the wet muse

Rain was the perfect weather to walk around in. I loved watching the people scurry into their houses, afraid of getting wet. But you didn’t seem afraid of it sitting on the bench waiting for the bus. You seemed resigned to being soaked by circumstance, your white shirt clinging to you as he stared at the street in front of you. No eyes scanning down the street for the perpetually off schedule bus or staring at your phone. You didn’t hug yourself trying to stave off the chill. Perhaps you weren’t chilled.

I stopped beside you. “Are you sure the bus is coming?”

“Of course it is,” you snapped.

“Okay, because if you want, my place is around the corner and you look about my size. I’ll drive you home after you get dry.”

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

I walked around the block and when I returned you were still waiting. This time when I arrived, you wrapped your arms around yourself. You jumped to your feet as I approached. “You could just drive me home.”

“I have an unusual request.”

Your hand tugged your wet, dirty blond hair. “What?”

“I want to draw you.”

“Draw me?”

“I’m an artist and you are beautiful.” My eyes scrolled over your body. “I’m not asking you to pose for hours for a portrait, a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes for a quick sketch.”

“What will you do with it?”

I shrugged. “No plans, but I’ve been uninspired for a while. I have something cute for you to wear. If you want. Naked works too.”

“Is this something you do regularly? Walk around and pick up women to draw?”

“No, I usually draw people I know or models. Or people I imagine. I enjoy walking around in the rain and watching people react.”

Your shoulders dropped, seeming to believe my honest confession. “How do they react?”

“Mostly run from it, like mice. But you sat there accepting your fate. Do you want my coat?” I started to pull it off.

“You are hiding from the rain under your coat,” you counter.

I stop and pull the coat back on. “Suit yourself.”

“No, I’m grumpy about the bus. It’s late, but never this late.”

We walked, making small talk, you worked at the bar we passed. You put on my jacket snuggling into it and I enjoyed the cool rain slowly dampening my black clothes.

“So you’re like an eccentric artist? Walking around in the rain, randomly asking women to pose?”

“Yep, I’m quite successful so I can do whatever I feel like.” I stopped in front of my building. “We’ve arrived.”

“You live above a bakery. Are you successful?”

“Not enough to buy a penthouse, just enough to be weird.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tempest Cedersage Smith.”

“Smith?” You snorted.

“The normals require you to have a last name. My parents swear I was switched at birth with a fairy. They named me something mundane, but when I turned four, I renamed myself.”

“You named yourself Tempest at four?”

“No, I named myself Dazzle flash. There was a pony phase. Tempest came at sixteen when I had my first exhibit. Anyway, what about you?”

“Just boring old Brittney.”

You were my first Brittney. Truth was, I achieved enough that I bought two penthouses, but I found rich people boring and paranoid. They can afford to be. Working people are desperate and easier to influence.

I opened the door to my apartment. Remodeled to my specifications and sparsely decorated. Statues artist friends slash lovers have created for me. Paintings hung on the wall stopped you cold as you turned in a circle. “I didn’t mention I create erotic art, did I?” Every art piece was nudes and people fucking.

“I’ll go back to the bus stop.”

“I won’t ask you to get naked. Seems presumptuous of a woman I met at a bus stop ten minutes ago. I love the way your wet shirt clings to your body. It’s a great study on the human form. The way it molds to your breasts and hips.”

“I’m afraid it’s dried under your warm coat. You may be out of luck.” Your mouth tips at the corners. A smirk? Cute, bratty, as if you have control.

“I can arrange for you to be wet again.” Eyebrows raised, our eyes meet in a standoff of wills. “I have a steam shower in my bathroom, take off the jacket and show me how dry.”

Your eyes back down as you unzipped the jacket, and revealed your shirt damp, but no longer clinging like a second skin. That won’t work for my plan. I gestured to the picture of two women, one with her legs spread apart, the other’s head between her legs. “I promise to make you look as good as Willow does in this painting.”

“The woman with her head down has hair like yours. Self portrait?”

“Willow and I were lovers. She was a sculptor, though.” I looked around the room and found the statute of us in a passionate embrace. “That’s hers.”

Your eyes returned to the painting. “Okay. Let’s get me wet so I can be immortalized in art.”

“Good girl,” I murmured, taking your hand and pulling you to my bathroom. “If we have a little trust, you can take off your pants, because soaking jeans are super uncomfortable. Let it get your hair too.”

As I exited, I snuck a glance over my shoulder and you were unbuttoning your jeans. I closed the door and waited, the shower turned on and off. “Need a towel so I don’t drip all over.”

“Drip it’s fine. I can deal with a little water for my art.”

“Let me put my jeans on.”

“No need, I promise I’m not a pervert.”

You exited the bathroom, dripping, the white shirt clinging so tight it showed your black bra underneath and little black panties. Fuck, you were no longer the only one who was wet. My panties squished to my art room, where I posed you on a chair, then sat across from you with my sketch pad. I stayed close so you could see what I was drawing. First timers are often anxious about how they look, and I wanted to put you at ease for the next step.

Twenty minutes later, the drawing was done and I flipped it around to show you. “What do you think?”

“You made me look better than I am. It’s amazing.”

“You are amazing. I’m glad I went for that walk and found you.”

“What if the bus had arrived?”

“I would have drawn you anyway, but it wouldn’t have been as detailed. I would have searched weeks for you.” Setting the sketch aside, I patted your bare knee. “Anyway, If you return to the bathroom you can take your clothes off and I’ll bring you something dry.”

Your eyes were on the painting of Willow as we walked through the house again. Then the other nudes on my walls, all women. I drifted so you could take in the masturbatory scene in my hallway, self-portrait again. Painted from many sessions of self-pleasure.

I dropped you in the bathroom without a backward glance, promised to return with clothes soon. Not sure how I would enact the second part of my plan, but sure it would come together. Or you would leave, but I would find you again and seduce you then.

I knocked on the door, then didn’t hesitate to push it open. If you wanted to keep me out, you could have locked it. You bent over drying your hair and your shirt and bra lay on the counter. Perfect, you started without me. “Here dry clothes.”

You stood up with a gasp, then tried to pull the towel over your bare chest. “Oh well.”

I moved closer, putting my hands over yours. “No need to hide. I’d love to see what you look like under the wet clothes. It still left too much to my imagination and mine is overdeveloped.”

Your tongue swiped your lips and your eyes darted nervously. “I have a boyfriend,” you hedged.

“No college girl-girl experiments?”

Your head shook. “Just guys.”

I’d be your first lesbian. “I don’t mind the challenge.” Laughing, I threw my head back. “Just kidding, Brittney. My interest is purely artistic.”

That allowed me to work the towel from your fingers. Small breasts, with perfect nipples in the center. If you jumped, they’d barely jiggle, and the pink blush of them was beautiful. “Nothing much to see.” Your hands crossed over your chest.

I moved behind you and nudged you to the mirror where I pulled your hands away. “Look how fucking beautiful you are.” My fingers circled the centers and they tightened. “So responsive, I bet your boyfriend loves to play with them.”

“I guess….”

“You guess? Tsk tsk.” I continued to tease them until you relaxed your head back against my shoulder. “Have you ever looked at your pussy in a mirror?”

“No.” Your whole body shook the no out to me.

“No? Come on, I have a mirror in my bedroom just to watch my self-pleasure.”

“That seems… how?”

“It’s the ultimate hedonism. I was nervous at first. Now it’s the only way I play. By myself or with others.” I turned on the lights in my bedroom that glow only over the bed, the rest I leave in shadows. I have a complex system that can make my entire bedroom an art studio.

You were shaking, but I rubbed my hands along your arms, murmuring in a soothing tone. I kissed your neck and shoulders, and you relaxed, so I kissed your mouth. “But I’ve never…” you said in a weak protest.

“I know, let me show you. Women are perfect because we are both soft.”

Your mouth moved over mine and you let my tongue in, matching my movements. My hands teased your breasts, then down your torso, I pressed between your legs and you arched against me, wanting more. So greedy… I kept the thought to myself as I was greedy for you too. It had been too long since I tasted innocence.

I tugged your panties down and knelt before you to remove them. I wanted to kiss you again, to part your pussy with my tongue and show you what women were capable of. Not yet, this had to be slow. Instead, I sat on the bed and pulled you down with me in front of my pleasure mirror. You didn’t fight when I parted your thighs, my fingers petted the soft fur covering your pussy. “Are you looking at yourself?”

Your head shook again. “I can’t.”

“Look, at how gorgeous you are. Everyone in the world loves this view.” My fingers parted your lips, exposing the soft velvet within and the throb of your clit. “Every pussy is unique and sexy.” My finger brushed over the silk, gathering the drops of moisture.

“It’s still… uncomfortable, I guess.”

“Watch as I touch you.” I brushed the pad of my wet finger over your clit, and in the mirror I saw it grow under my touch. Your body squirmed, fighting that you wanted more of me. “I’d love to draw your pussy. It is my favorite thing to draw. I want to do an exhibit of only pussies.”

“Later?” you moaned, your back arching.

“Have you ever tasted yourself?” I withdrew my fingers and swiped them over your lips. “Have a taste, pet.” Your tongue swiped out and licked my fingers, another moan rumbled from your chest.

“My turn.” I eased out from under you and knelt on the floor. With my hands under your ass, I licked your fuzzy slit, then the soft velvet inside, moaning with pleasure. I knew you were on edge, so I focused on your clit, until you collapsed back on the bed, your thighs tense on my head as you trembled.

While you recovered your breath, I stripped my clothes off and crawled over you. We kissed now, and I brought your hands to my breasts, showing you how to touch me. Your fingers shook as they swiped at my flesh.

“Thinking of your boyfriend?” I asked.

You nodded as I kissed your fingertips. “I should go.”

“Thought so, but I promise next time he can watch.” I brought your hand between my thighs and somehow the soft skin against your calloused fingers erased your tentativeness. You took control and rubbed my pussy like a seasoned professional, your fingers found my clit and watched my face while you rubbed the right rhythm of my pleasure.

More kissing, while I failed to control myself from riding your fingers to orgasm. You tried to withdraw as I clenched on your fingers, but I grabbed your hand. “Inside me, fuck me with them,” I begged.

The tentativeness had returned, and I helped you push two into my cunt. I rubbed your clit, and thrust together, mouths fused while we fucked in a mess of body parts contorted for mutual pleasure. I exploded first, fireworks of bliss snapping in my nerves, tingling from head to toe. You moaned and clenched on my hand as I shouted, fucking my hand as you climaxed so fucking beautifully.

I opened you to the mirror before leaving to get a towel to clean up. When I came back you were examining your pussy, fingers pulling you apart the sticky mess we’d made. I wiped your hands and thighs and you yawned while I pulled my shirt over your head. “It’s late, you should sleep a bit before I drive you.”

“I should get home.”

“Do you live with this boyfriend?”

“No.”

“A room mate?” You shook your head. “No reason to rush out. Just sleep a bit, I promise I won’t kiss you when you wake.”

I pulled the blankets over you and laid beside you until you were breathing softly. Then I eased from the bed and grabbed my sketchpad, drawing us in all the positions until the morning came. And I didn’t kiss you when you woke, but you crawled onto my lap where I sat beside the bed, papers all around me, and you kissed me. And you never left. The boyfriend became history and you became my muse.

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