The Irascible Matt Foxx Ch. 4

Dear Friends,

its been awhile since we’ve seen the reclusive artist Foxx, and the intrepid reporter who has come from town to interview him. Winter has passed, and spring is slowly coming to the mountains….

She leaned out over the balcony railing. From here she could hear the pines soughing in the restless wind. Eventually it would make its way up here and tousle her hair and tease at her bare flesh. But for now, she enjoyed the serenity as dawn crept over the mountains.

She had been Master’s toy for almost half a year. She still smiled when she thought of their first meeting, when her car had slid off the access road and into one of these sentinel pines. He’d been pretty pissy  that day, but it had also begun an adventure which had a new chapter nearly every day. He was a piece of work, the Artist Foxx, and sometimes, she could hardly believe that He had chosen her. She’d come to write a story on Him for the local paper, a story which had gotten great reviews and been picked up the UP.

He’d been proud of her, to be sure, and continued to support her endeavors. He wanted her to branch out, to stir her creative juices and settle into working on her book, but she wasn’t quite there. He had enough confidence in her, but she didn’t. Not yet, at any rate.

The sliding door behind her opened with a soft sound. She felt Him move up behind her, savored his warmth against her chilly flesh.

“You’re cold, little one,” He admonished.

“Not terribly, and not now that You’re here,” she smiled up at him.  “You’re up pretty early, Master,” she said, taking in his half-dressed state. His blue-plaid shirt hung open, thrown over his wrinkled undershirt .  He never slept in the buff as she did.

“never went to bed. The painting grabbed me by the throat and slapped me into it.”

She looked up and smiled. She’d fallen asleep after their  epic sexcapades last night, and had slid silently from the bed this morning to not wake him…and all the while He’d been in his studio!

“finished it, did you?” She grinned, taking in the stubble of beard on his face, the bits of paint on his battered sneakers. The scent of turpentine hung on him like other men wore cologne.

He grabbed her around the throat before she could duck away from the feral  look in his eyes. He was always horny after he finished a painting. He pinned her to the railing with his body, rubbing his stubble on her tender cheeks, her throat.

She moaned. It hurt and turned her switch to “full on” mode. His lips found and mated with hers, then went further, taking, possessing. His tongue dove into the depths of her mouth, and she was dying for air, dying for Him when he  finally released her mouth.

She had a fraction of a moment before she saw his control crack, at the same moment she heard his zipper sluice down with a metallic hiss.

He bent her over the railing and she clawed for purchase, fearful that this time she’d go sailing over. His hands biting into her hips notwithstanding, it was a long way down.

She stopped noticing the view when his hard shaft slid into her throbbing pussy.

A hand left her hip, grabbing at a thick wad of her hair. He pulled her head backwards, arching her spine and giving him greater depth to plunge into.

A plethora of sensations assailed her, the chill of the metal railing contrasted with the heat of his cock inside of her, the breeze blowing across her throbbing hard nipples, the painful pull of her hair and arch of her back. All coalesced into a whirling spiral of pain and lust. She couldn’t  move, only accept. She couldn’t participate, just be here. Be his vessel.

He pulled free of her sucking cunt before she could orgasm. His cock throbbed, and she felt the splatter of his cum as He grunted his release. He painted her back, her ass with his seed.

He stepped away, and she knew he was heading for his morning shower. She held onto the railing, panting. Turning her head, she looked over her shoulder as he spoke, trying to focus on his words, and not the need throbbing between her wet thighs.

“Later, slut. I like thinking of you, wanting. Pretty as a picture, too, painted by me.”

Gods he was  smug!