Seductive Sunday Snog

Sunday Snog time! 

Here's a sultry snippet from my story, The Conference, in South Bank Seduction - it's a bit of a cheat as there is barely a kiss but there is tension of the sexual variety... this is where my leading lady has just met the artist she sometimes poses for, in the Tate Modern. Oh to be an artist's muse! *yearn* *sigh*

Hope you enjoy! Remember to check out the other snoggers.

Suddenly a hand is at my lower back. Hot and heavy. Power and energy slump from my body as I surrender to him in that one motion.

He's here. I'm here.

I'm still bent at the waist and he lifts me by the shoulder, the hand at my back casually smoothes over my buttocks and presses firmly at the dip beneath. I melt. I liquefy. The ache in my groin which has plagued me since I boarded the train in Scotland is now a torrent of heat and desire.

We are the eye of the storm. The stillness in this vast crowded space.

"Come," he says and grabs my hand, almost dragging me behind him as I shimmy in my too high heels and too tight skirt and too nylon stockings. It is highly erotic. I can almost visualise us in black and white with perilous piano music playing along. A damsel being taken by a gentleman in a shabby three-piece suit and three-day beard. God, I am wet. My panties are soaked. I feel wanton and excited. Will we go to his usual studio or does he have something else lined up?

In the taxi he blindfolds me and touches my lips with something cold and sticky. The feathery slippery touch is tickly and strange. Almost like he is painting them with a sable tipped brush. I keep still and silent.

When he's guided me up some stairs and the blindfold is removed, we are in familiar territory. I am glad. I love his paintings. Louche figures in various stages of undress and eroticism stare at us from all angles. They remind me of the 1920s, somehow carefree and decadent with a sizzling dangerous undertone.

"Stand here," he commands sweeping his hand in the direction of a wooden pillar. He has removed his jacket but the waistcoat remains and he has rolled up his shirt sleeves. I do as he bids and face the easel which is set up just in front of it. "Take off your top half."

His voice is gruff and sticky in that way that tells of a life lived on good whiskey and cigarettes. Or is he a brandy drinker? The faint lingering scent of debauchery on his breath and skin, even after bathing, I imagine, gives me a thrill. He gives me a thrill. The fuck you attitude of a man who will not be told what he can and cannot do. I like it. My pussy quivers as he licks his lips and sighs in a contemplative way while he studies me removing my blouse. Happy to be rid of the damp item, I reach up behind my back to unhook my bra but he holds out his palm.

"No. Leave it." He stares at me, my form, with an analytical eye. There is no emotion in a human to human sense but he is so concentrated in an artist to subject sense that I am overwhelmed with need. But what do I need? What is it that brings me to him? He has never touched me yet. Not once. And I have never even caught a glimpse of even a sketch. When we are done, he simply sends me on my way, burning. His brow furrows as he concentrates on my chest. My nipples are yearning and peaking, straining for attention. But he won't see. I have a thick vintage cotton bra which holds my breasts out in the perfect cone.

He steps forward with both hands out and I hold my breath as he reaches in over the top of each cup and eases my breasts out. His hands are cool and I let my head fall back as he tugs harder, unaware that this is a 1950s original. I sway on my heels as he keeps working until both tits are free and hanging out over my bra. He manages to fold the top half of each cup into itself to arrange it like a balcony. Perfect. Did I just imagine it or did he roll my nipples between his thumbs and fingers?

Oh god. If he would slide those artist’s fingers up between my thighs, oh, the heat and sodden need he would find there. One touch. That's all it would take. One tiny circle of a finger tip on my clit and I would be spiralling right now into that heady place of oblivion. But he doesn't. He lets me stand there. Every hair is raised and reaching out to him. Every inch of my flesh is crying out but I am silent...

Hope you liked that - hope it left you a little uneasy :D remember to check out the other snogs x x x

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