The Artists' Model - Mistress

She enjoys revealing her body to men, but will this young artist be different?

Copyright: The Author

A mature woman agrees to pose for a young artist. They both have hidden secrets which will tie their lives together.

This story continues from The Artists’ Model - Incognito

The Artists' Model

The first two parts of this new series are free to read. After that, there will be times when it gets a lot naughtier, so it will continue for paid subscribers

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Tatyana climbed the five flights of stairs. The apartment building seemed to get a little more decrepit as each floor passed. She knocked on the faded door that was shedding the last peelings of paint on the top floor, half expecting Paul to open it wearing an artist’s smock and a beret.

“You came.” He stood in the doorway wearing light cotton trousers and a white shirt, with maybe just a hint of paint on it, an expression of eagerness on his face that made him look like a child on Christmas Day.

He ushered her into an attic room with large sloping windows that flooded it with North light. Any model standing in it would be beautifully illuminated with soft shadows that accentuated their curves.

“It was built as a daylight studio in the early days of photography,” Paul said as he prepared coffee in a small kitchen area in the corner. “It fell into disrepair when artificial light became more popular, so the landlord was happy to rent it to me.”

The room was shabby but looked like it had been hastily brushed and tidied. An easel stood at one end with a cupboard next to it. Paints and brushes were neatly laid out on its top. In the opposite corner to the kitchen there was an unmade bed, its mattress resting on the floor. Next to the space where the model would stand there was a screen and an unlit stove.

“The downside of all that wonderful light is that it can get very cold,” Paul smiled.

Ignoring the screen, Tatyana began to undress.

“Would you like coffee first?” Paul asked.

“Yes, please.” Tatyana sat naked on one of the rough wooden chairs set either side of a low table.

Paul sat opposite her and smiled again. “Tatyana is an interesting name; unusual in France.”

“My mother is French and my father was Russian. They left the Soviet Union when I was young. I grew up in France, and we moved to England during the war.”

“And you became interested in art.” It was more of a question than a statement.

“I became interested in a lot of things. “Art, literature, men,” she smiled. “And no, I did not become a model to find a husband, although I did meet my late husband in a gallery.” Her hazel brown eyes sparkled at him. “I decided to do it because I found I enjoyed it.”

“And being nude stimulates you, does it not?” he smiled over the lip of his coffee cup.

“Why do you say, nude and not naked?” she asked.

“Naked implies you are vulnerable, which you are not. Nude implies confidence, and I think you are a confident woman.”

“I am.” She shifted her position on the chair, uncrossing her legs.

“You take what you want.” His eyes did not flicker from her face.

“Is that not what most men do?” She stared back at him. There was a calmness, a gentleness in his eyes, but she sensed something else - a desire.

“Do you desire my body?” She leaned forward, her breasts hanging like two ripe fruit, her eyes still fixed on his. “Is there not something in you that wants to take it, to possess it?

“I desire it,” he said, looking down. “But only if it is given. A woman’s body is not something to possess, it is a gift that can be given, shared for a moment and then returned.”

Tatyana tipped her head and looked at him. “And what about a man’s?”

He smiled. “Men can be possessed. They can become obsessed with someone; thoughts of them fill their every waking minute. The desire to please that person drives their actions.”

Then he said something she found odd. “They await the next command.”

A strange sensation rippled through her. There was an attraction, as if a magnetic field had just been turned on. She had barely touched another man since her husband died, but now the desire to take him in her arms, feel his body against hers, inside hers tingled through her. He made no advances to her, so she allowed the force to pull her toward him.

She stood over him. Still seated on the chair, he looked up at her with a wide-eyed innocence combined with an impish look that gave him the face of a cupid from a classical painting.

She bent forward, her palms pressed against his cheeks as her lips brushed his in an almost motherly kiss. Her breasts hung down, close to his hands resting on his lap but he did not move; there was no passionate groping, no exploring her body - he was simply waiting for her command.

Like athletes awaiting the starting gun they paused, tense, ready - then it fired, Tatyana sprang into motion, her hands pulling at his belt, ripping at his trousers, seizing his swelling flesh. She planted her feet either side of the chair. Moving her body astride him, she held his tumescence like a dildo, parting her folds with its head, she rammed herself down onto him.

For a moment she froze, savouring the sensation of him filling her, the feeling of his flesh against hers, inside hers. Her muscles tightened, gripping at the welcome intruder. Her thighs flexed and she rode him, possessed him. The motion turned the tingles inside her into sparks and then into a raging inferno, which engulfed her body. In the midst of her ecstasy she felt him explode inside her, lifting her even higher.

Satiated, she sat astride him waiting for the trembling in her muscles to die down. She took several deep breaths, inhaling the sharp, acrid scent of her lust before she swung herself off him and stood up. Leaving him sitting on the chair like a discarded husk, she walked into the light. “Paint me now,” she said. “With the feel of you still echoing inside me.”

He leapt up and, grabbing a pad of paper, began to sketch, his trousers still undone.

Time passed. The urge began to well up inside her again. When it became too strong to resist, she walked over to where he sat, took the paper from his hands and reached into his open trousers.

She felt his cock swelling and sat astride him, facing him. She kissed him as she felt him lancing into her. She squirmed on him and then, as her passion rose, began to buck as if riding a galloping horse. His mouth locked around one of her nipples and then the other. He suckled at her breasts as if to devour her. The room seemed to darken as she peaked, her head arched back, her long hair streaming down her back.

Relishing the feeling that this man was willing to be there simply for her pleasure, making no demands other than he be allowed to look at her, she dismounted and, rather than returning to her pose, reclined on the bed. He picked up his pad and began to draw again.

After a while he spoke. “I have a girlfriend,”

She looked up at him from the bed. She had no problem sharing her lovers but then she had no wish to get into a fight with a girl who felt betrayed.

“No, not a girlfriend,” he smiled bashfully. “A friend who is a girl. She is an artist as well. We often sit for each other. I am sure she would like you to pose for her. ”

“Is she any good?” She rarely posed for women. In the past, before her marriage, she had done once, before she discovered the thrill she got from revealing herself to groups. There had been the occasional female students at the art school but they never seemed to stay. Tatyana had largely ignored them.

“She is better than me,” he said. “I think she would like to meet you, and you her.”

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Part 3

The story will continue for paid subscribers. In the meantime here are some more free to read erotic stories