, and gave him a slightly questioning look; he shrugged and shook his head slightly. She took my hand and led me to the elevator. As the doors closed, she caressed my face and hair. We stood there, she looking in my face, my eyes downcast, trying not to stare at her breasts. Cupping my chin, she raised my gaze until I met her bright blue eyes. She leaned in to brush my lips with hers, lifted my hand inside her blazer to her breast. I closed my eyes as I tugged her crinkly nipple through her top. I gingerly touched her lips with my tongue, was met with the soft tip of her tongue just touching mine. She tasted sweet, jasmine tea with just a bit of honey. We only broke away when the doors started to open. She led me across the tile floor to the only apartment door on the floor, fumbled a little with her keys, and let me into the entry foyer. She hung my cardigan beside her blazer in the hall closet. We turned away from the studio and into the kitchen, where she wordlessly busied herself making tea, rinsing raspberries, readying a tray. Taking it, she led me to a lovely small bedroom off the corridor. She set the tray on the secretary desk. I looked around. The soft carpet was a pale cream color, cut with a complex geometric pattern. The bed was a dark wood with a canopy in lace, a flowery duvet, creamy soft pillows. A graceful elegantly simple love seat was near a window. There was one drawing of her, framed, on the wall over the divan. Even in pencil, you could see the flush of her skin, the taut breasts, the immediate post-orgasm breathing, the sweat glistening on her, the light dew on her pale pubes that meant someone had been kissing her there just moments before. "Did Marie do that?" She smiled enigmatically. "The drawing, or the orgasm?" I blushed again, deeper than ever, and sighed. "I could tell who did the drawing." "The drawing only. The orgasm came from a stranger. I never saw her again." "Did you want to?" She smiled, sadly. "I don't know. No. I was thinking of you as she was doing it." She approached with a few raspberries. Placed one on my tongue. I held it there for a moment, with my eyes closed, and she leaned in to kiss me, sharing the berry as we crushed it with our tongues. Once again she placed my hand on her breast, squeezing my fingers harder on her nipple. Her other hand was skilfully undoing the buttons on my blouse, slipping up my bra to touch my nipple. I could scarcely breathe, desperate to keep my eyes open and see her, but they kept closing to kiss her deeper. Just as suddenly, she took a step back to look at me. I was aware of having one bare breast, one with the cup just bearly hanging on, a little raspberry juice on my chin. All I knew was I wanted to see her. All of her. Touch her. I fumbled with the mother-of-pearl buttons holding her blouse closed, opened it to see her pale breasts, the flush on her chest, the nipples and areolas rose colored, standing, demanding attention. I slipped the silk away from her collar bones, stroked her underarms and arms as I let it fall to the floor. Although I was reluctant to let her turn away for even a moment, I turned her to the side so I could undo the button and clasp holding the zipper in the olive skirt, slid it down her legs, and drew down her slip and panties. A golden ray of sunlight fell directly on her light downy pubes, and the scent of her as her panties were lowered seemed to fill the room. She undid my skirt, slipping it and my underclothes down my thighs in a single smooth movement, and then, with the barest of touches on my hip, guided me to the love seat, never unlocking her eyes from mine. Taking my fingers to her lips, she playfully licked and suckled each finger in succession, then guided my hand to her damp curls as she leaned in to kiss me. So soft, so fine. I stroked her hair and touched her thighs, wanting to devour and touch her, take her gently, possess her, kiss her everywhere. Awkwardly I tried to kneel between her thighs without breaking the kiss or moving my hand from her sex. She smiled gently and slipped my panties off my calves and helped me into position. Her nipples tightened still further as I touched them, and I bent to take one and then the other in my mouth. Her heart was pounding, as was mine, making her nipples quiver as I moved from one to the other. My breasts almost leapt into her hands as she licked her fingers and circled my areolas. Tentatively I kissed down her belly and rubbed my face in her soft reddish blond curls. Her surprisingly muscular thighs opened further for my exploration. She smelled of fine soap and excitement as I kissed and licked her thighs, tentatively touched her hair with my tongue, kissed her lips. I looked up into her eyes. She smiled encouragingly, almost reading my mind as I realized I don't know the first thing about how to do this. "Here," she said, using her fingers to split her own lips, pointing to her glistening clitoris with one of her thumb. "Touch here." As I touched her softly, I heard the softest of sighs from her. I met her eyes as I ran my tongue over her button, inhaling her scent as it subtly changed, less flowery and more tangy, musky. Her taste was spicy and a little salty, and she smiled as she moved closer to the edge of the love seat so I could lick her deeper. She caressed my face and hair with one hand as I reached in to open her lips further. Her hand was now bringing my face closer, and I licked her a little harder, which made her gasp. "Oh, Jane, so nice. So nice. Ohh." I licked her, suckled her clit, tried to remember what Marie had done to me, what I had imagined doing to Elizabeth all these weeks. Her breathing became more raspy, she was groaning with pleasure, touching my head to encourage me, now almost crying my name. "Ohhh, Jane, ohh, ohhh, ohhh, aaah, ohhhhhh." Her hips were vibrating, legs pressing on my shoulders, and finally she let out one long sigh and gently touched my forehead to tell me "no more." Pulled me up to her face, kissing me fiercely. Slowly her breathing returned to normal. She smiled and kissed me gently, got us up off the sofa and guided us onto the soft, cool duvet. She laid me on my back and sat back on her heels to admire me, touch me all over. My skin was all gooseflesh and electricity as she touched my neck, my hard tingling nipples, my damp pubes, just slightly grazing over my clit peeping out. Responding to her gentle pressure, my legs slowly drifted apart, as if they had minds of their own. She leaned in to touch me with her mouth. Just the lightest feather touch on my clit. "Ohhh, Elizbeth," I murmured. Suddenly, I heard a slow rhythmic clapping sound from the doorway. Marie was standing there, watching, applauding quietly. There was no mirth on her face.