The Tongue of an Artist

I shouldn't be doing this. That's all I could think as I watched Marco strip off his shirt in the dim light of my studio. I'd turned the massage table into an installation piece — soft velvet drapes, candles flickering on every surface, the air thick with sandalwood and something darker. My hands trembled as I adjusted the camera.

"You're nervous," he said, and it wasn't a question. His voice was low, rough at the edges, the kind of voice that made you want to lean in closer.

"No," I lied. "I just... I've never painted from life before. Not like this."

Marco's jeans came next. He was slow about it, deliberate, letting the denim catch on his thighs before pushing them down. His cock was already half-hard against his boxers, a dark shape pressing against the cotton. I swallowed hard.

"Then maybe you should stop thinking about painting," he said, stepping toward me. "And start thinking about what you actually want."

My breath caught as he stopped inches away. I could smell him — sweat and soap and something musky underneath. His hand came up, fingers brushing against my jaw, tilting my face toward his.

"I want..." I started, but the words died in my throat.

"Show me."

I dropped to my knees. No hesitation. My hands found his waistband, pulled his boxers down, and his cock sprang free — thick and hard, the head already glistening. I wrapped my lips around him without thinking, tongue pressing flat against the underside, tasting salt and skin.

Marco groaned, his fingers threading through my hair. "Fuck, Mia. Just like that."

I took him deeper, let my tongue swirl around the head before sliding down his shaft. He tasted like heat, like want. I could feel him twitch against my palate, hear his breath catch every time I hollowed my cheeks and sucked.

"Look at me," he said, and I did. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "You're so fucking beautiful like this."

I pulled off, just enough to speak. "I want you to fuck my mouth."

He didn't need telling twice. His hands tightened in my hair, guiding my head back onto his cock, setting a rhythm that was rough and perfect. I let my jaw go slack, let him use my throat, feeling the burn as he hit the back of my tongue. My hands gripped his thighs, nails digging in.

"Fuck, that's it. Take it all."

I moaned around him, the vibration making him shudder. His thrusts got faster, harder, and I knew he was close. I wanted it — wanted to taste him, to feel him come apart because of me.

"Where?" he gasped.

"Down my throat. Don't you dare pull out."

He came with a guttural sound, hips jerking, hot cum flooding my mouth. I swallowed around him, every pulse, every drop, until he went still, breathing ragged.

When he pulled out, I stayed on my knees, looking up at him. A string of saliva and cum connected his tip to my lips.

"Get on the table," I said.

He didn't argue.

I climbed onto the massage table, straddling his hips, my dress already bunched around my waist. I reached down, guiding his cock to my entrance, and sank onto him in one slow, deliberate motion. The stretch made me gasp — he was thick, filling me completely.

"Jesus, Mia." His hands found my hips, gripping hard enough to bruise.

I started moving, a slow grind at first, feeling every inch of him inside me. My head fell back, hair brushing my shoulders. "Is this what you wanted? When you walked in here?"

"This is what I dreamed about," he said, voice strained.

I leaned forward, pressing my chest against his, my lips brushing his ear. "Then fuck me like you mean it."

He flipped us in one smooth motion, pinning me to the velvet. His cock never left me, just drove deeper as he pushed my legs apart. He was faster now, harder, each thrust making the table creak beneath us.

"Look at me," he said, and I did. His eyes never left mine as he fucked me, slow and deep, then fast and rough, building a rhythm that had me clawing at his back.

"I'm close," I gasped.

"Not yet." He pulled out, and I whimpered at the loss, but he just flipped me onto my stomach. His hands spread my cheeks, and then his tongue was there — hot and wet, tracing my folds, circling my clit.

"Oh, fuck." I buried my face in the velvet, muffling my scream as he ate me out like he was starving. His tongue was everywhere, teasing my entrance, sliding up to flick against my clit, then dipping back down. I was dripping, soaked, grinding against his face.

"Marco, please..."

He pulled back just long enough to say, "Come on my tongue."

That was all it took. My orgasm hit me like a wave, body shaking, a cry tearing from my throat as he lapped at me through every pulse.

When I finally caught my breath, he was over me, cock pressing against my slick folds. "One more," he said, and pushed inside.

I was oversensitive, trembling, but I wanted it. He fucked me slow this time, deep and deliberate, his chest pressed to my back, his breath hot on my neck. I could feel every inch, every heartbeat, the way his rhythm stuttered as he got close.

"Fill me," I whispered. "I want to feel it."

He came with a groan, hips pressed tight against me, and I felt him pulse inside, hot and wet. I clenched around him, drawing out every second, until he collapsed on top of me, both of us slick with sweat.

We lay there, tangled in velvet and candlelight, listening to each other's breathing.

"Best painting I never made," I said.

He laughed, breath warm against my shoulder. "We're not done yet."