The Horse Master

When I came back, Gordon called me over to the easel and then pulled me into his side. He was just wearing shorts and his fly was open. He had an erection, possibly his only one for the day and I sighed, knowing he’d use it. I looked at his painting. It was near enough finished that he didn’t need me to go back into the pose. And while Barbier was a master on the piano, Haydon was a master with the paint brush. As critical as I was of their sexual prowess, I had to be in awe of them both in their separate artistry. I was in the company of truly great artists, icons in their separate disciplines. I needed to appreciate that and be grateful I had been brought into their company. Someday I might find myself to be a footnote in one or both of their biographies.

I turned and threw my right leg over his thighs, reaching down to grasp his cock and holding it in place as I came down into his lap, skewering my ass channel on his shaft. Taking his head between my hands, I put our faces together and entered into a deep kiss. I moved my butt on his cock, bringing him to a quick ejaculation, ending in an appreciative sigh. Then, when he pressed the palm of a hand into my sternum, I arched back with my head and hands to the floor in front of the chair we were straddling and moaned for him as he stroked my cock off and I felt him going flaccid inside me. It satisfied him and it didn’t do any damage to me. It was the least I could do for a man who could render me so sensually in oils and possibly give me a footnote in the history of art.