She kept her paint in a hat box.  
 
It was her grandmother’s, but somewhere along the line the hats has disappeared and only the boxes remained.  She removed each tube every time she painted, and she set the box down under her easel with her left foot gently resting on the lid.  She painted in a bathrobe, and she drank red wine.

The last time I posed for her was exactly like the first time.  I undressed when she told me too, sat on the chair the way she asked, and froze when she told me to get hard. The room was warm, and the chair was comfortable, but despite my sometimes view of her body beneath the robe it still felt like an impossible task.  

She sat and waited without so much as a fidget.  She smiled and sipped her wine and let me go from nervous to trying.  It took more than twenty minutes and I had to do things I don’t normally let people watch me do.  

Her painting took very little time. She started with my knees and sketched around my body until she had outlined me up to my chest.  The details followed, with the most attention paid to my cock.  On occasion she got up from her stool and approached me with her robe pulled tightly closed.  She leaned in until I could feel her breath on me, and just when I thought she might take me into her mouth she measured me with her brush instead and quickly returned to her seat.  

I held on tightly to keep myself hard.  I squeezed with my left hand and every once in a while ran the palm of my right over the head of my cock.  She doesn’t mind the movement as long as the results are the same.  In fact, she never says a word while she paints, even if my moaning distracts her.

When I saw her slow down I knew what was next.  When I saw her take her foot off the top of the box I tensed all the muscles in my body, and when she finally put down her brush I closed my eyes. I counted in my head until her voice broke the silence.

“Come now,” she said, and I did.

Guy New York