The Artist and His Muse continued from Bathed

I luxuriate in the pose, allowing myself to get wetter and wetter. I hear his pencil on the paper and know it is my form he draws. I sigh and settle only able to see the tiniest part of him. For some time I wait content. Then frustration enters me. My aching becomes an itch I must scratch. The pencil is scratching on the paper when I want friction on my clit or against my body. I calm and remind myself of our agreement… but I want that cock I have tasted to penetrate me, to slide in where his fingers have paved the way. I desire, my desire becomes stretching to elongate my form. I am posed poised for penetration yet I cannot bear the wait.

Irritable now I wait, knowing his are eyes upon me, drinking me in. His fingers…