The Model Who Couldn't Sit Still

The heat hit me like a wall the second I pushed the sauna door open, and there she was — Maya, my model, already stripped down to a towel and dripping, one bare foot propped on the bench while she tried to fix a strap on her sandal. "You're late," she said, not even looking up. "I've been sweating like a sinner for ten minutes." Steam curled off the cedar planks and fogged the little window.

"Traffic," I said, setting my sketchbook on the dry bench. "And you're not supposed to wear the towel in here, remember? It defeats the whole anatomical study thing."

She finally looked up, and there was that smirk I'd painted eight times and never gotten right. "Then come take it off me, genius."

I laughed. "That's not—"

But she was already grinning, hooking a thumb under the towel's edge. "Relax, Anton. I'm kidding." A pause. "Mostly."

That's how it always went with Maya. She'd pose for twenty minutes, perfect and still, then ruin it by cracking a joke about my "tortured artist face" or asking if I wanted her to do a handstand for "dynamic composition." I'd known her six months and painted her twice a week, and somewhere between the fifth and sixth sitting I'd stopped seeing her as a model and started seeing her as a problem.

She dropped the towel.

"Okay," she said, settling onto the bench, one knee up, arm draped over it, chin turned. "Draw."

I didn't draw. I stood there like an idiot with charcoal in my hand, watching sweat bead at her collarbone and slide down between her tits. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

"You're staring," she said.

"I'm observing. It's my job."

"You're staring at my pussy."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. She laughed — that low, dirty laugh — and shifted her hips deliberately, letting me see the whole of her, wet from more than the steam.

"Anton. Put the charcoal down."

"Why?"

"Because I've been sitting in this oven for ten minutes thinking about your hands, and I'm done being professional about it."

I set the charcoal on the bench. My fingers were actually trembling, which was ridiculous — I'm forty-one, I've been with women, I don't tremble. But she watched me cross the little room like she was watching a canvas come together, and when I knelt between her knees she leaned forward and kissed me before I could get a word out.

Her mouth was hot and tasted like salt. She kissed like she posed — deliberate, generous, teasing, pulling back just when I leaned in. Her hands found the buttons of my shirt, and she worked them slow, one at a time, her knuckles brushing my chest.

"You're taking forever," I muttered against her lips.

"I'm savoring. Shut up." She got the last button and pushed the shirt off my shoulders, then ran her palms flat down my chest, over my stomach, and stopped at my belt. "Oh. Look at that."

"Don't—"

"Too late, I'm looking." She tugged the belt loose, popped the button, dragged the zipper down with theatrical slowness. "Anton. You've been hiding this from me for six months?"

"You never asked."

"I'm asking now." She pulled my cock out, already hard, and wrapped her fingers around it — hot and damp from the sauna, her grip firm. "God. Okay. Yeah. This is happening."

I got my pants down past my knees and she pulled me onto the bench with her, straddling my lap, her slick thighs clamping around my hips. The cedar was hot under my back. She kissed me again, deeper, and I slid my hand down her stomach — sweat-slick, soft — and found her clit with my thumb. She jerked against me.

"Fuck," she breathed. "Okay, that's — do that again."

I did it again, circling slow, and she ground down against my hand, her mouth open and her eyes half shut. "More," she said. "Don't be gentle."

I pressed harder and she made a sound that echoed off the sauna walls. Her hand found my cock again, guided it up between her legs, and she sank down onto it in one long, shuddering push.

"Shit," I said, and she laughed, breathless.

"Big talk from the artist."

She rode me slow at first, rolling her hips, her tits right there in my face, sweat running in rivulets. I grabbed her ass and pulled her down harder and she gasped, then set a faster rhythm, the bench creaking under us. The heat was insane — I couldn't tell where my sweat ended and hers began.

"Harder," she said. "Come on, Anton, I'm not made of glass—"

I flipped us. She yelped, laughed, then moaned as I pinned her to the bench and drove into her, deep and fast, her legs hooked over my arms. Her tits bounced with every thrust, her mouth wide open, hair plastered to her face.

"Yes — right there — don't you dare stop—"

"I'm not stopping."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She came with a long, broken cry, her pussy clenching around my cock so tight I nearly lost it. I held on, kept pounding through it, and she clawed at my back and pulled me down into a messy kiss.

"I want you to come on my tits," she whispered. "Come on, do it—"

I pulled out and stroked myself twice and came all over her chest, hot and thick, her hand over mine the whole time, both of us gasping. She looked down at herself and grinned.

"Now that," she said, "is a finished piece."

I was still catching my breath when she sat up, wiped her hand on my thigh, and swung her legs off the bench.

"Same time Thursday?" she said, reaching for the towel like nothing had happened. "I'll bring the sandals. You bring the charcoal."

She was out the door before I could answer, and I lay there in the heat, staring at the ceiling, already counting the days.