Desiree slipped off her silk kimono. It hit the floor slowly, looking like a pale pink blossom falling from a cherry tree. Clothed in the silk kimono she was stunning; naked, she was magnificent.

Desiree stepped into the puddle of light that streamed through the huge, slanted windows of the Artist's studio. She was very tall, almost 6 feet, and had worked as a model for some years. Her kinky hair was cropped close to her delicate skull, almost shaved, and her black skin shone like polished mahogany. The Artist observed her from behind his large pad of paper, a chalky conte crayon in his hand.

She waited for him to emerge from behind the easel so that he could position her, but he stood there for a few minutes longer, delighted with the perfection of her form. He loved the vigor, the unspoken tension in the muscles of her long legs. She could have been a runner from a hot and dusty African country. He reveled in the swell and curve of her buttocks and the taut length of her belly. If you looked closely, as he always did, you could see tiny and delicate stretch marks from when she had borne her children. Her badges of honor.

The Artist's eyes moved to the long sweep of her arms and her swan-like neck. He lingered finally on the perfect, soft-tipped cones of her breasts and the elegant sweep of jaw line and cheekbone. He loved her name. Desiree. One who is desired. Yes. It was perfect for her.

Inspiration hit him somewhere between his eyes and flashed through his chest and belly to settle, throbbing, in his groin. He knew now the pose he wanted today and stepped from behind the easel, walking towards her with confidence and purpose.

Passion radiated from him, passion for his art and desire for her too, all mixed up into one fertile jumble in his being. He grasped her hand as he reached her, giving it a little squeeze. His stage contained several large plywood cubes covered with foam padding that he stacked into a shape that pleased him. Then he threw a large piece of thick white velvet over them to give it drape and texture. He loved the contrast of the white velvet against the dark silk of Desiree's skin.

He positioned her on her back, knees bent, arms stretched out over her head. The Artist stood back and eyed her for a moment, liking what he saw. He thrilled to the curve of her back and the sweep of her calf muscles, looking rich and lush against the velvet. It was a good pose. Dramatic enough, but not too uncomfortable for her to hold for the hour it would take him to complete his study.

The light hit her exactly right, he thought as he went back to his easel and made a few bold, powerful marks with the charcoal. Pausing every few seconds to look at her, his eyes were drawn again and again to her open legs. Her pussy was as beautiful as the rest of her. He loved the brown outer leaves with their close-cropped hair parted slightly to reveal the soft pink inner layers. She looked like a shell, he thought, and gloried in the exquisite architecture of her pussy, capturing it all with his charcoal pencil. He emptied his mind, let the inspiration take him over until he was gone and there was only line and shade, form and rhythm on the paper. His blood throbbed in his veins, making his upper lip bead with sweat and his cock swell in his baggy, paint-stained trousers. He almost had it. There was just one thing left to do.

Desiree enjoyed lying there. It was like she was trapped in her own little http://www.redtube.com/ production. The sun streamed through the window, warming her skin, and it was nice to take a minute out of her busy day to just to empty her mind and fully occupy her body. She felt her muscles lengthen and relax. The pose was comfortable and erotic too. Her legs were wide open and the drafts from the big open room blew across the outer folds of her pussy. She felt exposed lying there with her legs wide open and she could feel the Artist's eyes on her. She could feel his gaze brush her breasts and linger on her open and hungry pussy.

Hmmm. Hungry. Yes. It was easy to let her imagination flow down there, all her awareness on the Artist's impassioned concentration. The thought of him brought a little heat to her checks and a flush to her open pussy. His passion, flowing to her from across the room, stirred her.

She considered him. He was very young, almost ten years junior to her thirty-five and so white he was almost translucent. As white as the velvet drape she was lying on. Desiree thought he probably didn't spend too much time in the sun. His skin, draped over hers would have the same contrast. The heat flowed faster into her belly and groin.