The Masked Artist

I told myself it was just art. No touching. No talking. Just pose, hold still, and let him capture my body, shadows and light. That’s what I agreed to when I stepped into the studio—bare walls, paint-thick air, and a stranger with a brush who refused to show his face.

But the moment I dropped the robe and slowly laid on the couch with practiced efficiency, something shifted.

The silence wasn’t professional. It was charged. The kind that clings to skin, hums in your spine. I could hear the scrape of charcoal on canvas, slow and deliberate, as though each stroke etched desire itself.

"Don’t move," he said, voice smooth but low, like it had been dipped in sin. "You’re perfect like this."

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I didn’t. His words didn’t feel like flattery. They felt like possession. He wasn’t sketching me. He was studying me—committing me to memory, piece by piece, like I was his private masterpiece.

My pulse throbbed in my neck. I shouldn’t have cared what he was seeing. It was just skin. But the heat in the room wasn’t from the lamps overhead—it was from him.

His mask didn’t help. It made everything worse. That dark, smooth mask covering his face only made me wonder what he looked like when he stared. When he focused. When he wanted.

And suddenly I wasn’t posing for a painting—I was the temptation he was trying not to touch.

"You’re trembling," he said quietly, stepping closer.

I swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”

He placed the brush down with care, then walked to me—slow, calculated. Every step loud against the floorboards. I was fully nude, and yet, he was the one who felt dangerous.

"You’ve given me enough for the canvas," he said, his breath brushing my shoulder, warm.

"Now I want what the canvas can't hold."

His hand hovered, never quite touching—tracing the air just above my collarbone, my ribs, my hip. I was still. Frozen. Not from fear—but anticipation. My body knew what was coming long before I admitted it.

A whisper of a touch landed at my waist. His fingers, finally against skin. I exhaled sharply, not realizing I’d been holding my breath. Every nerve lit up.

I should’ve stepped back and told him this was crossing a line. Instead, I tilted my head… and leaned into the danger.

Our faces were just inches apart and his breath pricked my skin. “Are you sure about this?” I whispered.

He leaned even closer and planted his lips on mine. He savored my lips like time itself didn’t matter, the kiss growing wetter as seconds ticked.

The walls, the lights, even the canvas and the paint palettes had disappeared. All I could feel was his kiss and one of his hands kneading my br**st in the same rhythm as the kiss. I found myself swiveling my waist on the couch as the kiss deepened.

He trailed his fingers down from my b**bs to my stomach, then to my hip. He caressed my toned thighs, squeezed it and took his fingers a little higher, between my legs. Without thinking, my legs shifted—one hooked over the headrest, the other hanging low, toes grazing the air.

His fingers caressed my pubic hairs and began going down to my wet labes. I moaned when he finally touched my p**sy lips. He slid his middle finger deeper in a slow motion until all of it was inside me. Then he took only half of it out and put it in again. I pushed my hips back and forth, moaning breathlessly while he continued fingering my p**sy in a speedy in-and-out motion.

Then he broke the kiss and included the pointer finger. He gave my p**sy a few more thrusts before pulling it out, his fingers covered in my juices.

Then he walked back to the canvas, calm and collected, as if he hadn’t just lit a fire under my skin. He picked up the paintbrush again, his focus shifting back to the canvas—while I, breathless and flushed, quietly repositioned myself and smoothed my hair, trying to play the part of the composed muse.

But inside, I was unraveling. Had he really fingered me like that… only to walk away?

My pulse was unsteady, my heart drumming like it was trying to escape my chest. The ache he left behind throbbed low and hot, impossible to ignore. I needed something—anything—to ease the desire he’d stirred and left simmering.

I tightened my legs to each other, trying to stop my breath from turning into sensual gasps. But he continued the painting like he didn't feel anything inside. I felt embarrassed to ask him to fuck me; I just laid there with an urge that simmered just below the surface, hoping he would return to f**k me.

“Give me a minute!” His voice was low and smooth as he walked away with an empty can of paint, probably to refill it.

I was now alone in the studio. I spread my legs and looked down to take a glance of how wet I had become. I touched myself and let out a gasp.

Then I heard footsteps and quickly pulled out my hand. But it was just the masked artist. He had a new paint can in his hand but he kept it on the table behind the canvas and walked straight to me. I was a bit taken aback. What was he coming to do? But my heart instantly filled up with hopes that he was coming to finally take my p**sy in his c**k.

My eyes locked on his eyes that were surrounded by the mask as he came even closer. I bit my lips when he undid his trousers without undoing the button above. He kept his eyes fixed on my b**s as he knelt on the couch between my legs. I bit my lips even harder, excitement rushing through my veins. Then I widened my legs.

I couldn’t see his expression beneath the mask, but the mystery only made him more irresistible.

He squeezed out his dick from the zipper's hole and drew me closer to him by my hips. My legs were already shivering before his tip touched my p**sy. And when it did I started moaning loudly.

He held his d**k in his hand and slapped it on my wet pussy while I swivelled my hips, my moans even louder. He gripped the flesh beside my a*s and his erect d**k went inside my p**sy smoothly. It was so relieving and at that point I was already screaming; my breath was stuck in my throat. His gorgeous d**k filled my hole.

His hands moved from my hips upward to my breasts, squeezing and kneading it like a dough. He increased the pace of his thrusts, pounding my p**sy with great might.

Soon I felt his c**k strengthen even harder in my pussy and a stream of c*m spilled from it deep inside me. He didn't pull out. He left it at a deep, fixed point and made sure it all poured inside me. My legs were shaking as my own juices shot on his d**k, my eyes covered in satisfaction.

Finally he pulled out of me. Then he zipped his cock and went back to the canvas without saying a word to me. We maintained professionalism till he finished the art. But he made sure I gave him a blow job before I left the studio.