The artists hands – anal creampie oral sex cock sucking seduction

I didn’t usually take the bus, I used to think that public transport was purely for the big unwashed, and maybe I still think that.

But beggars can’t be choices, so I take the bus, among the big unwashed. Rain is aering on the windows, and even though it’s early afternoon, the sky is worrying.

The seats are cheap plastic, leather lookalike, and my skirt has gone up and now my is stuck to the dirty surface under me.

I would move, but there is a young guy with a do-rag (it seems to be for the show) looking at my knees, and I really don’t want to give him any ideas.

I wouldn’t even have to take the bus except for my own stupidity, but it’s more than that, its deeper than that.

The young man straightens up, I think he’ll get down to the stop, but instead he untie the scarf, his hair is jet, soft and elastic, his eyes are incredibly intense, and I know he can see me looking even though he stopped looking at me directly .

I wonder if my skirt is dangerous. Did I choose to make love my sexuality in too much show?

Always so slowly, he moves in his seat so that I am the only one who can see his hands. He slides the dish from his palm on his crotch, and even on the other side of the bus, I can see the outline under his jeans.

I feel pressed in my crotch and deliberately turn away from him to look out the window at nothing.

Men and their cocks are the only reason I take the bus today, so him for one can take his rock-hard gift and fuck with it.

I can’t believe it’s been six weeks since my world was turned on his head, but the relentless and useless swishing of the windshield wipers travels me back.

The fall

I had sold two works of art in the gallery, one, a painting by Jane Masterson, my order on this one was one in the intoxicating range of numbers.

The other is a work of sculpture by a new artist Philip Wilton. He was relatively young, five years my junior, but such talent, and I was so delighted that he had allowed my gallery to manage his work.

For its first sale, I took no commission, I’ve been doing this job since my 19th birthday, and I know who’s going to do it and who’s going to be a fad. Wilton will be an unforgettable name.

He was grateful, perhaps too puppy in his gratitude, but my PA Nicola was hit with him, and he was a potential winner.

I sent him champagne, and a note to thank him for choosing me. I was hoping Nicola wouldn’t fuck him, I hate complications like that.

So I made my way home on a high, delighted that I had left Cava in the fridge in the hope of good news.

Even though it was still early spring there was a cold in the air, and my trial and error to get out of my coat down the hallway must have surely made noise to alert my arrival, but it seemed that there was no husband at home to greet me. I took my phone out of my pocket to call it, as I headed to the kitchen.

I never intended to make the call.

My husband, Gerrard, might not have heard the call even if I had rung.

Her cock was buried up to her neck in the ass of a blonde bitch, while her business partner Robert semi squatted in front of her face, her incredibly huge cock hitting her throat.

No one heard me come in.

They say that for things like this, time stops. Let me tell you, they’re liars.

Nothing was yet.

The sounds are as loud and clear in my ears now as they were in my kitchen – Old kitchen, six weeks ago.

Gerrard’s balls slam loudly against the blonde’s ass, her ass cheeks were extinguished so wide that she risked being torn in half. Her grunts were pure abandonment, Robert was panting while trying not to collapse in front of her.

Her striking anus on my husbands’ cock, the clear red handprints and angry at her flawless skin bore testimony of the party being booming.

It was Robert who first became aware. As my husband professed how much of a slut the blonde was and how he only wanted to fuck her to infinity (how fucking original) she freed Cock Roberts from her hungry mouth.

But he wasn’t ready to end the game. He was there too, just at the explosion, he opened his eyes to direct his annoyance towards the blonde, and his cock swivelled towards her belly, he caught her angrily trying to point her at her, but her face showed little control.

His eyes met mine.

First the disbelief, then the shock, then a small glimmer of something.

He slipped his hand on the length of his cock, a smile playing to his lips, he shook his cock, almost angry, now focused on drowning blondes’ mouth.

He shook twice and forced the blonde’s mouth at the end of his huge cock as the cum exploded from him.

I felt sick to my stomach.

My panties were soaked, and the heat between my legs frightened me. I moved then, as she moaned a few words, as my husband beghist his orgasm in his tight.

I walked into the middle of my matte grey kitchen with dark teak countertops, and marbled grey tiles all the way to a small village on a mountain top in Italy.

Gerrard saw me, but his eyes did not send messages to his body. He was still in the throws, and the blonde was not finished.

Her cock was still standing hard, throbbing wanting to push in her pussy waiting for one last hurrah.

It was the blonde who made the last move, no pawn here, she finished her pussy on her cock, grabbing the entire length of it, while holding tight to Roberts’ cock, stretching her neck now to lick the rest of the sperm drip from her squeaky ‘re.

Maybe his words shattered the fate my husband was under, I don’t know for sure or really care.

But she only lasted two thrusts, then lifted her hips, and her splendid pussy exploded, while she shouted, “You fucking dirty bastards.”

The realization was slow.

She had to turn her head to see me, but her body collapsed on my tiles.

The two men were not yet back on earth, each holding his cock; for security, or to grasp the last remaining Nanoseconds of utopia, I will never know.

The fruit bowl was a gift; a stupidly expensive and useless gift from Gerrard’s mother.

Bought from Harrods, by an artist, she claimed. I knew it was a challenge for my expertise, but I wasn’t up to it. Instead, I went in a day and looked. It was by an artist; a guy who was a chef, now become a glass blower. A total blower if you ask me.

She paid 475 pounds for this stupidity. Made of glass, with two tiny brass frames, and claw feet. Ugly as fuck, he screamed money, and oh by the way you can fit four apples and a bunch of grapes here.

Unfortunately, he missed Gerrard’s head. Fortunately, it broke into a bazillion, noisy, tiny, extremely dangerous (for naked people) pieces.

That’s when it all gets weird.

Two adult men screaming. “What is Anna fucking?”

And I lost it.

What is Anna fucking, when they were aiming blonde like a porn shoot?

While they lived in the kitchen I designed?

In the house, I had dreamed of since I was 10 years old?

So I lost it.

Everything I could get my hands on was thrown away.

Finally, when three people fled my house, there was blood on the floor, many broken objects of crockery, a broken art deco lamp, a few candles, and the smell of a sexual.

I married Gerrard because he made me laugh, and he was hot as fucking.

He came to the Gallery in Eglington, London, where I was finishing my working time for none other than Joseph Tindall, before opening my own gallery on his retirement.

Gerrard, I knew right away, was a boy from the city, with his dapper suit, his chiseled looks, his fuck-me smile, and money to burn.

Dad left him a fortune; offshore, and safe; what kind of effort is someone’s hypothesis.

Mum made sure the money stayed that way to support herself; Financially.

I wasn’t on Mom’s to do list when you’re bored.

And, to be fair, Gerrard did the whole race.

Don’t get me wrong. As soon as I saw him, I knew I was fucking him.

I was a relatively innocent 22-year-old. A good life, a great income, a free spirit, but I was not born with a silver spoon. With any spoon actually, so I believed, I wasn’t pushover.

This intrigued Gerrard.

He sent me flowers, cards, a driver to come mlook for work.

I was so wet for him that I sometimes thought I would die.

But I didn’t give in.

Until the night he fell. It was a simple fall, as we walked through my local park, I had refused to use the limousine service his mother sent with him to spy on us.

And he stumbled, just above the root of an old knotted tree.

I started laughing, nerves and too much champagne at dinner.

I tried to help him, but I couldn’t get him together, and then, just as the hysteria was about to burst out of me, I realized he was crying. The man is tearing himself apart.

whore?

I was nice, but he couldn’t, for the value of his life, tell me what was wrong with him.

We sneaked up to my apartment.

I bandaged my swollen ankle and poured whiskey down that throat, for the pain in his sore heart.

He then told me that he would never be enough for me, that I would throw him away, that he could not compete with the man I wanted, and he was devastated to failure for the woman he loved so much.

The best line ever spoken.

In less than five minutes, I was naked, and the rest you can imagine.

His mother, Hilda, hated me.

But, we got married, and to be fair, we had a great five years; or I thought.

Making changes

After the, I closed my gallery for a day.

In the five years since I opened, it was the only day I took off.

I was, fortunately, self-sufficient with my business. Never wanting Gerrard involved, I left him and Robert to their monopolistic money bets, which always fucking worked to their advantage.

I spent the day after the numb.

I called a service, and they came and cleaned without asking any questions while I soaked in my bath.

For two weeks, I claimed that nothing had happened.

Gerrard called, cajoled, sent flowers, sent cards, but I sent everything back unopened.

And then he came home, with his mother, and a man in a suit so expensive that he made my eyes water.

In no uncertain terms, I have been informed of my rights. Prenuptial agreements and documents with my signature were imposed on me. Gerrard’s eyes plead for a chance.

The Mercedes sports coupe, the Christmas gift, four months has become the back of the camel.

And as his custom painting of Burgundy Aruba shone in the sunlight, I decided on a final act of defiance that makes me eminently proud and stomach-churningly sick, to the same extent.

At first, I left. I left with my four suitcases and five boxes of, to mark the five-year marriage of lying bastards.

But something in me cracked as the moving man yawned his way through the filling of the tiny van.

I felt the change, and I knew I had to have a final smash.

I went back home, passed the “security detail” under the pretext of leaving my phone in the bathroom.

I caught the first thing to put back in Gerrard’s drawer, and a lighter he used to melt his blo stash.

And as I passed, my car, I threw a burning pair of his Italian designer boxers into it.

Today.

And today, everyday, Philip Wilton wants to come to my gallery and chat with me. The self, who five weeks ago, had his together. The tall, thin redhead, with too many freckles, and too much attitude would have been so excited.

I was the one who was obviously sick.

When the taxi was a no show, I screamed on the phone looking for another, then lost this plot and ran out of my apartment to the high street, but I live in a busy city, and get a taxi to stop for a woman with flame hair lose his is hard.

So the bus passed, and on it, I jumped.

Even though I run the bus, I’m soaked through the skin almost, by the time I get to the gallery.

Nicola, my assistant is here kissing a cup of tea and laughing at how I look.

“The cat will drag you?”

I don’t have time, I run to the bathroom to dry, and pull my blue shirt over my head, thinking a spin under the hand dryer will make the effect.

My bra is soggy too, and my breasts are too big for her, spilling on the edges of wet course material, and fuck it, I don’t need that shit, so I remove it violently, not at peace with myself to take the way trip of the mem day, every day, and just as I pull the zipper out of my skirt, I’m going around in circles.

Philip Wilton doesn’t just look at me, he drinks me. And I’m a mess. My hair plastered on my head, moist skin with motley freckles, semi-discarded skirt, and suddenly erect nipples does nothing to say I’m the agent you need to stay with.

I have no idea if he was here all the time, or just fell on me, but he doesn’t look too much like he wants to leave, and I have yet to react. I cross my arms, slowly, I admit, on my breasts. I take a blue towel over the door and sort of shelf in front of me. I know there’s a drop of water coming from my hairline in my nose, but I’m blowing it up, and Hopefully I look less ridiculous.

I’m trying to be casual.

“Philip?” he asked.

But it seems, even to me, carefree.

“Anna” is a melody to her voice.

And that’s a release.

He looks at me as if he was unpacking a gift, and I hope to fuck my nipples are not begging. I have no idea what to say, so I just say “Sorry”.

He shrugs and leaves the small space we’ve been occupying for almost five minutes and I’m helpless.

It takes far too long to dry my hair, reapply mascara, and get fucking dressed, but when I finally leave my hiding place, I can hear Nicola and Philip laughing.

It’s an innocent laugh, nothing sinister, so right away I need her to leave.

My confidence is back, almost, and as I walk into the gallery, I take a moment to observe it.

It is large, more than a six-foot, and his hands, which I first noticed we met two years ago, are hard hands, large, ready to work, to quarry stones, or mold a breast.

His eyes are dark, not brown or green, but dark, as if they were hiding secrets.

He doesn’t look like an artist, I realize. He looks like a construction worker or a carpenter, he looks strong, he looks like he could make any material bend to his whim.

He turns his head slowly, a false smile playing on his lips. His head is bald, but his features are dark, there will be hair growth in a few hours, and he will testify to a brown youth.

I’m looking at my watch. Only 16 hours, but, Nicola needs to go.

The bell rings above the door, and as the liquid Nicola is gone.

I’m alone with this young man, and all of a sudden I don’t feel so sure of myself.

“Give me a sheet of paper,” the words are spoken too softly, and for a moment I wonder who said them. “A sheet of paper,” he says. “Find me a sheet of paper, I want to write it down.”

I have dealt with the Artists, since a young age, I know they are prone to drama, so I move, recognizing purpose, to the printer and take a sheet of paper and take an office pen Nicolas.

He bends down and beckons me to lean closely.

He writes with precision, fluid lines, defined whirlwinds, and his eyes on mine.

I read the message, as it tends snakes to move slowly up to my leg. He keeps moving until he finds the answer between my legs.

The message reads:

I’m going to fuck you until you scream this place, so keep it or leave it, I don’t care. But that’s what’s happening.

His hand is rough, and to be honest, I don’t even know if these are the real words on the page, I don’t need to know. He can do whatever he wants, and he knows it.

He moves his hand as we hear Nicola returning to the general area with an older lady in tow. “This is Doris Payton, Philip, the lady I was telling you about. Would she like to meet the artist?

I can’t move, if I do my legs will buckle, I’ll fall to the ground and shiver my way to an orgasm that could deliver a heart attack, for me and for the public.

It offers Doris the hand that still needs to be wet between my legs, and she almost bows on it.

Doris is an exceptionally rich woman, a diamond on every finger just so everyone knows, but she is also an intelligent lady, and something tells her that the artist is not entirely in residence.

She hands him a card, there are little discussions. Exclamations and the kisses plays before she leaves, darting a curious look in my direction.

I tell Nicola that I need to chat with Philip, and she can leave early, but she is so eager to stay that it takes her almost 20 minutes to leave.

20 excruciating minutes where I can feel it ignore me, and I’m starting to worry if the idea has become cold, have I matching underwear on, are my shaved legs, and a million other thoughts.

The door closes behind it, and I lock it and press the button for the safety gates at the same time.

When I turn around, he sits with his back on me and I wobble.

Do I really need complicated?

“Come here, ” His voice is a command, and I’m not going to fuck with coy. It turns around as I get to it. “The first time I met you, I wanted to pull this crazy blue dress over your head to find out what was underneath. You were hidden in her. He smiles, but suddenly the temperature is lower, I can’t see that smile in his eyes. “Take off your clothes for me. Now there have been

I suddenly feel very lonely, and the instinct of fighting or fleeing screams in my ear.

My skirt is still wet, it doesn’t slip into fact for movie fashion. But I shimmy out of him, aware that he looks at me, almost clinically. I leave my underwear, secretly delighted that it’s a matching set, my Sex Angels must have been watching over me.

“You are fucking beautiful,” he said to me as his hand reached out to draw a line from my shoulder along my right arm. I have goosebumps on my goosebumps, and my throat is suddenly very dry.

His hand rotates around my wrist, and he moves to take both my wrists in his hands. A movement pulls me towards him, and he unfurls from his stool pole to press me firmly against the wall, the whole length of his body pressing against me.

“I’ve imagined all the senses I want to fuck you. Slowly, fast, wet, smooth, with screams, he smiled then, with ties, with toys, with silence, or words, but believe me, I fantasized so many ways, you can never get to open the door again.

My arms are stretched over my head, I am exposed to this fully clothed man, and I am ready to beg to be fucked, but he leads this charge.

Her lips meet mine and her kiss promises pain while her tongue forces my lips, hungry and cruel. He pushes my legs apart with his leg so he can shape his groin in me.

I think he might fuck me now, just against the wall without preamble, and suddenly I’m so wet that I wonder did I cum?

His mouth moves on my face, my neck, stopping to lick the delicate skin behind my ear, holding tight to my hands, biting it, hard enough to cause a sensation.

“Is it a naked fuck, or keep this thing?” He asks, letting my hands go so he can travel his hands through the lace of my bra.

My arms feel weak without her support, but I manage to dig up the front grip and drop the bra to the ground.

He smiles, “Fuck.” His mouth sucks one nipple avidly, his teeth pinching while he pinches the other.

The heat is a flash and my legs are not enough to hold me in place.

It stops.

“Don’t stop.” I barked, shocked that my voice is such a slut.

“I’m going to make you scream, you have to tell me that you agree with that. Otherwise, I need a whiskey and a cold shower, and a new gallery.

His eyes are hot again, hot and cloudy and I know he could fuck me just by talking to me, and I’m fucking terrified.

“I’m ok, I’m so ok with this.”

He takes my hand and pulls me to the back of the gallery, the meeting and welcoming place when we have an artist to meet potential buyers.

It has a gray velvet sofa, a small table, a lamp, another that now seems to be on my way.

He drops me off gently, always in my panties on the couch.

He pulls his shirt over his head, and in one gesture loses his jeans and his underwear.

I have a time when I don’t know where to look. I am suddenly mortified, and uncertain, and I realize that this man, this young man, has all the control and I do not.

He kneels in front of me, his thumbs hang my panties and he pushes me back on the couch and pulls them, ridiculously slowly in my legs.

The cold air conditioning hits the moisture between my legs.

It pushes my thighs apart, then with excruciating slowness, it starts licking from my knee to my waiting.

His mouth is hot when he gets there, his forehead presses in my belly while his tongue meanders from my pubic bone down, down, a slow kiss, then his tongue darts, and there’s a shot of electricity tearing through me.

He sucks my clitoris into his mouth, noisily lapping, he pushes my legs even wider while his tongue explores moisture, striking in my waiting.

My head is turned upside down, my fingers are buried in the expensive cloth of my couch, and this man fucks me with his tongue.

I want to ask him to stop, it is far too early for me to orgasm, but I can not find the words, instead of my hand holds his head in place that I bow and grind against his mouth as every nerve ending bursts on the fire and I shout a few words that o o o no sense as his thumb slips into my and the world stops and ends with his mouth, and my, and I explode, and he is greedy, his probe fingers, his mouth sucks everything he can get, his fingers separating my to dig deeper.

And when I think there’s no way that this orgasm can continue, it slips his finger into my and my muscles trap it there while I spasm like I’ve never had before.

I think that must be it. The end of the line is the moment when I die of ecstasy, my body becomes just a ship.

He lifts me up like a rag doll, I’m a fucking rag doll, and he poses me with such tenderness on the couch that I feel a tear slipping from my emotionally overworked eyes.

It creeps into me, and this is the most intimate moment of my life; without exception.

And I’m fully alive, and my legs wrap around his waist, and I pull him deeper and deeper, and he says words I don’t understand, and he beats in me, his hands are everywhere, his mouth is greedy on mine , a shock of the lips, but his strength guides me, pins me under him.

My eyes look at his, and he stops, for the smallest of seconds, a divided universe.

“Now,” he says.

It’s a command he doesn’t need to pronounce because I couldn’t stop the deluge between my legs if I wanted as he buried himself so deep inside me, I feel every thumb glorified from his cock. And he hits me, naked shots that tell me he has control while he fucks every iota of doubt out of me, while I shout absurd words and he fucks me within an inch of my life and then he blows and I can feel his cock gushing inside of me, his mouth is buried in my neck, his hands burning on my and I meet his, soaking, the bull and the fighter united.

It takes far too long for one of us to speak, I began to wonder if he died? Only his heart is a jackhammer on my chest.

He raises his head looking at me so intensely that I blush.

“Bit late for purple face love,” he says in a fake cockney grater.

And the laughter from my belly is a liberation too. I was so scared in those moments that our body calmed down from orgasm or the next part, the little after sex, the little where the performance may still be going or just done, and it’s time for the movie star cigarette.

“Is it too late to buy you a glass of love?’ Because there’s no way I’m going to let you go home tonight, I tell him, my cockney as good as his, but my promise is implied that there will be a lot more fucking tonight.

He moves with fluidity, he is so in control of his body, his energy is like that of a trained ballerina.

He walks away from me, ordering his layout, and my body misses the connection immediately.

Her is so tight that I could bounce stones on her, her thighs are rugby-ish, and I wonder how I’ve never noticed her physique at this extreme before.

And then the laughter boils from me.

“I damn hope you don’t make fun of my ass,” he said, and he’s back to that dark voice and I realize I’m fucking loving that dark voice, that danger just below.

I said, “No. I laugh that you just fucked me, and that’s not how I saw it happen and you have such a bloody hot body.

He turns around, and his cock starts to get hard again, so my pussy reacts to that, but I don’t move, I want to know what he’s doing. It works as if it were the owner of my space, with a sense of autonomy, and I realize that it goes for the fridge, where we had the conversation two weeks ago after the sale of his second piece, where we opened the expensive champagne, where I said I hoped that life would not continue to be so difficult, and I hoped that the champagne would taste of pleasure again.

And he bends over and takes a bottle without regard for his price, and I love it. He knows there is liquid joy, and no matter if the grapes were grown by dinosaurs or divas, the taste will be divine.

He uncorks it, without finesse, and takes me steps.

He pulls me up, and shares the sweet sparkling dom of Dom Pérignon.

“You know, the first time I met you, you were so cool. You said, other galleries will offer you the moon and the stars, but for them, you are just a paycheck. Do you remember?

I did, so I nod la la one, I don’t know why we are in deep territory and don’t really want to.

“You said, I will do whatever it takes to make your talent known, not your name.” He puts the bottle against my mouth, and I take a slug.

“I knew, that you believed in me, but to hear you say it. Hell, it was hot. A fucking guy who does shit.

I don’t know what to say, so I’m silent.

It is intense, as it passes the bottle to me, I drink avidly because I’m not sure if this night is about to end, and I need to be soothed by numbness if it is.

The silence stretches, and suddenly I am aware of every sound, every movement, every inch of my body and his.

The bottle went back and forth, and he takes my hand.

I said, “Anna. I want to fuck you. I want to fuck you and make you scream. I want you to get lost and let me in while you do it.

And the bottle is gone, and the floor is under my ass, and his dick is a few inches from my face, and I want to taste it so much, my hands guide it in my mouth. I can taste the sperm, his mine, and his, and it’s salty and sweet, and I swallow as much of his cock as I can, plus, his dick makes me gag, but I don’t fucking worry because this moment is my freedom.

He’s surprised at my intensity, and I feel him trying to hold back, but I want a piece of control here, and I slip my finger under his scrotum, slowly, smelling, waiting for the moment when he’s going to tense, and he’s doing it, and I know I’ve found the place where the contrô is mine, however briefly.

My tongue slips along his dick, and it is so full in my mouth and I know he does not like this loss of control, his hand in the wound in my hair, he wants to be rough, but he is reluctant, and my teeth nip the head of his cock , while my finger slides deeper at the base, and I can feel the change, the dick beat in my throat as I suck deeper, and my pussy becomes wetter, and her body bows more to my face, hand in my hair pulling the strands mi hair slopings in frustration and joy.

And he squeaks, and his dick bounces in my mouth, and I’m gagging, but I want to take it and taste it, but it pulls out, twists me in one motion and I’m stuck on the stupid coffee table, and his mouth is behind my ear , and his only word.

I said, “Ass.”

And I conform because I can think of nothing but to please him, and explode again for him.

And his cock is to my ass, and there should be a time when I hesitate or let him have control, but I don’t, I slip my finger into my asshole wet first, and it doesn’t need lubrication, every part of me is on fire for this man.

He presses against me, and I know he’s stabilizing, the sensation of his cock grows, he uses a finger to spread the hole.

It is slow, my body stretches to meet it.

The first entry is painful, I feel pain. I feel momentarily uncertain, his hands find my nipples and he squeezes them, one at a time, slowly, they are connected to my clitaction, to my, and they are the passwords for entry, because it slides into my , and I can feel every single nerve in my body on fire, react, and there’s a rhythm, and it’s fucking my ass.

These hands that make the sculpture in innate detail, have my cheeks spread wide now and his cock is slingshot in me and I can barely stand on all fours, my arms feel like they won’t hold me, and my muscles tighten , and he found this place where my nerves are strung together, and my ass feels wide and powerful, and I can hear him growl as his hands pull my body back to meet his cock as he slams me, I scream.

I scream as he impales me on his cock, as my whole body explodes, as his cock pulls inside me, as moisture seeps into my ass cheeks, as he shouts my name over and over again.

As his body fucks in mine, as I meet every move on the way, as he gets so deep into my ass our bodies are one unit, and he is faithful to his promise that I’m shouting the fucking place down as my body curls under him.

This kind of joy doesn’t happen every day, but as our body cools, I know I’ll have the opportunity to fuck this man again.

This story is protected by international copyright law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found displayed anywhere other than Xnxxtoys.com with this attached note, it was displayed without my permission.

Artists’ hands