Sitting naked on a stool, my legs spread in front of my husband and a stranger who has been painting me for the past few weeks.
In this new position, the artist can discern every little detail of me. He can notice my swollen lips and the glittering of my wetness on them, too. I confess it excites me more than I thought.
I accepted to be a model for my husband’s painting course because I wanted to help him. I didn’t think much about the consequences, about the eyes of those men and women on ...
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