The Muse

Daisy Taylor steps onto the estate grounds with a folded campus paper clutched in her fist, red circle screaming for her attention. Her pulse jumps when she sees Siri Dahl already waiting by the entrance, silk blouse open at the collar, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Siri moves forward and kisses both cheeks. Heat sears straight down Daisy’s spine. “Ready to be my muse?” Siri asks, and grabs Daisy’s hand before she can answer. Daisy only nods, heartbeat so loud she’s sure Siri hears it. Inside, silk robe and lace lingerie sit waiting on a leather bench. Daisy peels out of her clothes, slips the robe on, sits. Siri studies her like prey that offered itself. Every brushstroke pulls another button loose, another shiver from Daisy’s skin. Heat climbs with each glance. Daisy lets the robe fall. Her cock springs free, flushed and aching. Siri’s eyes darken. Paintbrush hits the floor. Siri drops to her knees and licks a slow stripe from base to tip. Daisy’s head tips back; her fingers knot in Siri’s hair. The artist moans around her length, worship written in every swallow. Daisy grows bolder, fucks forward, uses Siri’s throat like a second canvas. Siri’s tongue works every inch until Daisy’s legs shake. Then Siri rises, shoves her own blouse aside, straps on a harness thick with silicone, and bends Daisy over the chaise. She drives in hard. Daisy cries out, fists the cushion, pushes back for more. Their bodies slap in wet rhythm, sweat gleaming under the skylight. Siri’s hand circles Daisy’s cock and strokes in time, milking her until she spills hot across the leather. Siri keeps thrusting through the aftershocks, biting Daisy’s shoulder like a claim. They finish tangled, breath ragged, limbs slick, two masterpieces rewritten in cum and paint.