His Naked Muse 6

Elena stepped forward when I called her name.

She was the last one. The fifth. The one I had saved for the end without knowing why. She walked toward me with the same quiet grace my ex had always possessed. Tall. Dark hair falling in loose waves that caught the light like spilled ink. Green eyes that held the same depth, the same quiet storm. The same gentle curve to her hips. The same full lips that parted slightly when she was thinking. The same way she bit the inside of her lower lip when she was nervous. She was not my Elena. But she was close enough to make my heart stutter in my chest. Close enough to make the blank canvas across the room feel like it was watching me.

I was still naked. My cock hung heavy between my thighs. Paint from the previous women streaked my skin in faint smears of crimson and gold. My body felt alive for the first time in months. My hands itched. My eyes burned. The emptiness in my chest had cracked open. Something was stirring. Something dangerous. Something that might finally paint again.

She stopped in front of me. Her small breasts rose and fell with steady breaths. Her nipples were dark and tight. Her pussy was smooth except for a thin landing strip of dark hair. She looked at me. Not with fear. Not with hunger. With something quieter. Something that felt like recognition.

I smiled at her. Gentle. The kind of smile I used to give my ex when she woke up in my arms and asked if I had dreamed of her.

“You look like someone I used to know,” I said. My voice was soft. Sweet. “Someone who used to make the world make sense when I painted her.”

She tilted her head. Her eyes searched mine. “Is that a good thing?”

“It is,” I said. “And it is not.”

I stepped closer. Cupped her face with both hands. My thumbs stroked her cheekbones. Her skin was warm. Soft. Familiar.

“You are beautiful,” I said. Cold now. Strict. “But beauty is not enough. I need more. I need you to be her for me. Just for a little while. Can you do that?”

She nodded. Her voice was steady. “Yes. I can try.”

I smiled again. Sweet. “Good girl.”

I took her hand. Led her to the large mirror that covered one entire wall of the studio. The one I used to use for self-portraits. The one that reflected the entire room. The one that would show me everything.

“Stand here,” I said. “Facing the glass. Back to me.”

She did. Her reflection stared back at us. Her body was perfect. The curve of her spine. The swell of her ass. The way her hair fell across her shoulders. I stood behind her. My cock brushed the cleft of her ass. Hard. Hot. Leaking.

I reached around. Cupped her breasts. Squeezed them gently. My thumbs circled her nipples. She leaned back against me. Her head rested on my shoulder.

“You feel like her,” I whispered. “You smell like her. You move like her.”

I kissed the side of her neck. Open-mouthed. Tongue tracing the pulse. She shivered.

I turned her around. Dropped to my knees in front of her. Looked up at her.

“Open your legs,” I said. Strict now. “Let me see you.”

She parted her thighs. Her pussy was wet. Swollen. The lips parted slightly. I leaned in. Inhaled her scent. Sweet. Musky. Alive.

I licked her. Slow. From the bottom of her slit to the top. She gasped. Her hands fisted in my hair.

I licked her again. Deeper. My tongue pushed inside her. Tasted her. Drank her. My hands gripped her ass. Spread her wider. I ate her like I was trying to find the answer to every blank canvas in her cunt.

She moaned. Soft. Musical. Her hips rolled against my mouth.

I stood. Picked her up. Carried her to the daybed. Laid her on her back.

“On your knees,” I said. “Between my legs.”

She slid off the bed. Knelt on the floor. Her eyes looked up at me. Green. Endearing. So much like my ex’s when she used to look at me like I was the only man in the world.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Spread my thighs.

“Worship me,” I said. Gentle. “Lick me everywhere. Suck me like you mean it. Like you are trying to bring me back to life.”

She did.

She started at my toes. Her tongue traced each one. Sucked them into her mouth. Her hands massaged my calves. My thighs. She moved up. Licked the inside of my knee. The crease of my hip. Her tongue dragged across my balls. Slow. Reverent. She sucked one into her mouth. Then the other. Her hand stroked my cock. Slow. Firm.

I closed my eyes.

I tried to paint in my mind.

The lines were still wrong.

I opened my eyes.

She was licking my underarm now. Her tongue traced the muscle. The hair. The scent of me. She moaned against my skin. Her hand never stopped stroking my cock.

I reached for the sketchpad beside the bed. Charcoal in my other hand.

I started to draw her.

The line came out clean. Sharp. Alive.

I drew her eyes. The way they looked up at me. Endearing. Devoted. I drew her mouth. The way her lips wrapped around my balls. I drew her hair. The way it fell across her shoulder as she licked my underarm.

The creativity came back.

Slow at first. A trickle. Then a flood.

I drew faster. The charcoal flew across the paper. I captured the curve of her neck. The arch of her back. The way her ass rested on her heels. The way her fingers gripped my thigh.

She moved to my cock.

She licked the shaft. From base to tip. Her tongue swirled around the head. She sucked the pre-cum from the slit. Then she took me into her mouth. Deep. All the way. Her throat opened for me. She sucked me like a pro. Hollowing her cheeks. Swirling her tongue. Bobbing her head. Her hands massaged my balls. Her fingers teased my perineum.

I painted.

I drew her mouth around my cock. The way her cheeks hollowed. The way her eyes watered. The way her throat bulged.

The drawing was alive.

It was the first thing I had drawn in six months that felt real.

She pulled off. Licked my balls again. Sucked them. Then my underarm. Then back to my cock.

I drew her doing all of it.

The inspiration was too much. It shook me. It made my hand tremble. It made my heart race. It made my cock throb in her mouth.

I dropped the sketchpad.

“Ride me,” I said. “Reverse. I want to see your ass. I want to see you take me.”

She climbed on top of me. Turned around. Lowered herself onto my cock.

She sank down slowly. Her ass swallowed me. Her pussy was so wet it dripped down my balls. She started to ride me. Reverse cowgirl. Her ass bounced. Her back arched. Her hair swung. Her hands gripped my thighs for balance.

I watched her.

I felt her.

I felt the inspiration flood me.

It was too much. It was overwhelming. It was everything I had lost and more.

I reached for the large canvas on the easel beside the bed. I painted while she rode me. Charcoal first. Then paint. My hands moved. Fast. Furious. I captured the curve of her spine. The way her ass rippled with every bounce. The way her pussy stretched around my cock. The way her hair fell across her back.

The painting came alive.

It was not a portrait.

It was a feeling.

It was the moment creativity returned.

It was her.

My muse.

She rode me harder. Faster. Her moans filled the studio. Her ass slapped against my thighs. Her pussy clenched around me.

I painted.

I painted until the canvas was covered.

I painted until the inspiration was too much to contain.

I came inside her. Flooding her pussy. Filling her. Making her mine.

She came with me. Her body shaking. Her scream echoing off the walls.

When it was over, I pulled her back against my chest.

I kissed her back. Soft. Reverent. My lips traced her spine.

I whispered against her skin.

“I have found my muse.”

She smiled. I felt it in the way her body relaxed against me.

I looked at the other women.

They were watching. Their eyes wide. Their bodies ready.

“Come here,” I said. “All of you. Join us.”

The audition was over because I had found my muse.

And the real creation had just begun.