CHAPTER 12
Amelia
My heels clicked against the cobblestone street as I walked toward Florin’s studio, my heart dancing in my chest.
Today was the day.
Today, Florin was going to paint me nude.
The last time he’d asked me to visit his studio had been a gentle introduction to his world. He asked me to get comfortable with his studio, so I could be in my “most natural self” when he painted me.
His studio was eclectic and beautiful, with massive French windows that let light stream in from every angle.
We’d talked for hours about art, about pottery, about the creative process.
We talked and talked until talking turned into touching, and then we made love on the mattress where his models posed.
Five times. Each time more intense than the last.
Sex with Florin was passionate and maddening. He knew how to pleasure a woman in ways that didn’t even seem possible—his mouth, his hands, his entire body dedicated to my pleasure. Just thinking about it now made my panties wet.
Since that first studio visit, Florin had spent every day with me.
He’d spoiled me with shopping sprees at the most exclusive boutiques—Chanel, Dior, Hermès.
He’d taken me to places I’d only dreamed about: private viewings at the Musée d’Orsay after hours and champagne picnics on the grounds of Versailles.
But today—what today held, I had no idea.
I was wearing only a Versace robe dress, and underneath, the most expensive black lingerie Florin had bought me. La Perla, he’d said. The best.
Butterflies danced in my stomach.
I couldn’t believe I was the world’s most sought-after artist’s muse. What would today bring?
How exciting could life become?
I thought of Mark. I thought about his lie woven just so he could sleep with Simone. And instead of feeling hurt, I felt a twisted sense of gratitude. Thank you, I thought sarcastically, for the best idea you ever had—opening up our marriage.
The studio was warm, late afternoon sun pouring through those massive windows.
In the center of the room, Florin had arranged satin sheets and pillows in deep reds and purples. They spilled across the floor like liquid luxury.
I stood on the sheets in my robe, nervous but also feeling something else. Something powerful.
Right now, I wasn’t a wife. I wasn’t a mom. I wasn’t the woman who made lunches and drove carpools and managed PTA fundraisers.
I was just Amelia.
A woman whose body had borne two children. A woman with curves and stretch marks and soft places. A woman who was not perfect, but who was being celebrated for all her imperfections by a man who wanted to worship her.
This young, beautiful, artistic man who could have any woman in the world, but who saw something in me that no one else did.
Florin emerged from behind his canvas, wearing paint-stained jeans and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was tied back in that slick ponytail that made his face look even more sculpted.
“Amelia,” he said softly. “Are you ready?” I blushed, and nodded. “Amelia, I want to capture you in your sensuousness. In all your femininity.”
He paused, his gray-blue eyes intense. “You mentioned that day at the grocery store that you like it rough. That you like when your husband dominates you. Is that true?”
I nodded again, heat flooding my face.
Florin’s stare was enough to capture me completely. I suddenly wanted to be dominated by him with an intensity that made my knees weak.
“So today,” Florin said, his voice dropping to that commanding register, “I’m your master. You’ll do what you’re ordered to do. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
My panties were completely soaked.
“Take off your robe.”
I obeyed, my hands trembling slightly as I untied the belt. The red silk slipped from my shoulders and pooled at my feet, becoming one with the satin covers and pillows on the floor.
I stood there in my black La Perla bra and panties, Florin looking at me intently from across the room. The silence between us was charged with anticipation.
Slowly, Florin walked toward me, each step deliberate. When he stopped just inches from my face, my knees started trembling.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a deep, dark red lipstick.
Florin cupped my chin, tilting my face up. His fingers were firm, almost rough, as he pouted my lips and smeared the lipstick across them. Not carefully applied—smeared, like he was marking me.
Then from his other pocket, he produced a long red satin ribbon.
He took my wrists and bound them together in front of me, the ribbon soft against my skin but tied securely enough that I couldn’t easily escape.
“If you do as you’re told today,” Florin whispered, “you will be rewarded.”
He leaned close to my ear, his breath warm. “Do you like this?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Good girl.”
Those words sent electricity straight through me.
Florin reached up and pulled down one cup of my bra. My breast spilled free, the nipple already hard and aching.
“I see you’re really liking this,” he murmured, massaging my exposed breast, then pinching the nipple just hard enough to make me gasp.
My hands hung in front of me, bound and useless. I felt helpless and yet so empowered. I loved letting go of all control, becoming one with the moment.
Florin’s hand traveled down, slipping between my legs from the outside of my panties. He felt the wetness there and smiled.
“I like how wet you are.” His eyes locked on mine. “After we’re done with our work, we’re going to do something about that.”
He left just that one breast exposed—the other still contained in lace, the contrast making me feel both sensuous and slutty.
I stood there in the middle of his studio in bright red lipstick, a half-undone bra with one erect breast showing, soaking wet panties, hands tied together, and still wearing my high heels.
I’d never felt more sexual in my life.
Florin walked back to a small table and opened what looked like a cooler. He pulled out—
An ice cream cone?
Chocolate. Already starting to melt slightly in the warm studio.
I watched, confused and excited, as he walked back to me.
“Take this,” he ordered, holding out the cone.
I managed to grasp it with both my bound hands, the ice cream already dripping slightly onto my wrists.
“Sit on the satin sheets,” Florin commanded.
“And lick the ice cream. Enjoy it. Lick it like you’re playing with it.
” He paused, his voice dropping lower. “And while you’re licking this ice cream, enjoy yourself.
Imagine there is no one else who can satisfy you right now. Only you can satisfy yourself.”
He moved closer, and I could smell his cologne mixed with paint and tobacco.
“Love yourself, Amelia. Love all your curves. Love your whole body. Enjoy this ice cream like it’s a gift you’re giving yourself. Make yourself happy. And I’ll do the rest.”
With that, Florin returned to his canvas.
For a moment, I felt awkward. Weird. Self-conscious.
I settled onto the satin sheets, kneeling with my legs folded behind me, extremely careful with my tied hands not to drop the cone.
The ice cream was melting faster now. A drop fell onto my wrist.
I licked it off. Cool, sweet, chocolate.
Another drop fell. Then another.
I started licking faster, chasing the rivulets of melting ice cream down my wrists, my bound hands making the task more difficult and somehow more erotic.
Soon I was in the flow of it. Licking, sucking, chocolate dribbling down my chin, onto the ribbon, onto my exposed breast.
I licked my wrists. I licked my fingers. I even licked the chocolate from the swell of my breast where it had dripped.
I knew I must look like a mess—lipstick smeared, chocolate everywhere, half-naked and bound. But I liked it. I liked this mess.
I was celebrating myself. Just like Florin had told me to.
I didn’t know if he was getting the poses he wanted, the angles he needed. And I didn’t care. This moment was mine. My enjoyment. My satisfaction.
I felt sexy in my half-undone bra and soaked panties and stilettos, licking chocolate like it was the most decadent thing I’d ever experienced.
Because it was.
“Beautiful,” Florin’s voice came from across the room. “Perfect. Don’t stop.”
I kept going, losing myself completely in the sensation. The cold sweetness, the silk beneath me, the warmth of the sun, the knowledge that Florin was watching me, painting me, immortalizing this moment.
Finally, when the chocolate was nearly gone, Florin approached again.
He took the remaining ice cream from my hands and kissed me—deep and passionate.
Then he untied the ribbon from my wrists, my hands finally free.
“Play with yourself,” he ordered.
My breath caught. “What?”
“You heard me. Touch yourself. Show me how you make yourself feel good.”
I loved being ordered. The command sent a thrill through me that was almost painful in its intensity.
I did as I was told.
I pulled down my soaked panties, kicked them aside. Now I was completely naked except for the twisted bra and my heels.
I put my hand between my legs, finding my clit already swollen and sensitive.
I’d forgotten Florin was painting. Sexual waves crashed over me, demanding satisfaction. I rubbed harder, faster, my other hand finding my exposed breast, pinching the nipple the way Florin had.
My breathing quickened. I moaned, not caring who might hear, not caring about anything except the building pressure.
Higher, higher, until—
I came with a cry, my whole body shuddering with the force of it.
“Beautiful,” Florin said softly.
He walked over and kneeled next to me. He took my face in both his hands, and looked into my eyes.
“You gave me the perfect image of sensuality and femininity that I’ve been hoping to capture. My paintings were missing this one detail—small but magnanimous. Today, I transcended as an artist. And you made it possible, Amelia.”
He took both my hands in his hands, and kissed me, as if he was indebted to me for something. He helped me up, offering me the panties and robe.
But I didn’t want them.
I walked to his canvas area half-naked—one breast still hanging from my bra, no panties, my skin gleaming in the Parisian sunlight streaming through the windows.
What I saw left me breathless.
I’d never seen myself on canvas before.
The woman in the painting was... she was magnificent.
Full red lips, smeared with chocolate and lipstick.
Curves portrayed in the most beautiful way—celebrated, not hidden.
She was licking ice cream from the cone, hands bound by the red ribbon.
Her expression was pure ecstasy—the same expression I’d worn while satisfying myself.
This was a woman who was confident. Who knew what she wanted and got it on her own terms. Sensuous. Powerful. Free.
“Thank you, Florin,” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes.
Florin looked at my exposed breast, at the mess of chocolate and lipstick still on my skin. He came closer, reaching around to unhook my bra.
As it fell away, he whispered in my ear, “Thank you, Amelia. For being a good girl. And for that, you shall be rewarded.”
He swept the art supplies off his work table in one motion. Then he lifted me onto it, my back against the cool wood.
He knelt between my legs and buried his face in my pussy, his tongue finding places my fingers couldn’t reach. He sucked my warm, swollen clit, and made me come again and again until my eyes rolled back and I screamed with pure bliss.