MuArte, by José Flores, free extracts | Erotic novels

Jose Flores | November 19, 2021
Category: Erotic novels

Delight yourself with these erotic passages from MuArte, by José Flores.

Synopsis: After destroying his marriage, Matisse, a Belgian-Congolese policeman, becomes The Artist: the best painter of the 21st century and in history. The point is, apart from the name, he has no idea of ​​art.
Much less, to paint.
Even so, she has a curious gift: every time she copulates on a canvas, she transmits the emotion that flows through her body to those who contemplate the final result.

Continue below …

Lorena – Fragments of MuArte

It should be explained that Lorena and Ricardo signed the contract in bed with their bodies, taking the legality of the handshake to the extreme. Each moan approved a clause; each caption, a gasp as her hips stamped the signature on the sheets. The wind raised the curtains with a whispering breath viraha, ‘love in separation’, in Hindi. Oblivious to the needs of the weather, Lorena and Ricardo enjoyed the caresses of his cloak, satisfied that they had obtained a profitable agreement for both of them.

She sighed ecstatically, shuddering with the tingling that ran through her body, thinking of fame and money.

He, in Marta.


The Artist opened the gate, and walked a short trembling tile path across the garden to a gate lit winkly by the dim light of a timid fire. There, a woman was waiting for him, so pale that it seemed a dream. That burning ice or icy flame, without a word, plunged into the caligine of the hall. Blind, he followed the sound of her heels, which made the cold stone of the hard floor throb, glimpsing a room that, from the reform was a museum and, from the humidity, a kingdom. Matisse, oblivious to such a courtly environment, verified that no rat had found a room in that warehouse of rubble. Her body was aroused by the imminence of sex, though the unpleasant smell wrinkled her nose. I wanted to, but it stank. Your hostess guessed your thoughts. He pointed to a crude metal plate with a knob on the floor: a freight elevator. They were in hell; above, heaven awaited him. The two got on, and the hydraulics left that plant to be remembered.

A purple carpet greeted his ascent; it colored the passage towards the room that could be seen between the opening of two baroque white doors, through which a radiance and erotic lounge music escaped. His silent companion opened wide the Paradise of Passion, revealing the luxurious room with the selection of women hired by Jim Jim for the new collection. Some waddled their bodies seductively, others stroked their legs on the sofa, and some dyed the champagne glasses with the red of their lips (actually, prosecco). Of course, none of them looked away from that ebony god in the makeshift brothel, warming the atmosphere with each slight blink. A shrewd observer, which he was not, would have noticed that they all looked like Lorena. Chance? Absolutely; Rámpolo’s experience at the Templa Templarium Templi had inspired him to squeeze the creative force of El Artista, with the approval of La Agent, even if it meant a higher cost in hairdressing.

Matisse accepted a glass from a girl who said her name was Lorraine while the rest continued their private party in the living room. Still haunted by the unconscious, he eluded the urge to reproduce Tracey Emin’s tent in that instant. Excuse me, he went out to the balcony to get a drink and air. He hadn’t been so surrounded by women even in his best Brussels days as a cop. The Agent had told him to keep quiet, to dose his energy, because he had to paint three pictures in one day. At first, he was reluctant. But now the number of pieces seemed insufficient. A supposed Rena offered him a joint, which brought back memories of he and Thomas “inviting” each other to the Pea house. He took a deep drag, then a heavy swallow, and released a screen of smoke over the waters of the Arno, noting the main Florentine elements floating on the horizon: Santa Maria Novella, the Arnolfo tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, the cam-panile from Badía Fiorentina and Giotto, the Ponte Vecchio, the Uffizi, Santa Croce and, of course, the omnipresent dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, Brunelleschi’s architectural prodigy, symbol par excellence of the Tuscan metropolis. Imagine a woman’s lips reaching for a kiss. That’s Florence, with the Arno flowing between them.[1] For a few seconds, Matisse was on the verge of succumbing to a StendahlazoNot so much because of the bewitching, intoxicating, perpetual and magical exterior, but because of the THC. Good sign; he had relaxed.

-Come; I’m going to show you the house.

A certain Lorelei murmured that invitation into his ear. The drug multiplied oral caresses. Fooled by the suggestive voice of that false siren, he allowed himself to be guided by a hand that felt mischievously through the material, snaking through the corridors. Thus, he discovered the Red Room, the Blue Room and the Green Room, lit according to their name, where Marta’s paintings lay on an immense bed of cushions and under a large white cloth, since the King Size sheets had fallen short . Apparently, Rámpolo had gotten out of hand with the choice of works.

The other pseudoLorenas appeared in the corridor, submissive xanas and anjanas before the smiling Asturian-Belgian-Congolese in this case-, ready and willing to impregnate the fabrics with the hedonistic ataraxic traces of Epicureus, who affirmed that no pleasure is bad, but the means may be the wrong ones.


Lorena, in the Red Room, lost her breath. To target the pre-emptive rights, he barely had time. A swarm of shoppers, hummingbirds rampant with Passionfruit nectar fluttered around her, increasingly aggressive, threatening to knock her down as they tugged at her dress, about to make a Sabrina or Janet Jackson. Cornered, like an artist in debt, she looked for Marta, but she had stayed in the Blue Room, turulata. Luckily Elvira realized the dangerous situation in which the Agent found herself. He ran to offer his selfless help, and cleared the tumult with professionalism and jostling. With an air in between, Lorena recomposed her violent dress, observing in amazement the hyperbolic reaction that was unfolding around her: fragmented mascara in eyes tired of crying; orgasmic sighs that put you in heat; mouths showing teeth like a gelada monkey; journalists who had lost both objectivity and coherence, and hostesses who tore their tunics to show the generosity of their pious breasts, on which both sexes fell, who touched, kissed or bit them. The floor had been transformed into a carpet of bodies, bodies and more bodies, bodies that formed piles, piles that formed piles and piles of guests who succumbed to a passionate debauchery, dyed scarlet red, the color of the last garment that Maria wore, the Scottish queen, before losing her mind. The Agent smiled. From his point of view, it had turned out better than expected.

You can buy MuArte here

[1]The enchantress of Florence, Salman Rushdie.

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MuArte, by José Flores, free extracts | Erotic novels

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