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Married to the Craft

Natasha admired the artists of the past, many of them resorting to insanity for the sake of their craft. These men and women dedicated themselves to their muses. She too considered herself a tradesman of the craft.

—Seduction | Lust | Mouth Acrobatics—

You name it, and she does it with a devilish flick of her tongue like a certified madwoman. However, she wasn't severing her ear off like Van Gogh, now that was insane. She did find herself sorta relating to Picasso in a way, except her guns were live, and no one at the end of her barrel ever lived on to tell the story. Frida Kahlo too, the woman who channeled her pain into art; Natasha got that—she'd never known what love was until she met you, and so now she stays burrowed.

The point being, she understood the madness, it was a thrilling thing to be inspired all in the name of a muse.

Which is why she was lying between the silky smooth legs of her living easel, it is what held the canvas she'd recycled countless of times in place. She'd never bore of the way it would differ in shade the longer that she played with it. With her tongue, or her fingers, or a mix of the both, it didn't exactly matter as she remained sloppy and carried you with an expertise to ecstasy.

Natasha loved to hold you still as she gave you bliss, with ruby red ropes tied around your strained limbs, and with her hands firmed against your hips. Only she could give you pleasure, you couldn't even chase it, you were at her pitiless mercy. Her head was shaking at an insanely fast pace, if you weren't so lost in the pleasure of her animalistic approach you'd be worried about the likely strain to her neck. Luckily the redhead kept you busy as you moaned expletives out into the toasty air of your far away little cottage, many a fire roaring inside.

There was no stopping her, the redhead pushed you well beyond your limits. Too lost in the haze of you that she couldn't even hear your low pleas for her to stop. Everything ached, your taut muscles, the gut that had been twisted into knots countless times, and your puffy irritated pussy that craved reprieve. You'd lost count of your orgasms around the tenth— your limbs trembled, and your thighs had tried to close around her head but the restraints kept your natural defenses at bay.

The sounds that filled the room riddled with the stench of sex were Natasha's encouragement to get even crazier and in the end those cries were your downfall.

Your moans were no longer auditory, throat too dry from your never ending screaming to produce the sounds now. Natasha's tongue was numb, but she didn't care to stop, not until her face was coated in your delectability. It was never enough just to taste you for the hours to come, she wanted—no, she needed to smell you against her pillow in the afternoon when she woke up. Her every pore needed to be filled with you, she just wouldn't be able to fall asleep until her hair was coated in delicate patches of a glistening white.

You could feel it against your forehead as her reddened face hovered yours, you sighed in relief against her face, helping to cool her down some. Once she had felt a little more sober, not entirely still drunk on you, but just desperate enough for another taste she kissed you. Her tongue lethargically entered your mouth, and you both moaned at the experience. Your teeth scraped against the sore receptors on her muscle, and you tasted a hint of what's made the redhead an addict.

You understood, there was nothing more rewarding than leaving a person satisfied with just your tongue, it was everything that you needed, but couldn't have. The redhead untied you then fell into the crumpled sheets with a graceless thud, and with her hands on your hips. She effortlessly flipped you on top of her, she settled in then titled your chin up onto her chest and delicately kissed your saccharine lips, then smiled contentedly.

A smile graced your face too as you drifted off to sleep, the redhead pulled the blanket over your bodies and went to sleep satisfied. Well, not entirely, but she knew you'd make good on your promise come morning time.

It's why she let you sleep instead of bathe, plus, she had a thing for the unique must that came in the morning. You called her a freak once; she didn't care.

An artist wouldn't be doing something right without a critic she'd muse, then she'd pull you in and remind you exactly why she was a master in the art of you.

Come morning you'd be a freak too...