“You’re trembling,” she whispered, her voice a husky melody against the damp skin of his thigh. Her fingers, slick with his own pre-cum, tightened their rhythmic pull at the base of his balls. “Let it go. Roam.”Stephen’s world had dissolved into a white-hot point of sensation, a geyser building pressure in his core. Every muscle in his body was a taut wire, vibrating with the relentless, expert suction of her mouth on his prostate. He couldn’t speak. He could only feel—a seismic, shuddering release tearing through him.*The bell had rung thirty minutes earlier, a sharp, intrusive sound in his quiet studio.Stephen opened the door, and the air changed. She stood there, a vision in a skintight blouse that plunged just enough to hint at the soft, braless swell beneath, and jeans that clung to her like a second skin. The high black boots added a formidable, elegant height. Her dark curls framed a face of startling, friendly beauty, with large, entrancing eyes that seemed to drink in the dim light of his hallway.“Stephen Lorn?” she asked, her smile playful, confident. “I’m Lucy. I saw your ad. About the bronzes?”“Of course. Please, come in.” He stepped aside, his gaze involuntarily tracing the line of her body as she passed. She carried a scent—jasmine and something warmer, spicier.His studio was a curated chaos of art, dominated by several draped figures on pedestals. Lucy’s eyes went straight to them, a spark of genuine interest lighting her features. “Oh, you have them covered. Like they’re shy.”“A form of respect,” Stephen said, falling into the smooth, measured cadence of his practice. “The unveiling is part of the ritual. The form revealed is a dialogue between artist, subject, and observer.”She turned to him, that impish smile playing on her lips. “I’d love to have a dialogue. My boyfriend… he appreciates form. The human form. I thought a nude bronze might… speak to him.”“An excellent choice,” Stephen said, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate. He moved to the first pedestal. “The body in bronze is eternal. Frozen, yet alive with potential energy. Every curve a captured breath, every line a story of tension and release.” As he spoke, he felt a familiar heat begin to pool in his gut. Her presence was a physical thing, a vibration in the room.He pulled the drape. The figure was a woman in a dynamic twist, one arm flung over her head, breasts proud and nipples meticulously detailed.Lucy stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his arm. A jolt, electric and deliberate. “She’s magnificent,” Lucy breathed, a sigh that seemed to come from deep within her. “So… free. You can almost feel the movement, can’t you? The life in her.”“Precisely,” Stephen murmured, his eyes on Lucy’s profile, not the statue. “The art is in suggesting the kinetic within the static. The wanting within the stillness.”Her finger, tipped with a neat, clear polish, reached out and traced the air an inch from the bronze abdomen. “It makes me wonder… what it would feel like. The cool metal… the warm skin underneath.” She glanced at him, her eyes wide and innocent, yet holding a universe of knowledge. “Is that strange?”“Not at all,” he said, his own breath shortening. “It’s a somatic echo. The mind mirroring the form’s intent.” He unveiled another, a reclining figure with legs parted in a languid, inviting pose.Lucy’s breath hitched, a soft, audible sound. “Oh my.” She leaned in, her cleavage pressing against the edge of the pedestal as she peered at the intricate detail between the statue’s thighs. “The artist didn’t shy away from anything, did he?”“True art embraces totality,” Stephen said, his voice thickening. He was painfully hard now, confined in his trousers. Her “innocent” observations were arrows finding their mark. “The vulva is a sculptural masterpiece—folds, shadows, a geometry of profound sensitivity.”“A geometry of pleasure,” Lucy corrected softly, turning her head to look up at him. Her lips were parted. She was so close he could see the faint pulse in her throat. Her hand, as if by accident, settled on his forearm. The contact was electric. “You explain it so… vividly. It’s like you’re not just describing art. You’re describing a feeling.”The hypnotic pattern of his own speech was now wrapping around him, fueled by her proximity. “The feeling… is the art. The arousal of the observer completes the circuit. Energy seeks its conduit.”Her fingers slid down his arm to his wrist, her thumb pressing into his palm. “Show me,” she whispered, her gaze locked on his. “Not the bronze. The… conduit.”It wasn’t a question. It was a command wrapped in silk.Clothes became a forgotten language. His shirt, her blouse, the skintight jeans peeled away from her endless legs, the boots remaining, stark and powerful against her nakedness. She was slimmer than he’d imagined, her body a poem of elegant lines and soft, tempting curves. She guided him to a deep, velvet-draped divan.“Lie back,” she said, and the girlish charm was gone, replaced by the serene command of a goddess. He obeyed, his cock standing rigid against his stomach.She didn’t mount him. Instead, she knelt over his face, one boot planted on the cushion by his hip, the other on the floor. The scent of her, musky and sweet, filled his senses. “The dialogue continues,” she murmured, lowering herself until her wet, bare folds were a breath from his mouth. “Observe. Interpret.”He needed no further invitation. His tongue found her, a flat, broad stroke from perineum to clit. She gasped, a genuine, shuddering sound, and her hands fisted in his hair. He dove in, feasting, his world narrowing to taste and sound and the desperate, bucking rhythm of her hips. He licked and sucked, tracing the “geometry” he’d lectured about, finding the hidden nodes of pleasure that made her cry out.Her control was absolute. Even lost in sensation, one of her hands drifted down his body. Her cool fingers encircled the base of his cock, a firm, possessive ring. Her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them, tugging gently with a rhythm that counterpointed the thrust of his tongue.“Yes… just like that… you understand the form so well,” she moaned, grinding against his mouth. “The energy… it’s flowing… can you feel it building?”He could. In her, and in himself. The pressure under her skilled manipulation was immense, a coil wound to breaking. Her moans became sharper, her thighs clamping against his head. “I’m close… so close… but I want to see you…”With a wet, sucking sound, she pulled herself off his face. Before he could protest, she had turned, sliding down his body. In a fluid motion, she took his aching cock into her mouth, swallowing him deep, then releasing him with a pop. But that wasn’t her goal.She pushed his legs apart, her eyes gleaming with siren-like intensity. “The ultimate release isn’t always here,” she whispered, her breath hot on his inner thigh. Her thumb pressed behind his balls. “It’s here. The source. Let me liberate you.”Her mouth found his perineum, licking, then her finger, slick with her own arousal, pressed insistently at his tight ring. He was too far gone to resist, lost in her hypnotic web. With a gentle, relentless pressure, she entered him.The sensation was blinding, a direct line to the core of his pleasure. She began to move her finger, a slow, curling motion, searching. When she found his prostate, she pressed.Oh god.His back arched off the divan. She sealed her mouth over him, sucking rhythmically, her finger milking that exquisite, internal node with terrifying expertise. Her other hand never stopped its work on his cock and balls, a symphony of overstimulation.“Now,” she commanded, her voice muffled against his skin. “Roam like a lion. Squirt for me.”The orgasm didn’t crest. It erupted. It was not a series of pulses but a continuous, scalding geyser, tearing through him with violent, seismic force. He roared, his body convulsing, trembling as if seized by a divine electricity. He felt it—the roaming, alien intensity, the endless squirting release, his vision whiting out as he shook uncontrollably beneath her masterful, consuming touch.

“You’re trembling,” she whispered, her voice a husky melody against the damp skin of his thigh. Her fingers, slick with his own pre-cum, tightened their rhythmic pull at the base of his balls. “Let it go. _Roam._”

Stephen’s world had dissolved into a white-hot point of sensation, a geyser building pressure in his core. Every muscle in his body was a taut wire, vibrating with the relentless, expert suction of her mouth on his prostate. He couldn’t speak. He could only feel—a seismic, shuddering release tearing through him.

***

The bell had rung thirty minutes earlier, a sharp, intrusive sound in his quiet studio.

Stephen opened the door, and the air changed. She stood there, a vision in a skintight blouse that plunged just enough to hint at the soft, braless swell beneath, and jeans that clung to her like a second skin. The high black boots added a formidable, elegant height. Her dark curls framed a face of startling, friendly beauty, with large, entrancing eyes that seemed to drink in the dim light of his hallway.

“Stephen Lorn?” she asked, her smile playful, confident. “I’m Lucy. I saw your ad. About the bronzes?”

“Of course. Please, come in.” He stepped aside, his gaze involuntarily tracing the line of her body as she passed. She carried a scent—jasmine and something warmer, spicier.

His studio was a curated chaos of art, dominated by several draped figures on pedestals. Lucy’s eyes went straight to them, a spark of genuine interest lighting her features. “Oh, you have them covered. Like they’re shy.”

“A form of respect,” Stephen said, falling into the smooth, measured cadence of his practice. “The unveiling is part of the ritual. The form revealed is a dialogue between artist, subject, and observer.”

She turned to him, that impish smile playing on her lips. “I’d love to have a dialogue. My boyfriend… he appreciates form. The human form. I thought a nude bronze might… speak to him.”

“An excellent choice,” Stephen said, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate. He moved to the first pedestal. “The body in bronze is eternal. Frozen, yet alive with potential energy. Every curve a captured breath, every line a story of tension and release.” As he spoke, he felt a familiar heat begin to pool in his gut. Her presence was a physical thing, a vibration in the room.

He pulled the drape. The figure was a woman in a dynamic twist, one arm flung over her head, breasts proud and nipples meticulously detailed.

Lucy stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his arm. A jolt, electric and deliberate. “She’s magnificent,” Lucy breathed, a sigh that seemed to come from deep within her. “So… free. You can almost feel the movement, can’t you? The _life_ in her.”

“Precisely,” Stephen murmured, his eyes on Lucy’s profile, not the statue. “The art is in suggesting the kinetic within the static. The _wanting_ within the stillness.”

Her finger, tipped with a neat, clear polish, reached out and traced the air an inch from the bronze abdomen. “It makes me wonder… what it would feel like. The cool metal… the warm skin underneath.” She glanced at him, her eyes wide and innocent, yet holding a universe of knowledge. “Is that strange?”

“Not at all,” he said, his own breath shortening. “It’s a somatic echo. The mind mirroring the form’s intent.” He unveiled another, a reclining figure with legs parted in a languid, inviting pose.

Lucy’s breath hitched, a soft, audible sound. “Oh my.” She leaned in, her cleavage pressing against the edge of the pedestal as she peered at the intricate detail between the statue’s thighs. “The artist didn’t shy away from anything, did he?”

“True art embraces totality,” Stephen said, his voice thickening. He was painfully hard now, confined in his trousers. Her “innocent” observations were arrows finding their mark. “The vulva is a sculptural masterpiece—folds, shadows, a geometry of profound sensitivity.”

“A geometry of pleasure,” Lucy corrected softly, turning her head to look up at him. Her lips were parted. She was so close he could see the faint pulse in her throat. Her hand, as if by accident, settled on his forearm. The contact was electric. “You explain it so… vividly. It’s like you’re not just describing art. You’re describing a _feeling_.”

The hypnotic pattern of his own speech was now wrapping around him, fueled by her proximity. “The feeling… is the art. The _arousal_ of the observer completes the circuit. Energy seeks its conduit.”

Her fingers slid down his arm to his wrist, her thumb pressing into his palm. “Show me,” she whispered, her gaze locked on his. “Not the bronze. The… conduit.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command wrapped in silk.

Clothes became a forgotten language. His shirt, her blouse, the skintight jeans peeled away from her endless legs, the boots remaining, stark and powerful against her nakedness. She was slimmer than he’d imagined, her body a poem of elegant lines and soft, tempting curves. She guided him to a deep, velvet-draped divan.

“Lie back,” she said, and the girlish charm was gone, replaced by the serene command of a goddess. He obeyed, his cock standing rigid against his stomach.

She didn’t mount him. Instead, she knelt over his face, one boot planted on the cushion by his hip, the other on the floor. The scent of her, musky and sweet, filled his senses. “The dialogue continues,” she murmured, lowering herself until her wet, bare folds were a breath from his mouth. “Observe. _Interpret._”

He needed no further invitation. His tongue found her, a flat, broad stroke from perineum to clit. She gasped, a genuine, shuddering sound, and her hands fisted in his hair. He dove in, feasting, his world narrowing to taste and sound and the desperate, bucking rhythm of her hips. He licked and sucked, tracing the “geometry” he’d lectured about, finding the hidden nodes of pleasure that made her cry out.

Her control was absolute. Even lost in sensation, one of her hands drifted down his body. Her cool fingers encircled the base of his cock, a firm, possessive ring. Her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them, tugging gently with a rhythm that counterpointed the thrust of his tongue.

“Yes… just like that… you understand the form _so_ well,” she moaned, grinding against his mouth. “The energy… it’s flowing… can you feel it building?”

He could. In her, and in himself. The pressure under her skilled manipulation was immense, a coil wound to breaking. Her moans became sharper, her thighs clamping against his head. “I’m close… so close… but I want to _see_ you…”

With a wet, sucking sound, she pulled herself off his face. Before he could protest, she had turned, sliding down his body. In a fluid motion, she took his aching cock into her mouth, swallowing him deep, then releasing him with a pop. But that wasn’t her goal.

She pushed his legs apart, her eyes gleaming with siren-like intensity. “The ultimate release isn’t always here,” she whispered, her breath hot on his inner thigh. Her thumb pressed behind his balls. “It’s here. The source. Let me liberate you.”

Her mouth found his perineum, licking, then her finger, slick with her own arousal, pressed insistently at his tight ring. He was too far gone to resist, lost in her hypnotic web. With a gentle, relentless pressure, she entered him.

The sensation was blinding, a direct line to the core of his pleasure. She began to move her finger, a slow, curling motion, searching. When she found his prostate, she pressed.

_Oh god._

His back arched off the divan. She sealed her mouth over him, sucking rhythmically, her finger milking that exquisite, internal node with terrifying expertise. Her other hand never stopped its work on his cock and balls, a symphony of overstimulation.

“Now,” she commanded, her voice muffled against his skin. “_Roam like a lion. Squirt for me._”

The orgasm didn’t crest. It _erupted_. It was not a series of pulses but a continuous, scalding geyser, tearing through him with violent, seismic force. He roared, his body convulsing, trembling as if seized by a divine electricity. He felt it—the roaming, alien intensity, the endless squirting release, his vision whiting out as he shook uncontrollably beneath her masterful, consuming touch.

Pussy in Boots, Lucy

Stephen Lorn

Stephen Lorn, an art dealer, finds himself in a whirlwind of desire when a woman named Lucy arrives at his studio, seeking a bronze sculpture of a naked woman for her boyfriend.

She is a seductive and mysterious woman who is interested in the art of the nude form, and Stephen finds himself drawn into her web as he shows her his collection.

The two find themselves in a passionate encounter, where Lucy takes control, and Stephen experiences an intense, mind-blowing orgasm, as she stimulates his prostate and milks him to completion.

When Lucy browses nude art, flirtatious banter ignites intense desire. Explore the dominant thrill.

Lucy Commands Booted Prostate Seduction

The bel rings.  When Stephen opens the door, he finds a stunningly beautiful woman at his doorstap who has read his advertisement and is coming to but one of the bronze sculptures he has collected and is now selling ….   She is in search of a sculpture of a naked woman as a present for her boyfriend …

 shows her a few naked figurines.  The more he explains about nude art, the more aroused he becomes.  Her “innocent ambiguous observations”, winks, sighs and “accidental touches” pull him deeper and deeper into her hypnotica web.  Soon, both are nude and he is eating her out relentlessly while she guides him by manipulating his balls and cock until she can take no more … and, instead, takes his prostate and milks him until

Hé comes, roaming like aluin, squirting like a geyser and trembling and shaking as if hit by a seizure

Pussy in boots: hunting for art - and more

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Pussy in boots: hunting for art - and more

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