The Muse

Daisy Taylor walks up the long driveway in a campus newspaper, the red marker circle still wet on the ad she answered. She spots Siri Dahl already waiting on the steps, hips cocked, eyes like a dare. They kiss cheeks and Daisy’s pulse jumps straight to her cock. Inside, Siri has laid out a silk robe and a sheer set that barely covers the big tits she plans to paint. Daisy changes fast, sits down, knees shaking. Siri starts mixing oils, tells her how to tilt, how to spread. Every direction feels like foreplay. Daisy peels the robe off one shoulder, then the other. Siri’s brush keeps moving, but her stare is the real heat. Soon the lingerie’s on the floor too. Daisy’s cock is hard and leaking, and Siri licks her lips like she’s tasting color already. She drops to her knees, paints Daisy’s shaft with slow strokes of her tongue, then swings her red hair over her shoulder and climbs aboard. They lock into a sloppy sixty-nine, Siri’s thick thighs framing Daisy’s face while her mouth takes every inch. Daisy’s tongue works deeper with every moan Siri gives her. They roll, grind, trade places, tongues and fingers trading paint for spit. Daisy discovers her own rhythm, gripping Siri’s tattooed hips and driving up into that slick heat until both of them shake like the canvas they forgot to finish.