Night Music: the Cum Artist

Posted by: Author: Age: 30 Posted on: 0 comments
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I've fantasized about sending in some contributions of my own for a long time. It's very exciting to be finally submitting this, the first of my most private writings.


Nearly every night when I lay down in bed I put on my headphones and listen to one of several mix CD's I've made. Each one is a soundtrack for a different fantasy. I close my eyes, and I listen, and I can see my fantasy playing out, and hear it, and feel it.

The fantasies vary, and the soundtracks do, too. Everything from Garth Brooks to Parliament, for everything from an out of control game of Truth or Dare to my all-out favorite of my current fantasies; the one I call the 'Cum Artist' story. I've never lived it out, but I'm determined to find a man who will help me make it real.

It starts, like many good fantasies do, with just the two of us. We're in a bedroom, him, me, both naked, both wanting more. Even though I know where I want this to go, I can't help kissing him. The feel of his tongue sliding against mine makes my stomach drop, and for just a moment I lose track of absolutely everything.

His hand skims over my hip, and I'm back inside my head, and I pull away. He looks confused, and I don't even try to stop the laugh that falls from my lips. His breath catches in his chest as he notices the wicked gleam in my eye. He's a smart man; he knows that when I'm good, I'm very, very good, but when I'm wicked, I'm better.

I motion for him to stay as I move backwards to the bed, and slowly lay myself down on my side, facing him. He moves quickly when I tell him to pull a chair from the corner over to the side of the bed, right next to me, facing me. I tell him to sit, and he does, and then I tell him the game. You see, for this one night he's an artist, a special kind of artist. You might call him a sculptor, since he'll certainly be working with his hands. Maybe it's performance art, an envelope-pushing new piece with a stark, provocative name like, 'Jack'? And for just this one night, I'm his model, and his muse. He can look, and he can ask, but he can only touch himself. I'll pose anyway he asks, I'll say anything he wants, and my hands will go anywhere on my body he orders them to, but my eyes will never leave him. My eyes will watch his hands, while his eyes watch mine.

He knows me well enough to know he'll enjoy this, but he still begins reluctantly, slightly embarrassed, grinning a little as he begins asking me to talk, asking me to touch. As my hands obey his lips he feels the heat build, and following orders and going beyond the obvious, I slide my hands from my breasts to the side of my face, the graceful curve of my shoulder, the smooth arch of my foot, and I begin to appreciate his artist's eye and his attention to detail. I watch as he lowers a hand to his lap, as he lowers a hand to the mattress beside me, careful to leave space between the ends of his long fingers and my hot skin lying so near.

As he directs me, as I watch him react to me following his directions, I begin to feel so much more than heat, so much more than lust. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I feel beautiful beyond all wicked sensuality, beyond my own doubts and fears, beyond anything I've ever known. I am a woman, and I am beautiful enough to inspire this man, this entirely separate person, this walking mass of alien emotions and motivations, and I look up and see in his eyes what he sees in mine, and with that single glance all thoughts of beauty and grace vanish, and we're plunged into a world of steam and sweat.

In one moment time races forward until there are bare seconds left for him to beg me to slide my hands just a little further, lower, deeper, until there are only heartbeats left for me to beg him to stroke faster, aim higher, spill farther. Our last words are lost forever, mingled together, shouted whispers falling on unhearing ears as I come all over my hand and he comes all over my body, signing the canvas of my skin, the art he created with his words and his eyes. Across my breasts, my stomach, and my thighs he signs me with his heated ink, as my toes begin to uncurl, my hands begin to unfist, my back slowly lowers again to the mattress.

He slips off the chair to his knees at my side, his vision spent, his eyes becoming shy at the site of his creation displayed on the rumpled sheet before him. Like all good muses I comfort my humbled companion. I lift my arm to him and he nuzzles his cheek into my palm, not quite feeling me guiding him down until it suddenly becomes clear to him that his masterpiece is not finished. When his lips rest only the slightest of spaces above my wet breast, I stop and let my hand fall, let his head fall as his tongue flicks out to taste his own genius and I marvel at his talent as the world begins to splinter apart one more time.



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