by Daphne Dawn
The moment he eases the pressure on my head, I start bobbing my head up and down, sucking him eagerly. I wrap my fingers around the base of his cock and start stroking at a matching rhythm, the saltiness of his precum flooding my mouth.
I could keep doing this forever, sucking and stroking for all eternity—as long as Todd’s with me, I’m unstoppable.
But, right now, I want to do more than just suck his cock. I want to feel him inside of me, to have his thickness stretching my inner walls in such a way that I’ll have to wobble my way to work tomorrow.
“Ready?” I ask him, popping his cock out of my mouth and going up to my feet.
Standing on top of him, my feet on either side of his thighs, I grab my dress by the hem and pull it over my head. My eyes never leaving his, I then hook my thumbs on my thong and start pushing it down, slowly swaying my hips from side to side.
I smile as I watch him take in the sight of my naked pussy, and then I just kick my thong off to a far corner of the living room. Now completely naked, I run the tip of my tongue between my lips and start lowering myself, only stopping when my knees are touching the floor and I feel his shaft pressed tight against my inner lips.
Grabbing his cock by the root, I angle it upward and grit my teeth as I feel its thick head parting my inner lips.
“I’m more than ready. Are you?” He asks me out of the blue, planting his hands on my hips and pushing me down, impaling me on his cock.
Closing my eyes, I arch my back and let a thunderous scream fill the whole apartment, my voice fraught with so much ecstasy I don’t even know if I’m living or have died and gone to Heaven.
This feels too good to be real.
And it can feel even better, I’m betting—leaning in, I dig my fingernails into Todd’s chest and start moving my hips back and forth, riding him so hard that beads of sweat start forming on my forehead just a few seconds later. I keep on doing it until my whole body seems to be burning from the inside out.
Todd has his hands on my ass, his fingers buried in my cheeks, making sure that I don’t slow down. As if!
“Like it? See, I can be in control too,” I tell him as I rock my body against his, my hair cascading down my shoulders. He smiles at me, raises one hand and cups my cheek. Then, he places his hand behind my neck and pulls me into him, his lips finding mine in a fraction of a second.
“And I love it when you do,” he whispers then, but his hand runs down the side of my body. Grabbing me hard, he forces me to roll to the side and we switch positions. Reacting by instinct, I lace my legs around his waist, pulling him into me and making sure his cock is buried deep inside my pussy.
“But now’s my turn,” he adds, that devilish grin of his once more on his lips.
“Let’s see what you’ve got then,” I tease him and, swear to God, that grin becomes as large as the universe itself.
Pushing my legs off his waist, he makes me lift them up and then he leans in, my knees bending over his shoulders. Pulling me into him, he then starts thrusting so hard that it feels like a nuclear detonation has just happened inside my skull; even though my eyes and ears seem to be functioning, I can’t see or hear a damn thing.
All my brain can process right now is the sweet, violent way he’s pistoning into me, his cock sliding in and out of my pussy so fast I swear I’m going to catch fire soon enough.
Now, that’d be a good way to go out—death from sexual combustion. And that after the two of us just won a couple of Oscars. We’d become legends.
But I don’t care about any of that—all I care about is being Todd’s own personal legend, in and out of the bedroom. And I’m doing great so far, I’d say.
“Harder, harder,” I breath out, arching my back and pressing the back of my head against the floor.
He doesn’t even hesitate—he starts thrusting even harder than before, fucking me with such an intensity that I don’t even know how the hell I’m still alive. My body is covered in sweat, and his hands are now sliding up my stomach, heading straight for my breasts.
He squeezes them both at the same time, my nipples burning under the palm of his hands, and I let out a moan so loud I’m actually surprised no window has shattered yet.
“I think I’m gonna…” I start to say, but then I trail off, pleasure’s fingers gripping my throat tight.
My inner walls tighten up around Todd’s shaft and, before I even know what the hell’s happening, a column of fire and ecstasy is climbing up my spine at warp speed, setting off a violent explosion all over my brain.
“Don’t think I’m done,” I hear him say, but his voice seems to come at me from the other side of the Earth. When I finally manage to open my eyes, he’s already sliding his cock off me.
“On all fours, now,” he tells me, and my body reacts before I even process what he’s saying. Rolling to the side, I go on all fours and wiggle my ass back at him, making sure that he’s enjoying the view.
Closing the distance between us, he hooks his fingers on my hips and presses the tip of his cock against my drenched pussy. Instead of thrusting, he holds his position there for a few seconds, teasing me, and only then does he slide in. He goes deep and hard, his cock piercing me like a spear, and I have no other option but to let out a might scream.
“I love hearing you like this…” He tells me, building a rhythm. With one hand on my waist, he uses the other one to grab a handful of hair and yanks on it. Holding me like that, he starts ramming his cock into me fast. And when I say fast, I mean it.
Beads of sweat fall from my forehead to the carpet, and I have to use all my strength to stop myself from tumbling forward, such is the brutishness of his movements.
But I like it like that—with Todd, whether he’s being gentle or roughing me up, I can’t help but love it. There’s something about it. I want to say that he has the experience, but it’s more than that…he has the talent.
Some things you learn; others you’re born with.
Clearly, Todd was born to be a sex god. All the better—I’m the lucky one, since I’m the woman with an engagement ring on my finger. Which means that this sex god is mine—and only mine. And soon enough, I’ll be able to say he’s my husband. God, I can’t even imagine it. It sounds too good to be true.
“D-don’t stop,” I mutter as I feel that pressure building inside of me and gnawing at my mind. I thrust back at him, trying to keep up with his rhythm even though I’m completely exhausted.
“I want you to come hard, Sophie…remember what you wanted to happen? Once we’re done, you won’t be able to even stand up,” he tells me, bending over and whispering those words into my ear.
I can’t even offer him a reply. Not a verbal one, at least, because I use all my energies to keep on thrusting back at him, my ass cheeks slapping his thighs over and over again.
“I want…I want you to come too,” I manage to say, the words leaving my mouth before I can even think of what I’m saying. “I want you to come with me,” I repeat, my ass slapping his thighs even more fiercely than before.
Jesus, I don’t even know how I’ve managed to stop myself from collapsing on the floor of his living room and simply pass out. I guess my stamina is getting better—all thanks to Todd.
“Come…come now,” I find myself saying again, that pressure inside of me becoming intolerable. I simply can’t hold off any—OH FUCK!
It feels as if Armageddon has just happened inside my body—electricity makes every single muscle I have twitch hard, and my bones seem to be rattling at the same time. My brain has turned to mush, and I don’t even know if I’d be able of recalling my name if someone asked me for it.
“COME, TODD!” I yell, and then I feel him sliding his cock off my pussy. Wanting to see it, I look back at him over my shoulder.
He’s grabbing his cock by the root, his fingers wrapped tight around it, and he’s stroking himself as his eyes devour my body. I watch it happen in a trance—two hard strokes, and thick ropes of cum erupt from his cock and
land straight on my back, crisscrossing over my naked skin.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hand still moving over his cock, a torrent of cum gushing out of his cock and covering my body. I feel beads of sweat trickling down the curve of my ass, but then I simply can’t hold my position and collapse on the floor, breathing so hard I think my lungs are going to pop.
“I don’t know what you do to me, but I fucking love it,” Todd whispers, lying on the floor next to me. Turning my head to the side, I force my eyes open and manage to offer him a smile—it might be a weak one, but it’s the most honest smile I’ve ever given anyone.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my entire life.
“I love you, Sophie…you mean the world to me,” he tells me, his hand looking for mine. When he finds it, he tangles his fingers on mine and caresses the engagement ring he just gave with his index finger.
“And I’ll always love you.”
“It goes both ways, you know?” I ask him, my heart now beating at a steady and content pace.
“I know,” he whispers, and then gently kisses my forehead.
There’s no doubt on my mind—I’m the happiest woman on Earth.
Painting Her
I'm going to splatter all over you.
Your body is magnificent.
I knew from the moment I saw you that I needed it.
Those curves are to die for.
That face is angelic.
You define the essence of beauty.
But you're hurt.
You find it hard to trust.
You don't want to be touched.
You shy away from being tasted.
At first I don't know why.
I mean, have you looked at me?
I've got the body of a god.
I couldn't have painted a better physique.
And I'm the most famous painter in the world.
Untold wealth.
And a notorious reputation.
I paint my women. Then I sleep with them.
And then we're done.
But you're wary.
So rather than try and seduce you, I do something else.
Something that will get you to let me paint you.
It's dangerous.
If it works, then the rewards are endless.
But if it doesn't then it will have destroyed us both.
I'm going to paint you into my life.
I'm going to fall in love with you.
Blake
Call it a universal truth. All men want sex, myself included. But why then—with this hot, naked woman in front of me—am I feeling…uninspired? I'm in my studio, mixing paint and brushing it across a canvas in fast strokes. I've even found the perfect pink to brush on a nipple. It's night, and the lights of New York City can be seen just outside of my window.
The model—Mia, or Marissa, or Melanie—has one hand shoved down my pants, and she's petting me and parting her legs, and all I can think about is how pathetic this art is. It feels like something I've done a million times already.
"Blake, baby, you feel so good," she purrs. "Give me that one-eyed python."
"Don't do that."
"Do what, baby?"
"Give it a pet name," I say.
"But it's so impressive," she purrs again, "that it deserves its own name."
She slides her hand down further, and I don't stop her, but I ignore her advances.
Why? Because this painting can't wait.
When I start a new piece, I'm compelled to finish it, and like a fish on a hook, I have no choice but to be pulled in and see it through.
Art is as much a part of me as breathing, or eating. It's my life.
I place the long, wooden handle of the paintbrush between my teeth and sit back.
Something is missing…
It's flat.
I decide to bring in white paint, mixing it with my current palette and hoping to add light to the piece. Maybe give it some depth and dimension.
I use a palette knife to scrape on rolls of paint for texture. I use a thin brush for details, and work with the concentration of a greyhound eyeing a rabbit—my focus is singular.
I drag the brush against the canvas again, adding color here and there, then finally finishing the last of the model's curves—her legs and the curve of her inner thighs. I just need to get those right. There's something about legs that can be so expressive.
"It's perfect," she coos, looking up at the canvas.
The truth is, it's far from perfect. Sure, it's good, but it looks like every other piece I've painted.
I want something new. I want something more.
No, it's more than a want; it's a need—to elevate my art.
The media will tell you that what all men only care about are a woman's physical attributes—her scent, what she's wearing, whether or not her push-up bra is bringing her tits front and center. Don't get me wrong—I'm more than happy to sleep with a hot woman with any of those attributes, but what the media doesn't tell you is that guys also like a woman who is confident and independent.
And this model here in front of me? She isn't showing me any of that.
I walk away from the canvas, and the model stops me.
"Should I stay?" she says, with one hand on my arm.
"For what?"
I can tell that my answer disappoints her.
"I could stay and pose some more," she says, "so you can finish the painting."
"It's done. I don't want to look at it any more."
"In that case," she says, "we can have a little fun now."
Her mouth curves into a suggestive smile.
She walks over to me, swaying her hips, and presses her lips to my neck, giving it a playful nibble.
Then she brings her mouth to my ear and whispers, "Tell me, baby…what's your biggest fantasy? Do you like it rough or romantic? Did you dream about me last night?"
Those words send a thrill down my body but I resist the urge to react, and when I don't respond, she continues.
"Where should I put my mouth next?" Her eyes wait for an answer, but when I don't give one, she returns to my body, both of her hands on my chest.
"Here? Or maybe here?" she asks, moving her mouth down my bare chest in slow circles.
I still don't respond.
"No? Well, how about here?" she says, moving her warm lips down until they are resting at the top of my waistband. My cock is now standing stiffer than any of the tools in this studio, and she smiles.
"I think I'm getting warmer," she purrs. She starts to unbutton my pants. "Now let me kiss that big, hard—"
But I stop her. I need a woman that inspires me in this studio. Not another nameless model eager to get into my pants.
Been there, done that…and more than just a few times.
"Maybe some other time," I say.
Her surprise turns to shock, and I watch as she gathers her things, still in disbelief. As soon as she leaves and I hear the door to the studio shut behind her, I walk back over to the painting.
It's not a bad portrait, but it's not great either.
There's simply no emotion. It doesn't evoke anything in me.
The longer I stare at the painting, the angrier I become. I can feel a new sense of irritation wash over me.
I can't hold back. I ball my hand into a fist and punch it through the canvas. The material rips open, and where the model should be, there's now a gaping hole.
There. Now no one will be able to look at this.
Then I grab a can of black paint, along with a wide brush. I dip it into the paint and in big angry strokes I destroy the remaining canvas, painting obscene Xs over my work.
I'm destroying the canvas so hard and fast that I feel a bead of sweat zigzag down my face.
I look down at the destroyed art and kick it away in disgust.
What the fuck am I doing with my life?
I need to be creating great art, not mastering mediocrity.
I need a new muse.<
br />
Katherine
Writer’s block.
I’ve heard about it. But for all the years I struggled to become a published writer and even after my first book sold, I was never at a loss for words. Until now. They say this happens after you’ve had a bestseller.
Well, I’m not only blocked, I’m paralyzed, motionless, incapable of putting one word next to another.
My agent called today. Just like every other day for the last two weeks. I’m behind with the first draft. I’ve sent every call to voice mail. I just can’t face her.
“Katherine, I know you’re listening to these. At least send me a text. Let me know you’re alive.” The messages are beginning to sound frantic. But I still can’t respond.
What would I tell her? That I feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining? That I don’t have a first chapter, let alone a first draft.
No, it’s better for everyone concerned that I let it go to voice mail.
Maybe she’ll get the hint, and tell the publishers I’m dead, or at the very least I’m in a coma.
That’s the bad news.
The good news is, Dale is coming home tonight and I’m planning on holding on to all six feet, two inches of his deliciousness. His light-green eyes pull me in every time. And tonight will be no exception.
Besides, I have writer’s block. And I personally know of no better way to unstick the flows than to, well… sometimes a girl just needs a good release…or two…or three.
My best friend Robin thinks I should leave him.
Robin and I have been bffs since forever. Well, actually since we were both kicked out of Mr. Stubbin's ninth grade science class for giggling uncontrollably while he explained the reproductive system of a frog. We just couldn’t image kissing a frog no matter what they say in fairy tales.
Anyway, from that day in detention until now, we’ve been besties, and pretty much agreed on everything.
Except when it comes to Dale.
