Artemesia - Part 1

Artemesia isn’t the type to follow rules. Women aren’t supposed to crave it like she does, but she’s got a gallery full of portraits calling to her and she drops every inch of clothing the moment Paul hangs the first one. Thomas makes it look easy—he drips oil on those painted curves until every breast glistens, every pair of thighs parts just enough to be a question. In his studio the 1600s aren’t behind him; they’re between her knees. She rides the arm of his chair the second he looks away, hips grinding paint-smeared wood while paintings of naked ladies watch like an audience that already knows what she’s after. No whispers tonight—only the slick, wet noise she makes when she spreads and touches herself to the curve of a painted cunt that could almost belong to her. Lights low, skirts up, pulse racing: seventeen centuries hasn’t killed the kink and tonight Artemesia proves it.