She could hardly believe it! At long last, she was on her way up to interview him. The somewhat uncomplimentary term ‘troglodyte’ floated through her mind, though she would never use it in her story. The talented artist barely tolerated publicity, zealously guarded his privacy, but the gallery had insisted this time. She would interview, and write, a piece on Matt Foxx.
This could *make* her career.
The terse approval, and brief directions she had received in her late afternoon email gave her scant time to gather her things and head up the mountain to meet with Him.
The roads up here had more snow than the slight dusting the valley had received. The tall conifers were gilded with fresh white snow, and the smell of the crisp air blended with the sharpness of pine. It eked in through the slightly open window. She took a deep breath of the freshly scented air, and shivered. It really sucked that she couldn’t afford a better transport, but that was life these days. Besides, if she closed the window, she’d be melted by the heater which was stuck on “high” and blowing merrily across her feet.
* * *
The deer bolted from the thick cover of the woods, catching her unaware. She slammed on her brakes, realizing too late that was a huge mistake, even as her wheels locked and she felt the skid begin. The narrow drive wound upwards, the drop offs, sharp. She knew a moment too late that her car was heading down into the trees.
Like a slow motion scene in a movie, she saw the front end tip down, down and her car slide sideways towards one tall, thick pine. The jolt was sudden, sharp, and unexpectedly quiet, as her head hit the side window and she blacked out.
She woke to the sharp slap of cold against her skin, and the tug of someone pulling her arm. She tried to slap him away, slapped again, was gruffly told to ‘knock it the fuck off’. She rose back to consciousness blinking the fuzz from her brain. Matt Foxx’s sharply chiseled face was bare inches from hers.
“Don’t they teach you stupid city girls how to fucking drive in snow?” He snarled at her.
“Don’t they teach your stupid fucking deer not to run in front of cars?” she snarled back.
He looked down at her, surprised, then surprised her further by grinning. His smile needed to be registered, she thought a bit groggily, as a lethal weapon.
Later, wrapped in a multicolored quilt that seemed quite remarkable for him to even possess, and clutching a steaming mug of cocoa, she offered her thanks.
“This was not how i’d intended to interview You, Mr. Foxx, but i thank you for your timely rescue.”
“Let’s make sure your head is okay before thinking about the interview, little one.”
He had a way, that was for sure. She wondered if what she had heard about him, being part of the BDSM scene back in NYC had any nugget of truth. And wondered too, if that was why Leon had sent her on this particular story. Certainly it would place a big ole feather in her cap, but she was very open about her kink. And Leon was a peach about it, really. He would tease her about it, but in a caring, fatherly way.
Leon was didn’t have a Dom bone in his body, but looking at Foxx…well, he fit the “type” if there was such a thing. Controlling, eagle-eyed, controlling, watchful, controlling.
She laughed to herself. And he was fucking gorgeous. All thick hair and lean-faced. He had “danger” written all over him. Her favorite type, her warming pussy chimed in.
He looked at her. She wondered if it was the man, or the artist whom she was seeing just now. He sipped his coffee, drinking her as much as the warm beverage he held in those talented hands. She tried to imagine them holding a paintbrush, and not a crop.
She shook her head.
“What?” he spoke, and she realized that she’d fallen silent in her musings. A bad thing for a reporter, she knew, and yet, she could lay that to the muzzy headache in her temple.
“oh, sorry, just…woolgathering. Thinking about Your paintings, your studio.”
“Which studio would that be?” His look was challenging. “I’m sure you’ve googled me, heard the stories. I googled you, too. I see we have tastes that run along a similar vein, little one.”
She swallowed, nonplussed. He’d googled her? She’d not even done herself in a long time…like since …high school, she supposed…but she had a fair idea of what He had found.
“So, it’s true then, the New York stories?” her voice, was calm, surprising her.
“Of course it’s true, or you boss wouldn’t have sent YOU to me, would he?”
She blinked. Hadn’t she had that same thought? Damn. Damn. And her pussy was twitching. She rose, her nerves making her hands shake a bit, rattling her.
“Look, Mr. Foxx, why don’t i head back to town and we can reschedule this interview for later…”
“You don’t seem like the cut-and-run type, little girl.” His eyes challenged her. “Besides, your car is fetched up one of my pine trees and the tow company won’t come out this way for quite some time. I told them there was no rush, they could come tomorrow.”
Her heart paused a beat, then rushed headlong into a mix of annoyed anger, and incendiary lust. How dared HE? Then again, considering who, and what He was…why wouldn’t he?
She threw him a glare anyway. “That was presumptuous.”
He grinned. “It was, wasn’t it? You’ll find that is a good summation of my character. I presume, I take.”
“Take? That could land you in trouble, you know.” She wondered exactly what they were talking about, but her pussy knew. Her nipples, hard as rocks under her quilt wrapping, they knew too.
He reached out a hand, which she could no more resist taking than she could stop breathing. There it was again, that little tingle that passed between them. He knew it. She knew it.
“How hard are you going to fight me before you believe?” He asked quietly as He pulled her close.
She shook her head, words for once, gone, fled out into the darkening night.
“You feel it, little one. You’ve been searching for a long time. Maybe it’s time for you to give yourself another try, hmmm?”
His right hand still held hers, but the other hand was slipping up and down her back, and little tangles of lust wove under her skin at the touch. It was true, she’d gone through lovers like water through a sieve. She just never could find the one Dom who meshed with her. The one who controlled, not just through pain and bondage, but with an innate confidence. She looked up into His eyes and read truth there.
How the fuck did He do that? Spin his web around her that fast? She tried to break contact, but he held her, soothing and stirring her with that simple caress up and down her back. When he finally released her hand, she was quiescent, trembling a bit, but still.
His hand fisted deeply in her hair, and he slowly pulled her head back baring her throat. Still he didn’t move in, just gazed at her, drinking in even that small act of submission.
She felt the touch of his eyes like heated darts along her lips, her throat. Her eyes closed, finally under that intense gaze, and as her lids fell shut, His lips brushed against hers. Brushed with the softness of a sable brush. And then it was …more. It was a kiss, it was a taking in. He drank deeply from her mouth, tasting her flavor, lapping at her tongue, her lips, sucking those succulent rounds into his mouth, biting and nipping before releasing them.
She felt her lips swell with the attention his mouth gave, and then He went deeper, taking, pulling her into him, her tits pressing against his chest, her mouth under siege. She felt consumed, and as he released her, and their eyes met, tinglingly, achingly aware.
He took her to his ‘Studio’. The public one, where his work evolved. Canvases were everywhere. Pieces of frames lay neatly stacked on a table against the far wall, blank canvas stored in several boxes. The smell of paint, of thinner, of man, permeated the room. She imagined being up here at dawn, or dusk, not just watching the sun rise, or set, but being part of it. The glass walls let the world outside, in. Despite the press of cold air and star-dotted sky, it was warm up here, and she was enthralled.
She did a slow spin, taking in her first impressions, imagined trying to write this, so that her readers could be in this place if only for a moment, through her. It nearly defied description. The faint glow of the rising moon illuminated the distant, snow-bright peaks. She felt she’d been transported to some magical kingdom.
“It’s fabulous. It’s not all i want to say, Mr. Foxx but truly, i…” He watched her, leaning negligently against a long, sturdy oak table, one foot crossed over the other, hands curled loosely on the edge of the surface behind him. She stuttered to silence as she watched him, watching her. That smile was just killer, she thought, full of charm, and confidence. He knew who he was, and he’d do whatever the fuck he chose. He exuded calm, quiet strength.
oboy did He exude sex.
Her nipples went back on high alert, and her pussy jolted. His eyes cruised down her body, resting a moment on her chest, where her protuberant nipples waved at him, then down her legs, and back up. His gaze was a tease, a caress.
“Come. Here.” His voice was soft, but not gentle. She took a hesitant step forward, and another. All too soon she was standing before his crossed feet.
She couldn’t get closer unless she straddled his legs and moved up him and she for sure wasn’t going to do that. He read her like a book, she thought, as his hand left the table, and curled into the hem of her white sweater. She did not refuse the gesture, though she could easily have stepped back, stepped away. Instead, she left his finger there, let it tease her slowly forward. Slowly up his legs, the brush of his warmth against her own calves, moving upwards to her thighs as she came ever closer. Her pussy tingled, feeding off the heat from his body.
She felt that heat answered in her cunt, burning and yearning towards his belly, imploring silently for his hardness to bury itself into the silken wetness that throbbed between her legs. That selfsame place that had soaked her panties. Finally, he released her sweater, his hand slipping behind her, pressing the small of her back forward those last few inches. Pressed tight to him, she could feel the hardness of his cock pressing into the juncture of her thighs. She imagined that thickness buried deeply up inside her belly. She could not hold back the soft, low moan.
Both arms came around her now, holding her hard, and he spoke quietly into her ear.
“I am going to fuck you, little one. I will lay you here on this table, tying your arms to the legs, keeping you motionless as I fuck you from behind. My cock will fill you, swim deep up into your hot cunt. I feel it, you know. I feel your heat, smell the wetness of you. I will take and take and take, fucking you hard, fucking you deep, filling you, using you until I am sated, and I cum deep within you.”
She shivered and though it seemed impossible, heated further. Her breath was irregular, short gasping little pants, trying to draw more oxygen into her starving lungs. Her pulse was centered solely within her clit.
His hands lifted from her waist, drawing her sweater upwards. Her tits hung free, braless as was her wont.
“Hmmm, nice, nice tits, my little girl. What succulent nipples I will feast upon, later. Much later.”
His words sent a frisson of goosebumps down her spine, speckling her tits, and drawing her nipples into firmly crinkled nubs of intense need.
He pushed her away, gently, then stepped free of the table. He loosened the buttons of her trousers, and pulled them free. He pushed her back to the table, and, hand against her hair, pushed her facedown. The top was smooth as silk, cool as glass under her cheek. She lay, quiescent, as he moved about the room. What was going to happen here was inevitable. She knew it.
She wanted it.
Wanted it more than air. More than cookie dough ice cream. More than her story.
He was on the far side of the table now, drawing her wrists together, tightening every loop carefully, and she watched him work the rope against her flesh, feeling an answer deep inside her cunt. He looked into her eyes as he guided the rope across the table, under it. He ducked beneath the table now, and she felt the movement of air as He moved, unseen below her. He was crossing the rope around the legs on her side of the table; His hand was firm when He grasped her left calf, and wrapped one length of rope tightly around it, and secured it to the thick leg of the table. Ducking back under the table, He retrieved the other length of line, and wrapped that around the right table leg, then hers.
She was spread wide, her legs held open, secured to the legs of the table, her arms yearning toward the far side of the table. If she pulled her arms, she felt a whisper of that tug against both legs. Clever.
“I told you downstairs that I took what I wanted. And so I have taken you, little one.” His hand cracked against her ass. “Your boss and I talked long about you. He was worried for you, you see. Thought you were headed down a bad way. He and I go way back. Went to college together, were dorm neighbors. Two geeky guys, a wannabe writer, a wannabe artist, stuck sitting in the hallway together as our roomies boffed every girl they could.”
She was enthralled, then whistled in another sharp breath as His hand slapped her again. She felt the coil of need grow tendrils through her body. She needed him to fuck her.
She knew better than to ask.
His hand rubbed the reddening flesh, then slapped again.
“When Leon called me with the idea that I meet you, I said okay. We know each other, you see. And he felt he owed me, since I introduced him to his husband.”
She jolted. Leon was gay? Well, he’d hidden that from her for the 7 months she’d worked under him. Sneaky. Just sneaky. The crack on her ass diverted her attention back to her heating ass.
It stung, and was not His hand. A flurry of quick, sharp blows and she arched up. Well, she imagined she did, though He had tied her securely and she moved only a fraction. She felt the sudden sharp tug against her clit as He tugged on the black lace panties He had left on.
“Cute panties, but you will need to purchase another pair, or twenty, little one,” He said. With a sharp tug, she felt the sides give way, and she blushed faintly when He tossed them onto the table. They fetched up near her face, and she smelled the scent of her arousal on them, could see the shiny white streaks where her lust had painted them wetly.
He rubbed his hands against her now bare flesh, gently tapping the crop up her back, down the other side. He was painting her in pain, she thought, smiling at the simile, then winced as He struck her hip harder, sharper than before.
“Yell for me, little one, let me hear you sing out…”
She wanted to be quiet, but He kept swatting, rubbing, repeating. Sometimes her ass, then her back, her thighs. Twice that fucking thing hit her swollen dripping cunt. The third time broke her, and she cried out, loudly.
And felt Him fill her.
Her cunt stung wickedly, and without warning He was just there. His thick heavy cock just slid up inside of her yearning cunt like she was greased.
Which, she supposed, she was.
He took her on a hard, fast ride, his hips banging into her throbbing asscheeks, his cock rubbing her in all the right places. His hand came around her and pinched at her clit, sending her into her first orgasm, then slipped away to grasp her hips as he barreled up and into her, fucking her through her orgasm and into a second, even wilder one.
His hands slipped up her sides, reaching under to pinch and twist her nipples, and she came again. Again, He pinched, twisted, slamming his cock roughly into her. He leaned into her now, his hips beating her, his breath at last losing control, rasping deeply as He hurtled towards his own explosion.
When it came, she swore she could feel the pulsing expulsions of cum sluicing up against her cervix, coating her, spraying her with his life-essence. He collapsed on her, as she came again.
“Only 4 orgasms, little one?” he gasped. “Soon I will teach you to cum even more often.”
“How soon?” she panted back.
His laughter painted her in a warm, peaceful glow.
He was an artist, indeed.
She came awake slowly, the kind of awake that lets you know that more sleep might be needed, but won’t be forthcoming. She was sore, stiff, and the warmth at her back could only be Man.
A soundly sleeping man.
She did not want to get up, but the pre-dawn need to pee was too much to ignore. She slid carefully from beneath the arm that was wrapped loosely around her waist, and nude, padded to the Master bathroom.
The marble bath should have been cold, but the radiant floors quickly dispelled any chill that dared cross the threshold. She sat on the commode, and let relief pour from her. Her pussy was still a bit sore, yet she had that sated feeling of being wonderfully used.
As she recalled, in addition to being tied and fucked six ways from Sunday on his sturdy table in the Garrett, they’d not made it all the way downstairs before he nudged her to her knees and took her hard, doggie style on the ninth step down. She vaguely recalled holding the baluster for dear life as he pounded her with such force she thought he’d knock teeth loose.
And she came like a fury.
He’d held her nipple as he’d guided her back to the second floor where the Master Suite was located. The view from the balcony was chilly but magnificent. The faint glow from the waxing quarter moon was only slightly brighter than the snow fields on the upper slope of the mountains. The stars numbered in the millions, winking so close in the frigid air that she swore she could reach out and pluck one from the sky.
He pulled her back inside, warning her that she would freeze her nipples off if she didn’t come in, and he had plans for those nipples.
She’d liked his warm-up, pushing them together and rubbing his cock against the tips, and teasingly fucking between them.
Finishing on the toilet, she flushed, washed, and looked at herself in the oversized mirror. Bruises dotted her torso, a distinct set of teeth marks on her shoulder, and an over-all burnished glow of lust, sated.
Or perhaps, lust, simmering would be more apt, she thought. Her pussy pulsed softly. She’d not been fucked this many times in a 7-hour span in…well, likely since she was in college back east and had attended what she had thought was a “fake” orgy.
And hadn’t been.
She smiled at the memory, and at comparing the snarky Matt Foxx to an entire dorm-room of sexual frenzy. He wasn’t snarky at all, she realized, just…
As if thinking of Him had called to him via some mystical plane, there he was. Conjured, she wondered, by her needy, wanton pussy? He didn’t look sleepy, not for a guy, who only minutes before, was lost in Dreamland, she thought. She swallowed, torn between nerves and the nervous tingle between her thighs.
He looked hungry. Dangerous. A predator licking his lips, seeing a succulent morsel right fucking there.
“i…um…” and she tried to duck past him. He blocked her easily, pushing her back into the room.
“i needed to pee,” she began again, her voice dwindling as she saw the gleam in His eyes.
“too bad you flushed,” he responded, grabbing her and whipping her around to face the porcelain pot. She tried to resist, but he pressed the back of her neck firmly down, and placed her hands on the toilet seat. Releasing her, he grabbed her hips firmly. Before she could release the seat, still warm from her bottom, He was inside her cunt.
She grunted as his cock forced its way up inside her somewhat dry hole. The grating pull of skin on skin was painful, the hold on the ivory seat, degrading, humiliating, yet she felt that fucking tingle again, and before he’d completed 3 strokes into her she was surging with wetness. She began to push back, lifting her ass up to increase the angle of the plunging cock, subtly pulling him deeper into her swollen folds.
He groaned as he sank balls deep into her, his hold on her hips tightening until she knew they’d leave proof of his strength on her flesh.
He barely withdrew, making short hard thrusts into her, his balls tickling her clit and drawing a series of panting gasps from her mouth.
“Bend lower” his words were terse, hard. Gawd. Her hair might get into the toilet…but she obediently buckled her elbows, resting her forearms against the seat, holding her face up by laying her forehead on her crossed arms. He nudged her right ankle farther apart from her left until she was bent far over, feeling her opening gap wider for him.
And he began to take, to plunge, to scour her belly from the inside out. His cock was thick and firm, the head hot and round, a battering ram pushing past all her defenses. She cried out when he hilted against her cervix. It hurt! At the same time, a devious twang set up in her clit, her g-spot was being rubbed nearly raw with the driving piston of his rod, sawing in and out against it.
She came hard, bent nearly in half, head almost in the water of the toilet she had just pissed into. It was nasty, and it was raw, and it was so fucking hot.
When He came it was with a roar that echoed in the room, and she swore she could feel his cock jolt and spew his seed deeply up inside of her.
He pulled her up by her hair from the seat, spun her around, kissed her lips. Reaching down, he slapped her pussy, and she spread her legs. He slapped again, harder. She spread wider, and his hand slapped along her entire cunt, the palm of his hand cupping around her vulva, swelling her lips still further, the heel of his hand cranking down on her clit.
Three more hard swats had her grabbing his arm and screaming through yet another orgasm.
Her knees wobbled, and he pushed her all the way to the floor.
“Clean your Masters cock, slut,” He ordered. It was coated in her juices, his cum. Carefully, knowing how sensitive a man’s cock can become, she gently nursed his spent cock in her mouth for a few moments. As his grip on her hair slackened, she began gently rolling his cock with her tongue, bathing it in the saliva pooled in her mouth.
Very gently she closed her lips around Him, and sucked ever so softly.
He moaned again.
She smiled around the shaft in her mouth, and he pressed her head fully to his belly. Her nose was buried against his hairy crotch, his softened rod quiescent in her mouth, but not uncomfortably filling her.
“Stay.” He spoke quietly, holding her head against his belly. She felt the heat of him, the warmth of the floor through her knees, keenly aware of the brush of air against her skin as they breathed together.
His hand pushed her head hard, fingers twining in her long locks, now damp-edged from the toilet-bath. She looked up at him, questioning, he looked down at her.
There was that smile again.
She felt the hot stream before she tasted it.
“I had to pee, too.” was all she heard before she struggled, then swallowed what He poured into her mouth.
It was that or drown.
The tow truck had come and taken her car back to town. She hoped that nothing was seriously damaged. Luckily she had her laptop with her.
He’d not let her go down to town with the driver, had bid her instead, to stay.
Well, ordered her to stay, really. Wrapped up in the newness of being with a Dom who really ‘got’ her, she wasn’t about to rock the boat and argue…especially since she really wanted to stay.
How many times had they? Had he? She gazed into the cracking flames within the fireplace, laptop forgotten, mid-sentence. She stretched, feeling the accumulating bruises from his fingers, from his toys.. hoooboy did He have toys!
They’d fucked like bunnies for most of that first night, on again, off again. He woke her twice with his cock buried deeply inside of her, the slow steady push of his rod into her tummy at odds with her wildly racing heartbeat.
Now he was gone, locked away from her.
Matt had gotten the bite, as he called it, and was in his studio, where he had been for the last 15 hours, painting furiously. The sounds of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons pulsed from the hidden speakers around the house. The rushing decrechendo of ‘Spring’ sprang from every corner, slowing, quieting, before rising once more into ‘Summer’.
She continued to work on her piece about the great artist, Matt Foxx, trying to tune out the music. She preferred the noise of ringing phones, and multiple conversations as she crafted her articles.
“Talk about surround sound,” she muttered as she typed on her computer, trying to tune out the weeping violins in the ‘Summer’ section. Damn Vivaldi! Those violins were impossible to ignore. Her foot tapped irritably to the beat of the summer rainstorm playing through the music.
“What was that, little one?”
She jumped, surprised, startled. Aroused. She turned and there he was, right behind her sipping at a cup of something. He was eerily quiet. And He was peering over her shoulder, trying to see what she was working on! She closed her laptop.
“No reading over my shoulder. I told you that I’ll let you read it once it’s done.”
“hmmmm. ” He replied, looking into her.
He saw everything, it seemed. She looked at him, hair wildly tousled, eyes snapping with good humor, a rough stubble only serving to add to the aura of confidence and danger he wore so well. He’d not showered nor changed yet, and paint spattered his dark tee-shirt, while sweat smiles darkened under his arms.
He was pure Man. Raw, heady, unadulterated lust curled in her belly.
She saw the grin crinkle his eyes, turn his dimple into a cavern she wanted to fish in with her tongue.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Was He kidding?
“A walk? Matt, it’s got to be all of 20 degrees outside!”
“City girl. Get your boots.
“Has it escaped Your attention that i’m wearing only panties? ”
He took the final glugs of his drink, head tipped back, eyes dancing with humor. He finished with a sated “ahhh”, then looked down at her.
“why are you wearing panties?”
She felt the blush start. Why that embarrassed her, she had no idea. Her nipples peaked out, even as her breasts were suffused with the flush of pink.
He tilted his head to the side, watching her nipples harden.
“Little girl gets turned on when I talk about her panties?” His tone was gently mocking. “Are you wet little one?”
Her gaze shifted to his shoulder, then back to his eyes. She didn’t want to answer that. Didn’t want to tell him that yes, His talk alone made her wet, squirmy. His eyes lasered into hers. She wanted to look away; was compelled by that gaze not to. She cleared her throat, suddenly thick with want.
“i am, yes Sir.”
“Go get your boots and coat.” This was an order, and no mistaking the tone. She rose swiftly, and went to the closet. She slipped the boots on, left, then right, holding onto the edge of the half-open door for support.
His hand stroking across her left cheek was warm and startling.
“You move so fucking quietly! You startled me. Again.”
He made no reply to her, merely smiled as she turned to glare at him. It was a little glare, but he still swatted her butt with a stingy slap.
“Mind your manners, missy” he warned, that grin still in place.
“Yes Sir,” she snapped out, just a bit this side of waspish. She might be a sub but she was no one’s pushover! When his thumbnail pinched just inside the cleft of her ass, she yelped.
“Manners, little one, will always be a requirement. I suggest you remember.” She looked over her shoulder as she restrained the urge to rub that small sore spot. He was not smiling.
Just. . . implacable.
She felt her belly tighten, her muscles clenching as a hot ball of lust began to unwind. How the fuck he did that to her, with just that lookwas a mystery of the Universe.
“Yes Sir, i’ll do better.” the words were spoken nearly automatically, the need to show him she could be a good girl, stronger than her need to resist authority.
“Good girl.” He helped her on with her coat. It was long, down-filled, but He only allowed her to button the two middle buttons, just above her belly button. She knew better than to protest.
He pulled her away from the front door, and through the house to the kitchen. He opened a door which she thought led to a pantry. It was, instead, a decent sized mud-room. He pulled his boots from a cubby, took down his coat from a hook, pulled hat and gloves from the shelf above.
It made her smile, to think of this grown man using a cubby like a kindergarten kid. He reached into another cubby, pulled out a second hat, then turning, pulled it down over her head.
“What?” he asked, catching her amusement.
“Nothing, Sir, it’s…..” she grinned again. “nothing, really.”
He quirked a brow at her but she merely shook her head at him. Finally she said “You’re so …organized.”
“duh. I like knowing where my things are. I’m going out on a limb here and guessing your apartment is not…”
She laughed, thinking of the jumble of laundry that was still in a heap on her bed, clean but unsorted. She’d pawed through that pile to find the panties she was currently wearing under her coat. She shook her head ruefully.
“Not by any measure, Sir. You’re ruthlessly organized. i have a feel for where things are. Kinda.”
He shook his head in mock dismay.
“I can see I have a long road ahead of me…” and he laughed.
“Some roads are blocked and cannot be opened, Sir,” she noted, as he pulled her from the warmth of the mudroom and out through the open door. The whoosh of cold air puffed up her legs, under her coat, chilling her legs, her pussy, her low belly.
“Gaaaawwwddd” she moaned as the air caressed her bare flesh.
He hooked his arm around her neck, pulling her close.
“Toughen up, little one.”
“You’re too, too sympathetic, ” she moaned up at Him.
“Oh, was I? Hell, I was going for Domly.”
“Funny, Sir, you’re just cracking me up here.” She muttered something else that he didn’t quite catch.
His hand lifted the back of her coat, and his gloved hand felt for her ass-cleft, even as she tried to pull away and cover herself.
“Hell, girl, I *did* crack you…!” and he laughed.
She rolled her eyes. He was a fucking kindergartener.
He pulled her into the woods, the track clearly outlined in the snow. It was obvious that he did this walk regularly as it was well mashed in the center. Not so much on the verge where she was walking, tucked back under his arm. Snow fell in little puffing tendrils down inside her boots.
Ahead the trail bent, and as they approached, there was a large, glittering boulder.
“A glacial erratic,” He told her. “A lovely specimen of rose quartz. Go over and touch it..”
She moved away from the warmth of him and went over to examine the rock. It was shaped almost like a teardrop, the top ‘point’ leaning a bit, and aiming northwest. It came to just above her waist in height, rounded roughly at the base. The hues ranged from a deep rose to palest pink at the tip.She slipped her hands from her pockets, tracing the smooth planes of the crystals with a fingertip.
“It’s lovely, simply lovely.” Turning she smiled over her shoulder at him.
“Take off your coat.”
Her eyes widened. But her hands went to the two buttons, slipping one then the other, open. She shuddered as the coat opened, then taking a deep breath, let the coat slip from her shoulders.
“oooohhhh” she moaned as the cold air slapped her body. Her nipples were as hard as the crystal behind her.
“Lay the coat over the stone. Then rest your palms on it. Spread your legs. ”
“yesss, let me see your wet little cunt.”
“mmmmm,” he hummed in his throat, pleased. “Beauty against beauty.”
She’d never received a compliment quite like that before. Then again, she’d never stood all but naked in the great outdoors before, either. She focused as He continued to speak to her. About the beauty of the curves of her body, juxtaposed with the hard angles of the rock she leaned upon. He spoke of hardness and softness, wet and dry, slick and smooth. His voice was wicked and dark and sinful as deep chocolate over ice cream, thrilling her, turning her on with tone and inflection, words of lust disguised as art.
His words flowed over her, and she moved when He bid her. Turn. Arms up. Sideways. Lean against the rock. He was taking pictures with his mind, she could see. The intensity ratcheted up as she lifted her tits to Him, offering the fruit of her sex to Him. She didn’t notice the cold air wrapping around her, only the throbbing between her legs, on the tips of her breasts.
“Turn, hands back on the rock now, legs apart.”
She heard the crunch of snow under his boots as he approached. Then felt His hand, warm from his glove, as He pushed aside the scrap of fabric covering her wetness.
“Such a naughty little girl. Alone in the woods, and all but naked. And wet. You’re cunt is all wet, little girl. ”
His fingers pierced her outer lips, and slid up into her warmth. The thrill of those now chilled fingers pushing up inside of her made her shudder. She could almost come now, just from that.
Here they were, alone in the midday woods, the sun cutting sharply through the trees, and she was being fucked, fucked by those talented fingers. She pushed back against them, wanting more, needing more.
“Please…” her cry was guttural, needy.
“Please what, little slut? Want more up your greedy fuckhole?”
“Yesssss” her teeth were bared, the shocking need boiling between her spread thighs taking control. She didn’t feel the cold, didn’t feel anything beyond the connection between Him and her cunt.
His fingers sawed in and out, his pace steady.
“You’re not being very articulate, little girl. Tell your Master what you need.”
“well, that was succinct, wasn’t it?” and he barked out a laugh.
Fucker was laughing while she was dying of need. The rational part of her brain flared, like a match in the wind, for a moment, then died.
“Please. Master. fuck. my. cunt. Please?”
“Ahh, that was ever so much more understandable. Little slut has a hole that’s not full enough yet?”
His fingers pulled away, then speared up into her belly again. One finger danced over her distended, cold clit. Shivers wracked her, her tits and belly and back dimpled with goosebumps, as his fingers withdrew, then pushed up and in with a wet slurpy sound.
“Hear that slut?” he growled into her ear? “Hear that wet sound? That’s a slutty, needy hole, leaking for her Master. Gotta be careful with all that wet, in this cold weather…don’t want your cunt to freeze shut….” and he laughed, a dark little laugh.
His fingers pulled from her cunt and she moaned her disappointment. Empty! Her cunt was empty! And she needed more, so much more.
“Please Sir may I have your cock? Please Sir? Pleeeassse?” she wanted, she pleaded. Toes curled in her boots as she rose her ass fractionally higher, trying in vain to spear her empty pussy on his fingers.
“So greedy, my little slut, aren’t you?”
her reply was a gutteral mmmmmmmmmm.
He placed two cold, wet fingers against her rectum, and pushed. Hard. She let out a little shriek as her back-end opened for his probing, insistent fingers. Her pussy was pulsing, wanting those fingers plunging deeply.
He fucked her ass hard, stretching her rosebud, as he pushed, twisted, pushed. He fucked harder, adding his third finger.
He listened to her steadily rising keen, knew she was heading closer to her first orgasm, even as he prodded her ass. And she’d told him she could never cum while assfucking. He almost laughed. She had much to learn.
The throbbing in his cock needed release. He lifted his jacket, unzipped his fly, and pulled out his cock. She pushed back when she felt the head of him slip inside her cunt.
Just for a moment her lips were spread, her hole opened by the head of his shaft, then, slipping shut once more, as he pulled that bulbous top out.
Then in again, pushing, parting.
He pushed the wet head of his cock against her primed asshole. With a hard thrust of hips, the head popped inside her. The heat in her back chute was a delightful counterpoint to the chill of the air.
His breath puffed out lust clouds as he exhaled. One thrust, another puff, another thrust, another puff, and soon he was balls deep in her ass.
Her cries stiffened His rod even more. He felt the muscles contracting around him, understood her discomfort. He pressed on. He fucked her ass, withdrawing almost completely, before slowly slipping up and up into her. Out, then in, slowly, torturing his cock with the exquisite grasp of her rectum against his flesh.
The sounds she made! He felt his balls tighten. Not yet. Not yet. He picked up the rhythm, pushing faster, faster. He felt her pussy clenching at the nothingness, as her orgasm swelled. Her head was thrown back, mouth open and ululating a guttural, primal cry. She pushed back, taking more of him into her ass, as His hands came around to grasp her cold tits, her hardened nipples. He squeezed those rigid peaks as she came.
He held on, clenching his buttocks to hold back his own orgasm. He pulled out of her ass as the first upwelling began, then spun her about. Forcing her to her knees in the snow, she looked up at him.
Her face was red from the cold, from the force of her own release and she was shaking visibly. He spurted onto her upturned face, painting her with his seed.
Spent, though not sated, they leaned against each other as they made their way back to the warmth of His house.
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!
“You own all of this?”
She gestured, a wide-armed sweep of the deep woods. At his nod, she sighed. Wow. This was…amazing seemed such a lame adjective. Stupendous. Awesome. Okay, awesome was woefully overused, but hell, if you were going to overuse something, it might as well be a positive word, right?
And the grandeur was…breathtaking.
They’d been hiking for several hours, steadily heading up. Currently they stood on a rocky outcrop that overlooked the wilderness far below. They were not far away from leaving the tree line, really.
He’d said they weren’t peak-bagging today, that he had another destination in mind. Which was great because today was turning out to be one of those rare, strange days in Colorado, where the temperature was a wicked 92. That it was happening here in the Rockies, and not down on the plains was wild enough. Add the intense sun, and you had a recipe for some serious sweat-a-thon.
She watched as an eagle rose on a thermal across the ridge. Master handed her his field glasses, and she took a moment to find the majestic creature.
A golden eagle.
She followed his fast rise on the coiling thermal rush of air, reflecting out loud, the awe of this experience.
“oh Master…so …glorious. So…” Her voice broke as she turned shining eyes on him. “Thank You.”
“Lucky girl,” he said, watching the emotions running on her expressive face. “Not every day we can catch one of those beauties.”
He opened his canteen, took a swallow. She watched, enraptured, as one drop slid from his mouth, tracing its quicksilver path down his throat, to be absorbed by his cotton tee.
She rose to tiptoes, and followed that same path with her tongue.
“Cheeky slut!” He laughed, then cupping her head with his big hands, kissed her hard. “lets keep going.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“i know, You’re the Master, i’m the slave, slut and follower here, but …”
She sighed dramatically, then cast a provocative, sidelong glance at him. “i’d really like to rest a bit.”
The emphasis on that word let him know it was not rest she was after, and he barked out a fast laugh. “Slut. walk.”
She gave him another of those sultry, sly glances, but he pointed forward, and she turned and followed the path.
After another 30 minutes of hiking, down a bit, up a bit, down a lot, they came to their destination.
They stepped through the dense trees, following a path that was barely visible at times, and into wonderland.
The waters cascaded with a sweet soft music. The air was much cooler in this little glen, and she shed her pack quickly.
“Can i go in, Master?” He nodded, amused, as she shucked shoes, doffed socks, and peeled shorts, panties, and tee-shirt with wild abandon. Clothing littered the soft moss around the bank in short order, and she squealed like a kid as she stepped gingerly into the rushing mountain stream.
“So cold!” she shouted to him, as he stood on the bank watching with amusement. She cavorted in the pool like a wood nymph, the cold water pearling her nipples into hard little rocks. He imagined the taste of them, the cool wetness of them in his mouth, the rigid nub sucked between his teeth. He imagined too, that she would quickly go from cold to hot, melting onto him like honey soaked chocolate.
He watched her, knowing this image would burn in his mind until he could paint her, arms extended in the air, water cascading from her opened palms, exulting in her freedom, her sexuality.
Slowly he stripped, while he mentally painted the scene, mixing colors in his mind; the soft peach of her skin, the blue of her eyes, the light dashing across her nose, her left breast, her upturned fingers. The dappled yellow glow shifting through the dancing trees cast molten coins of light on the surface of the small pool. They danced and shattered as he stepped into the water.
He drew her to him, and bit her nipple; it was as hard, as moist as he had imagined it would be. He gathered her hands behind her in one of his own, while the other explored her water-glistened body, twirling down her belly, tickling into her little buttonhole, before trailing down to the vee where her thighs joined in mystery.
Even before he entered that cleft, he felt the heat. She was so fucking hot! His fingers burned as they slid down those wet folds, as her thighs parted and he found the entry he sought. So wet. So hot. So ready.
He pulled her from the pool by her nipple. She winced, praying she didn’t slip on the rocks as she scrambled her way up the banking. He led her to where two young aspens crisscrossed into an X.
She heard the sadist in that tone. She trembled, and felt her pussy ignite. He could do that to her, with one, simple word. Like she was a dog, or a pony…told to remain in place until he returned. And like a well-trained pet, she stood.
Behind her, she could hear him unzipping his pack, and the clatter and bang of things falling out of it. In moments he was back, carrying, rather incongruously, pink bondage tape. He wrapped one wrist to one trunk, high enough that she was nearly on tip-toe. Then the other received the same. She felt the slight movement of the trees. Young enough to be some flexible…but old enough to not give completely under her pull.
The first blow on her ass came as a caress of sorts. The flogger slapped gently across her cheek, a little stingy, a little sensual. She needed to be fucked and now the beast was tormenting her.
“Master, please…” she entreated him.
She heard his wicked laugh, and realized her mistake. She had meant…but there was no time to correct as he flogged her ass, her hips, her legs. Ohgawd it hurt, it hurt so bad. So good.
She felt her pussy oozing down her thighs.
“Spread your legs, slut.”
She didn’t want that. No she surely didn’t. He’d yet to seriously flog her cunt, but apparently this was the end of that little respite.
She stepped farther apart, and winced, waiting. A green-fly buzzed by her face, and she watched it zigzag through the underbrush.
The whine of a mosquito in her ear made her groan. Water nearby, and not so much sun meant a few renegade skeeters wouldn’t wait until dusk to arrive at the feast spread here.
And still there was nothing behind her.
She took a chance, and glanced over her shoulder. She couldn’t believe it. He sat on a rock, looking at her, eating a sandwich. He had that look on his face. That look.
“Yes?” He drawled at her, his cheek bulging with the last bites, looking like nothing so much as a sensual chipmunk. She smiled at that thought.
“May i have lunch, too?”
He tucked the last of the sandwich into his mouth, pulling the finger out with an audible ‘pop’.
She frowned at him as he rose, taking up a thin rod. Where the fuck was the flogger?
“Nice view to eat lunch to, slut,” he remarked as he stroked his hand down her reddened flanks. “very nice, indeed. I should paint this. Nymph, captured. Or something like that. Hang it in the front room where I give interviews.”
“You don’t give interviews, Master,” she reminded him. “Only to me, and only because of Leon.”
“I might have to change that policy…after I paint that picture…”
He laughed, then popped the cane across her left thigh. She arched to her toes, gasping.
He laughed. “Supposed to ‘ow’….me like…” and he nailed her thigh several more times before striking her lovely rounded ass.
He grabbed her by her wet and tousled hair, yanking her head back and growling into her ear…”Master likes hurting you, my little fucktoy. Master likes very, very much.”
The growl, the hot breath of him, the fist in her hair ignited her. Her pussy pulsed with need, a sharp counterpoint to the throbbing of her ass and thighs.
He lifted her by her hips, taking her feet from the ground as she scrambled to hold onto the trunks as he plunged into her hard from behind.
He was every bit the artist with his cock, his hands, his mouth, that he was with a paintbrush, she thought, later, as they lay in a tangle of limbs on the cool moss of the glade. Taken, possessed, used, wood nymph being royally fucked. Yes, she could certainly picture that!
Painterly means, among other things, the blurred, broken, loose definition of color and contour
According to the Tate Gallery’s Glossary the term painterly “carries the implication that the artist is reveling in the manipulation of the oil paint itself and making the fullest use of its sensuous properties.”1
The close-up details in paintings by Van Gogh and others, are examples of a painterly style.
“I want to paint you. Naked.”
She looked up at him through half closed eyes. She was sated. More than sated, really. Wrung out. Drained. Empty. Brainless. He’d fucked her brainless.
As the words percolated their way through her braincells, they began firing up once again. Key words floated through first.
She sat up, blinking away the haze that remained from their rapacious loving. She winced as she straightened her shoulder, striped from the paint stirring stick he’d slapped her with there.
He looked at her, His eyes alert. She knew that look far too well. The look was one of the same fierceness that had helped define him both as a personality and as a painter.
“i–i’m not some kind of …of…” she stammered her way through her denial, breaking off at the gleam in his eyes. She was challenging his words. He loved a challenge.
Uh oh. She was screwed now. She looked at him, looking at her. He looked like a painting himself. The sun broke through the clouds that had encircled their aerie-like loft this long and dreary morning. The rays beamed across the golden wood of the floor, flaring up his legs like wildfire, illuminating him in sharp delineation..half in pure brilliant sunlight, half in shadow.
It was the perfect allegory, she mused, for him.
“Not some kind of….what, slut?” Amusement was writ plainly across his face, and she all but growled in frustration.
“of course, Master, i am anything You want me to be but really? Your muse? i’m a reporter, for gosh sakes!”
It frustrated her no end when he put his magic ‘kill questions and protests’ voice on.
“But Master,” she started again. Still that implacable tone had quelled her. Again.
She’d done things with him that she’d never done before. Why should this be any different. It couldn’t be harder than the suspension he’d done on her last week, really.
“Fine,” she pouted up at him.
She was adorable when she looked at him that way, but far be it from him to let her know that. She enjoyed his challenges, her orgasms were becoming steadily more explosive. He didn’t doubt the day would come that he could get her off with a look, a gesture, or a keyword.
“Come.” He pointed her towards the door.
“NOW?” she exploded.
His brow lifted, and she all but flounced from the bed. She was rosy and dewy from their sex-play, hair tousled, eyes slumberous; he was determined to capture this; this vital essence of her.
In his studio, a large canvas lay on the floor. He pointed her to it, almost absently. In here, his creative beast foraged. He released it fully and began.
He arranged her as she had lain that very morning, one arm bent and tucked up under her cheek, the other bent and laying so it cradled her breasts. He lifted each tit, carefully arranging them so her nipples, peaked from his fingers, poked up over that bent forearm. The dark pink areola’s contrasted well with the light gold of her arm. A summer spent hiking had given her skin a glow, sun-kissed, he called it.
She pouted up at him.
“Redunkulous. This is …”
“Don’t say it, slut,” he warned, his voice gone gravel-toned as he slipped her collar to just left of center. Thankfully, she shut up, and he continued, tossing her hair into a tangled fan across the canvas. The waves and tangles added to the look of broken sensuality. She looked well used, and at peace.
He straightened her bottom leg almost fully, and bent the top leg. From the angle he would paint this, her puffy, drooling pussy would be visible. He smiled to himself. Wouldn’t that make people wonder. He imagined mixing titanium white and payne gray to make that silvery sheen that gilded her inner labia, her just barely visible inner thigh.
“Remember this position, slut. You’ll be spending a lot of time in it.”
The room filled with the sounds of new age music. It always amazed her that he painted to harps and violins. He was way more of a rock’n roll guy out in the world, but in here, he drew in the soothing harmonies.
She fell asleep to the soft crooning voice whispering harmonics.
He painted the bones of her, setting the positions, fixing the hues he wanted in his head. He knew he could paint this blind, now. The colors, the play of light he wanted, all fixed firmly in his inner vision.
He removed the canvas from the easel. Quietly he put another in its place, smaller than the first. This would be an experiment. With a wicked grin on his face, he took up a bottle of tempera paint in each hand. He flicked each lid open, a gunslinger preparing his weapon. He started at her feet, pouring a thin stream across her toes, then back further up her leg.
She twitched a bit, but remained asleep. Straddling her, he poured a generous stream up her thigh and across her belly.
She woke with a “yip” of shock.
He threw back his head and laughed his wicked, sexy laugh.
She’d been admonished to not move, something she remembered as she prepared to kick out her feet. He was laughing but the Beast was alive and well in him now.
“What the fuck, Master?” she asked, her voice sleepy, her words slurry with it.
“Told you I was going to paint you today,” he said with amusement, and so I shall.
She lay, trying to not wriggle away, as he continued to pour stream after stream of paint on her. A variety of colors dripped and oozed over her, from apple red streaks on her tits, to kelly green across her face.
She was striped, swirled, dripping.
It was cold, and it tickled as it slid down her curvy body. A particularly sinister line of it rolled down her asscheek, found her crack and began a slow and torturous roll up her crack to the small of her back. She wanted to rub at it, it tickled so.
“Masterrrr…please, you’re killing me here,” she moaned at last. He shot her a look of pure lust.
And splatted her pussy with yellow.
He disappeared behind his canvas then, and she heard the scritching of brush against canvas as he painted like a fury. She felt the paint begin to dry on her, and wondered if it would leave colored marks on her skin.
That would be fun to explain to Margi at the bank tomorrow, she mused.
He was staring at her from the side of his canvas. She blinked.
“Roll, slut. Like when you were a kid and rolled down the hill. Roll.”
She rolled, the paint that had dried cracking away, some sticking to the canvas in large blops. The lines and spatters moved across the canvas with her body, the lines thick and thin by turns. Her pussy made a brilliant triangle as she rolled, and her hair, also adorned, drew slim tendrils of color.
She reached the end, dizzy, giddy, giggling. His foot stopped her. She looked up at him, eyes wide. He was naked, his cock jutting from his belly.
He straddled her body, dropping into a push-up form, his engorged glans just touching her.
“Open for me, slut.”
She drew her knees up, spreading her legs the way she knew he liked. He speared into her, no words, no touching, just cock into cunt. His hands braced on the floor, he lay planked above her not touching her any more than where his shaft disappeared into the well of her body.
And then he dropped. He fucked into her hole, hard, frantic thrusts. She came, fast and intensely. His arms came around her and he rolled back across the canvas. Her liquid sex smeared with wet gobs of paint, slashing across buttocks and thighs as he rolled, paused, thrusted deep.
He palmed her tits, squeezing hard, and she arched up into that painful grip.
He released her, and flattened his hands on the canvas, framing her head. Kissing her hard, he slowed his rhythm, matching the flowing sounds from the stereo. Long, rich, slow strokes brought her to orgasm twice more before he slipped off of her, rolling her to her belly.
“Roll,” he growled, his voice thick with want.
She rolled twice, landing once more, belly down on the canvas. He rolled to her, his markings dragging and softening hers. He laid atop her back, pressing into her.
“Rise up that ass for me, slut, up on your knees, head down.”
She felt her cheek pressing kelly green into the nubbly surface of the canvas, then lost that feeling as he took her hard from behind.
And he pulled away before she came.
Moaning her frustration, she gave a short, sharp shriek as the splatter of cold paint hit her mid-back. One color, then another, until she lost count. The heat in her pussy grew as she understood that now she was brush and canvas to him, sex and creative force commingled.
She rolled until he stopped her with a foot. Looking up, she saw him, paint smeared on chest, cheek, cock. She smiled, opening her legs to him.
He painted her with his colors, blending and shading them until it was hard to see where one started and the other continued.
They were one, rolling on the canvas.
When he came, at long last, they lay, limp and sated, a trail of sex honey leaking from them both.
She lay on her belly, he on his back beside her, hands linked. She smiled at him.
He looked back.
“Roll,” she said, her grin wide.
Laughing, he did, as little spurts pressed from his softened dick, and painted the canvas with the last of his seed.
They stood at the gallery in Denver. The over large canvas took up a full wall. She peered at the title on the small placard that gave the details of the work.
tempera on canvas, (c) 2011 by Matt Foxx. Painterly style, Bodies in Motion.
She laughed, a sound that rang out around the gallery, drawing appreciative attention from other patrons.
“One of my favorite pieces,” Matt said to a large, almost overbearing patroness, as she oohed and aahed over the ‘masterful use of color, the strokes boldly visible as was the norm for Painterly Style work.
“Strokes indeed, with a unique signature from the artist,” she thought with a grin.