Miriam tries her hand at voyeurism (part 8)

12.08.2012 | By: Miriam

About how the curious Miriam watches the masterpieces in bed of a strict and serious sculptor...

(PhotoXpress)

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I head to an Istrian village to take possession of a sculpture for the gallery I work at. I’m slightly afraid of the sculptor because he’s always so strict and serious. If I didn’t fear him and respect him at the same time, I would certainly have fantasies about him because he’s a very handsome man in his early thirties and his arms are chiselled just like a sculptor’s should be. Even though he’s almost stocky, he’s very nimble on his feet. The thing besides his powerful and stringy arms that makes me want to fantasise about him is his black and curly hair which seems to have a life of its own – I’d love to get my fingers into those curls.

I knock on his door for a while, but there’s no reply. I check if the door’s unlocked and I enter. I walk to the kitchen, notice that there’s nobody in the bathroom and continue on like a cat. I usually don’t do this in other people’s apartments, especially not people I’m almost slightly afraid of. But the apartment is friendly, bright, aired and designed in such a way that you can’t stop walking.

I stand completely still in the living room when I hear a snapping voice accompanied by moaning. My curiosity won’t go away, so I take a few more steps and I see through a translucent white curtain into the bedroom.

There’s a tanned woman with a protruding bottom on the bed. Her black hair is spread on the white sheets. My sculptor is kneeling by her and spanking her tanned bottom. I see his profile and part of his back. His eyes are slightly open in delight and when he hits the tanned bottom of the black-haired woman with control, the muscles on his back flow like the sea.

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Oh my, where did I end up... I watch the ritual with rapture. After a few spanks the sculptor glides slowly with his hands between her legs. At first she is frozen with surprise, then writhes with pleasure when she feels his fingers on her clitoris. When he pushes his fingers into her, she screams and thrusts her hips towards him. He circles and thrusts with his hand with controlled movements, then pulls his fingers out and starts drawing with the wet fingers on her tanned, hot bottom, which is writhing with pleasures that are unknown to me.

He does this a few more times. The black-haired girl is crumpling the sheets, trying to play with her clitoris, but her hands don’t seem to be obeying her. I’m all wet between my legs and can’t take my eyes off the scene, let alone crawling away.

Suddenly the sculptor has enough of spanking and he puts the girl on her back decisively. Now I can also see his torso from the front. Ah, it’s chiselled. The girl’s face is flushed and her eyes are green and glowing. She’s stroking her melon-like breasts with her hands, squeezing her nipples and groaning. She’s fidgeting with her long legs in a desire I understand completely. I breathe into my crotch and I dare not touch myself.

The sculptor oils his hands and starts massaging the thin thighs of the black-haired woman, so that she starts purring like a cat. Her hands are more relaxed on her breasts, but she still follows the outlines with her fingertips. The sculptor’s big, trained hands slowly get near her smooth pussy, which is glistening with its own juices and the massage oil (or it might be flax oil, knowing artists) with which he lubricated her.

He’s massaging her labia and her Venus mound, but doesn’t even touch the clitoris. The Mediterranean beauty is writhing beneath his decisive fingers and is trying to give him her horny clitoris, but he places her left arm firmly on the stomach, just above the pubic bone and disables her movements. He slowly penetrates her wet hole with the ring and middle fingers of his right hand and starts thrusting into her rhythmically, in and out, as if he was trying to touch his hand on her flat tanned stomach with the two fingers. He hits the clitoris slightly with the edge of his hand every time he does this.

I take pleasure from the subtle dance of muscles on his arm penetrating into the nicely open and glistening vagina. The sounds of penetration are mixed together with the increasingly louder moaning coming from the sculptor and the woman’s screaming. She seems to have lost all control of her muscles and is surrendering to the hand which pushes, invites, demands more and more and wants to go faster and faster.

My eyes only keep track of the movements – in, up, out, in, up. The movements stop suddenly, the sculptor pulls his hand out and I see the sight of a pussy which contracts a few times and rewards the sculptor with a squirt.

The sculptor is watching her with a charmed expression for a few moments, then spreads her legs even more, so that she shivers from the touch as if she was hit by electricity. He penetrates her with his big cock, hard as a rock. I use the passionate screams to get out of the house, walk to a pub where I order a pint (half a litre) of ice-cold water to cool down a little.

I ring the doorbell of the sculptor’s house in half an hour.