Wedding Reception Paint Job
The string quartet had packed up hours ago, but the reception tent still buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses. I stood near the open bar in my tight emerald dress, sipping champagne and watching the bride and groom sway on the dance floor. My name is Lena Voss, and I’m the artist who painted their official portrait last month. That’s why I got invited.
Across the lawn, under soft fairy lights, I spotted him. Marcus Hale, the tall, broad-shouldered sculptor who sometimes modeled for my life-drawing classes. He wore a charcoal suit that hugged his frame perfectly. Our eyes met. He smiled that lazy, knowing smile and started walking my way.
“Lena,” he said, voice low and warm. “Didn’t expect to see my favorite painter here.”
I tilted my head, letting my dark curls fall over one shoulder. “Marcus. You clean up nice. Didn’t know you were friends with the happy couple.”
“Groom’s cousin. Small world.” His gaze slid down my body, lingering on the way the silk clung to my tits and hips. “You look fucking edible.”
Heat pooled between my legs instantly. I laughed, but it came out breathy. “Careful. People might hear you.”
“Let them.” He stepped closer, smelling like cedar and champagne. “I’ve been thinking about that last session. The way you stared at my cock while you sketched. Made me so hard I could barely sit still.”
My pussy clenched at the memory. “You were supposed to stay professional.”
“Hard to be professional when your artist’s nipples are poking through her shirt the whole time.” He leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “Want to get out of here? Or should I drag you behind the tent right now?”
I bit my lip, pulse racing. The wedding was winding down. Most guests were drunk or dancing. No one would miss us.
“Follow me,” I whispered.
We slipped past the glowing lanterns and into the small guest cottage at the edge of the property. The friend who owned the estate had said we could use it if we needed a break. Perfect.
The door clicked shut. Marcus didn’t waste time. He spun me around, pressing my back to the wall, mouth crashing into mine. His tongue pushed past my lips, tasting like whiskey and pure want. I moaned into the kiss, hands already working his belt.
“Fuck, Lena,” he growled against my mouth. “I need to see those tits.”
He yanked the straps of my dress down. My breasts spilled free, heavy and flushed. He cupped them roughly, thumbs circling my stiff nipples until I gasped.
“These are perfect,” he muttered, bending to suck one into his hot mouth. The wet pull sent sparks straight to my clit. I arched, fingers threading through his thick hair.
“Marcus… touch me lower. Please.”
He dropped to his knees, hiking my dress up around my waist. No panties tonight. He groaned at the sight of my shaved, glistening pussy.
“Look at this pretty cunt. Already dripping for me.” He spread my thighs wider, then licked a long, slow stripe from my entrance to my swollen clit.
“Oh shit,” I cried, head falling back against the wall. His tongue circled my clit with filthy precision, two thick fingers sliding deep inside me. The wet, obscene sounds of him sucking and fingering filled the cottage.
“You taste so fucking good,” he said between licks. “Gonna make this pussy cum before I paint it.”
The word “paint” made me smile through the pleasure. I was the artist, but right now I wanted him to cover me.
My orgasm hit fast and hard. I grabbed his head, grinding against his face as my walls clenched around his fingers. “Marcus! I’m coming… fuck, yes!”
He kept licking until I trembled, then stood up, cock freed from his pants. It was thick, veined, the head already leaking precum. My mouth watered.
“On the bed,” he ordered.
I kicked off my heels and crawled onto the king-sized mattress, dress bunched at my waist. Marcus stripped quickly, revealing the hard muscles I’d drawn so many times. He climbed behind me, gripping my hips.
“Ass up, baby. I want to fuck you deep.”
I arched my back, offering my soaked pussy. He rubbed his fat cockhead along my slit, teasing my clit until I whined.
“Stop teasing and fuck me already.”
With one hard thrust he buried himself to the balls. We both groaned. He felt huge, stretching me perfectly.
“Goddamn, your pussy is tight,” he panted, starting to move. Each stroke slapped his hips against my ass, balls hitting my clit. The wet smack-smack-smack echoed.
I pushed back to meet him, loving the fullness. “Harder. Fuck me like you mean it.”
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pounded faster. The bed creaked. My tits swung with every thrust. Pleasure coiled tight again.
“Marcus… I’m gonna cum on your cock.”
“Do it. Soak me.”
My second orgasm ripped through me, pussy pulsing wildly around his dick. He growled, slowing just enough to feel every flutter.
When I caught my breath, I pulled off him and turned around. “I want to watch you cum. Paint me, Marcus. Cover my tits, my face. I want your hot load everywhere.”
His eyes darkened with lust. “You filthy little artist.”
I lay back, cupping my breasts together, tongue out. He straddled my chest, stroking his glistening cock fast. The musky scent of sex filled the air. His balls drew up tight.
“Fuck… Lena… here it comes.”
The first thick rope of cum shot across my tits, hot and sticky. I moaned as more followed, splattering my neck, my chin, landing on my waiting tongue. He kept pumping, groaning my name, until every drop decorated my flushed skin. Pearly cum dripped down my cleavage and over one nipple.
I swallowed what landed in my mouth, then used two fingers to scoop some off my breast and suck it clean while he watched, chest heaving.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, collapsing beside me. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I smiled, sticky and satisfied, running a finger through the mess on my chest. “Next time I’m bringing my brushes. We can make real art with this.”
He laughed, pulling me close despite the cum. “Deal. But only if you let me eat that pussy again first.”
Outside, the wedding music drifted faintly. Inside, we stayed tangled, breathing hard, already planning round two.