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The Artist's Studio

By: electricblue66



The art teacher was a tall, elegant blonde, short hair, in her mid thirties. Sophia. Intense, she radiated passion for her work and for her craft. I wanted to learn from her, and not only drawing. But it would only be drawing this weekend, as there were two others in the class. 

Nicola was in her twenties, a quiet girl who seemed to be painting as some kind of therapy, but it wasn't exactly obvious what was going on. She was chronically shy and jumpy, and would never meet the eye of anyone who spoke to her. I was surprised that she had enrolled herself in this life drawing class, given her lack of confidence and what could be a confronting presence of a naked person in the room. Where would she look?

The second student was a woman in her early forties, a lawyer, whose mother had died a year before and left her a sizeable inheritance. This meant Sarah was now able to indulge herself by taking extended leave from a legal practice from the high end of town, and was setting out to make a career for herself as an artist.

And then there was me, just a beginner with my drawing, but wanting to improve as fast as I could, because I had discovered that drawing was bringing out an erotic side of me that I wanted to encourage and discover. It wasn't immediately obvious where this had come from, since the first few life drawing classes I had attended had male models, and I wasn't really into an old guy with a circumcised dick and balls hanging like a ram who posed leaning on a sword. On a sword, for fuck's sake! A younger guy was pretty fit, and his muscle tone was good for some studies, but not really me.

But then we had Joanna as the model, one wet Saturday afternoon, and that was when I discovered that drawing with charcoal was almost as good as touching skin. Charcoal has a tactile thing about it - you have to spread the blackness with your finger to portray the curves in front of your eyes. And Joanna had a lovely set of curves, and in my first drawing of her I thought, "I can do this, this charcoal stuff works for me."

We had Joanna as our model, this weekend. So there I was, the only man in a group of artistic women, and a nude woman to be drawn. The dynamic of the day, I was sure, would be intriguing.

Sophia suggested that we each find a space in her little studio, which had big windows on two sides, facing over her back yard, with tall gum trees filtering the light. Opposite the main set of windows was a couch, with cushions and some rugs and cloth, various colours, to be backgrounds for paintings and drawings. We jostled for space, and arrayed our easels evenly around the couch so we would each have a clear view of our sumptuous model.

Nicola and I were both using charcoal, pencil and pastel, so our set up was a lot easier, just a matter of clipping our paper to the backing board.

After I had set up my paper and made ready some colours on the bench behind me, I took the opportunity to observe the other students. Nicola's face was full of concentration, and there was a little colour blushing her cheeks. She's really looking forward to this, I thought. Maybe she's not so shy and mouse-like as I thought. Sarah and Sophia were chatting together as they painted on their pale wash backgrounds, and they were both engrossed in the detail of what they were doing. They spoke of this type of paint and that type of brush, trading their knowledge. Sophia was elegant and intense, and the studio showed her work, fixed to the walls and stacked in bundles as works in progress. 

She was from a family of artists, and in pride of place, centred in a space all of its own, was a pencil drawing of a beautiful nude woman, who turned out to be Sophia's grandmother as a twenty year old muse for a young artist, Sophia's grandfather. The family resemblance was most certainly there in the face of the grand-daughter; and the pencilled nude promised a continuation of other family traits down through the generations.

"Joanna has just texted," Sophia announced, "and will be here in about five minutes. Before she arrives, can I just say how privileged we all are that she is happy to share herself with us. Some of you haven't met her, but those of you who have will agree that she is a wonderful model. She is an artist herself, so understands the importance of a good pose, for a life drawing and painting class."

Sarah and I glanced at each other and smiled - both of us had met Joanna before and certainly agreed with Sophia's words. Nicola nervously twisted her hands together, and there was a red flush on her neck and cheeks. I sensed that she was looking forward to meeting Joanna.

"Joanna also knows what can happen when a number of artists focus on her nude self," Sophia continued, her voice deepening with some new intensity that was not there earlier. 

"Some models can handle this. I never could." 

Intrigued, I wondered what she meant, and was just about to ask when there was a flurry of activity by the door, and Joanna had arrived. The moment with Sophia passed, but her words "I never could" echoed. I wondered why she never could, and why Joanna could.

Joanna was only about five foot two, a little curvy woman with a lively, vibrant face and laughing eyes. Her hair was a deep red, shoulder length and cut in a bob that framed her face. She dragged a small wheeled bag, and wore just a plain smock dress. 

"God, it's hot outside, and the air-conditioning in my car doesn't work, sorry I'm late."

Sophia came with a glass of iced water, which Joanna gulped down greedily, and then poured the rest over her head to cool down. The water ran in rivers down her hair and throat, and over her limbs. 

"Oh look, there's my dress, all wet. No matter, it can dry while I pose."

Not much seemed to worry this woman, who was a free spirit, and clearly comfortable in herself. Her presence took over the room. She looked around eagerly, to see who she would be showing her body to today. Sophia introduced us one by one, and we were each greeted by a warm smile. 

Joanna gave Sophia a lingering hug, for these two women knew each other well, and had often worked together. Joanna remembered Sarah and me from the earlier drawing class, and Nicola smiled shyly at her, from behind a veil of her hair. She seemed to be overwhelmed by this small, vibrant woman.

"How do you want to start, Sophia?" 

Joanna was keen to get going, and had simply pulled the loose smock over her head, revealing firm breasts with a delectable shape, nicely curved and budded with dark brown nipples. As a model, she knew that a bra mark would stay on her skin for some time, so had simply not bothered with that garment. Similarly, she wore a pair of loose French knickers, which were soft and flowed about her waist, nothing tight. 

Without a worry in the world, as if it never occurred to her that we were all clothed and she was naked like a nymph come out of the woodland, she simply slipped the knickers down her legs, bending down to remove them from her ankles. Her breasts swayed with the sudden movement, like teardrops falling from her body. Beside me, Nicola gasped, and I could not tell if she was surprised or shocked at the sudden strip.

I was delighted, and aware of the blood in my groin. Sarah was appraising, and already I felt that she was viewing this model's lush figure merely as the genesis for her painting, not as a being of beauty in her own right.

Sophia said, "how about we have some quick five minute poses as warm ups, and then we can think about a longer pose." 

The art teacher took command of the room, and for half an hour it was all about gesture and blocking and tone. We all completed a number of quick sketches, and Joanna was all about movement and angles and turning, and the time was practical and she was the figurine in from of us, muscles and limbs and movement. We forgot that we had a delightful naked woman in front of us, and she was the subject of our study. Even Nicola was concentrating on the technical aspects of her pencil on the paper, and less on the dancing flesh in front of us.

We broke for a coffee and biscuits, and Joanna joined us wrapped in a kimono, light colourful cloth and cool in the heat. The conversation ran around a number of topics of art and models, and there was even a discussion on the importance of no underwear for life modelling. There was no strangeness that I was the only male amongst this group of women; and I thought, so maybe this is what is like to be in a coven of witches. White witches, earth witches, feminine spirits.

But then, as we were packing the morning tea things into Sophia's kitchen, I saw Sophia and Joanna in a close, huddled conversation. I could not make out anything really clear, but did hear Sophia ask, "are you sure?"

Joanna replied, "it's fine, it's only a small group, and we can break in an hour. It will be nice. In this heat I'll be half asleep anyway."

I was intrigued by the concern from Sophia, and Joanna's more relaxed response.

"OK," said Sophia, "Joanna is going to make herself comfortable for a much longer pose, so here's your chance to really study the woman in front of you, to understand all of her shapes and angles and curves, and to try and recreate your vision of her on your paper. I'm not going to teach you anything this time, because it will be up to you, your eyes, your brush or pencil or charcoal stick, and what you see. I'll come around and see how you are all going and you can ask me questions."

She took a piece of chalk in her hand, and finished, "I'll mark key points on the cloth, so Joanna can go back to the same pose, next time we break."

Joanna made herself comfortable on the couch in a reclining pose, facing us. She was langourous in the warmth of the room, and her pose was immediately sensual. She threw one arm back above her head, revealing the hollow of an armpit with coil of short hair dark in its centre. Her torso was tilted towards us, so her breasts were soft and curved with their weight. Her slightly rounded belly was also curved, rounded shadows contouring her body's volumes. The leg nearest us was bent on the sheet, while her other leg was high with knee raised. 

From Sarah's vantage point I knew she would be able to see part of the dark cleft between Joanna's thighs. I could see the triangle of dark hair at the base of her belly, since my easel was on the other side of the room.

Nicola was between Sarah and me, and I saw her touch her fingers lightly to the base of her throat, and her throat and the top of her chest were flushed red. I also saw that sometime over the course of the morning, the top button of Nicola's blouse had come undone, revealing a glimpse of her bra whenever she leaned forward. Her eyes were bright.

"OK, let's begin," Sophia said, "let's see how the magic of drawing and painting works today."

"Yes, please enjoy yourselves," added Joanna, "just be aware that I might doze off in this heat." 

And she smiled, as if to herself, her thoughts turning inwards.

I take a small stick of charcoal, and study Joanna's body before me. I note the most important line, which is the long curve of her body and the high knee. It is essential that I capture the right gesture in a long, sinuous curve. I can then fill in the detail and the smaller curves and then move on to the lights and darks, the shadows and the highlights. I plan to do this long study just in charcoal, so it would be blacks and whites, and finger smudged greys. Doing the greys would be like caressing Joanna's skin, but my own version of her, on paper.

As I capture the first essential line, I find myself elongating and exaggerating the curves I see in front of me. It is a part of my emerging style that I slightly enlarge the fullness of a breast or a hip, and slightly narrow the inward curves of a waist, or ever so slightly lengthen a limb or a neck. The body on the paper becomes my own version of the woman on the couch. The model on the couch Is unobtainable, but the woman taking shape on the paper is my own, to caress and touch as my own lover. I quickly capture my essence of the woman in front of my eyes, and now there is an outline.

Sophia stands behind me, to get the same perspective that I have, and she quietly points out that the line of Joanna's arm is slightly different to the line I have drawn. She traces the tip of her finger on the paper to show where the edge of the forearm should go. I correct the line with my charcoal, and then smudge the tone with my finger, as if I am stroking Joanna's forearm. As I do so, she opens her eyes, and without moving her face, she shifts her gaze to me. I stroke the charcoal smudge again, and her gaze intensifies, as if she can feel some sensation on her own flesh.

I look at Sophia, and see that she is repeatedly looking from my drawing to Joanna's skin. She takes a piece of charcoal herself, and smooths her own caress of tone onto my paper. As she does so, Joanna's eyes widen slightly, and her lips part. And where Sophia has run a smudge of darkness onto the paper, there is an equivalent blush of colour, ever so slight, on Joanna's skin. I look at Sophia with a questioning look on my face.

"Did I really see what just happened there?" I ask, quietly.

"Yes," Sophia replies in a whisper. "Your drawing has enclosed a line for every part of her body now, and as you draw and shape your vision on your page, she can feel it on her own skin, lightly like the gentlest finger tips, like butterfly wings, like the lightest kiss."

"So I can caress her though my drawing?" I wonder.

"Yes, you can, so be gentle with her. See what happens when you draw her nipples."

This was amazing. I do as Sophia suggests, and carefully draw slightly larger and more erect nipples on my page. As I do so, the nipples on the model in front of us tighten and peak. Joanna looks at us once again, and her eyes are sleepy and her lips crease into a slight smile. Jesus, it is as if Sophia and I are both caressing her. 

I shade some charcoal onto the breasts on my page and draw them ever so slightly fuller and the nipples more conical, and when I look at the model, I can see a warm flush of colour spreading ever so slightly on her breasts, and they are fuller before my eyes. I caress the edge of my charcoal down over the curves of her belly and draw a slight fullness around her navel, and with my fingers I tease around that sensitive place. As I do so on my paper, Joanna in front of me takes a gasp of breath, and the muscles of her belly tighten.

"Keep going with your own shapes and caresses, strokes and touches," urges Sophia, "and I will see how the other two are getting on."

It was then I realise, that if my model is responding to my drawing and feeling every touch I make, then it is equally likely that she will be feeling the shapes and touches being made by the other two artists in the room.

And sure enough, as I look across at Nicola, I see that the young woman is also responding to the erect nipples that I have aroused, and she too is beginning to realise the alchemy happening in the room. Her own chest and throat are flushed bright, and I can see that she is concentrating her own drawing and gaze on the same place on our model. It is as if she wants to make the same heat she feels on her own skin repeat itself on Joanna's hot flesh. 

So for five minutes Nicola and I caress Joanna with our gaze and with our charcoal and pencils, with me concentrating on her rounded belly and her slender waist and ribs, while Nicola caresses the full breasts and teases those full nipples into even tighter peaks. And Nicola strokes her pencil in light lines and subtle shading along the line of Joanna's neck and her throat, and she draws a beating pulse.

As she does so, Joanna moans, and licks her lips, and Nicola is drawing a kiss onto those full red lips, and she draws a delicate trace of her fingers over the cheek and hairline, and on her page the fullness of the model's hair is swept into being by the slender fingers of the young artist, there on her page. And this time, Joanna cannot help herself, she cannot keep still. As Nicola draws a long sweep of hair on her page and runs her fingers over it, so too does Joanna arch her head further back into the caress. The drawing on the page and the model on the couch are both still and ecstatic, and Nicola's fingers caress Joanna's face and hair on the paper.

With a gasp, Sophia sees what Sarah is painting. Even as I circle my own finger on some highlights on the drawn belly and on the taut line of ribs on my paper, I see Joanna ease her legs apart just an inch or so, and then a line of muscle is tighter near her hip and needs to be drawn. So I know that Sarah is painting those long legs and the dark line between, and even as I watch I see Sarah take a vermilion dab of paint from her palette, and know that the line of Joanna's sex is a slash of red brightness in the middle of the darkness from a darker colour. Sarah is painting the opening petals of our model's cunt place, and her vision is lush and open yet at the same her brush work is delicate and graceful.

So our model is drawn and painted, and our work moves in a cyclic harmony, for just as Sarah reaches an intensity with her painted probe of Joanna's wide and open sex; then Nicola wants to touch and change a line in her drawing of those full and luscious breasts. And she draws out those nipples long and full, and her fingers tug on the shape of those breasts, and she captures the slight sheen of sweat that shines in Joanna's cleavage. That makes another highlight for me to capture in my own drawing.

The room is silent for the next ten minutes as we each focus on those parts of our own work that are changing as each of us refines and corrects our drawings and painting. And each tiny caress of finger, or tip of a brush, or the pointed end of a pencil; each caress and touch is felt by our model. She is stroked by three hands and every now and then Sophia's guiding finger touches a particular place, as our teacher helps us get our details right.

Our model's breasts and nipples are urged to a firm yet wonderfully carved shape, the lines of her ribs are carefully contoured. Sophia helps Sarah with the careful details of the sweet open sex, and Joanna's plump lips shine with their slickness and her clitoris sits high as a dab of purple paint makes that part of Joanna permanently erect on the canvas. Ah goodness, we three eager students are entranced by the visions of the beautiful woman in front of us, and work our drawings and visions as best we possibly can. 

Our breath is also coming fast, as fast as Joanna's now, for our three-fold caress and Sophia's caring touch are combining within the model to bring every part of her to a gazed upon, touched upon and carefully stroked climax. Nicola is gently drawing every part of Joanna's wondrous face, and she captures full red lips, and just the slightest tip of a tongue licking those lips. She captures every curve and highlight of those langourous, ecstasy filled eyes, and the flush of colour on Joanna's throat and the top of her chest.

Nicola's other hand is inside her own blouse, and her fingers pinch and tug on her own nipple as her fingers caress and smooth the skin on our model's face and throat and hair.

My cock is full and firm as I touch and tone my vision of our model's full breasts and long nipples, the sweet curve of her belly.

Sarah has the greatest pleasure of painting Joanna's now wide open legs and the swollen hot sex between, and with the tip of her brush filled with a wet, glistening bud of purple-red paint, she urges up that delectable clitoris, risen high from the swollen lips, glistening also, and she paints Joanna to her peak. 

Ah fuck, Joanna is still and unmoving on the couch in front of us, but in three different visions on paper and canvas, she peaks and comes and is a woman full of sexuality, carnal and erotic in our cunting wet and nipple hard depictions, woman, free and unfettered, pleasured by us in our drawings. 


The Artist's Studio Ch. 02



This story wandered a bit in the telling, and is more a collection of vignettes than a single thread. Those readers who know my Library story arc will recognise some characters in cameo roles right at the end. Their presence has a logic of sorts - it appears that I inhabit a singular universe.

-- ooo OOO ooo --

Following the weekend class at Sophia's studio, I began to draw more often, in a space made in a spare room. 

Always in the back of my mind was the power of evocation that a drawing or painting could produce, as proven in Sophia's studio that weekend. The drawings we produced dripped with eroticism and raw sexuality, and the fascination of seeing each different artist's interpretation of the same period and space in time, and of the same model, was revealing beyond any simple description, and revealing far beyond what a photograph could reveal. A photograph captures the flash of a moment in time, while a drawing penetrates time with a much longer gaze and depth. And a painting digs deeper still and reveals both the mind and being of the model as well as the soul and heart of the artist. 

Nicola's drawing of Joanna, for example, was as delicate and fanciful as that young woman's gaze, with flitting detail and the ghost of an idea, yet so revealing of both women. Her drawing focused on those areas of the model's skin that held the greatest fascination for the artist - that throat and the line of the jaw, the delicate lobes of Joanna's ears. By drawing those little succulent drops of flesh, it was as if Nicola was taking them between her own lips and nipping them gently with her little white teeth, and sucking them into her own hot mouth. The gentle shading on her subject's neck, there on her paper, was the faint blushing trail of Nicola's lips on that throat, with delicate bites tasting the skin.

Nicola was like a little cat splashing milk and chasing wool, her tongue and lips soft in her mind and in her vision of the model, and by wishing in her head that she was caressing her subject, and stroking so gently with her light pencil, that passion showed on the paper. And by showing it on the paper, Joanna felt that delicate touch as if it was on her own skin, and she reacted to it. 

Her skin faintly blushed under Nicola's gaze, and there it was, captured in faint pinks and lilac shadows in the drawing. And Joanna's eyes were soft for the girl. As she lay there under the girl's gaze and listening to the soft sweep of the pencil tip on the page - a tiny sound like the drift of a light breeze on her naked skin - her body in turn yielded up an offering.

Joanna's nipples peaked and tightened under the caress of the girl's light touch, and her lips too were full and sweet tasting, and the touch of the pencil and pale colours on the paper captured the scent and succulence of a fresh fruit, and it looked as if one could bite into those drawn nubs of tight nipple and lick a delicate tongue over those sweet lips, like strawberries dripping with juice, red and warm. 

Joanna ripened under the young girl's gaze and the valley between her breasts was softly covered by the finest down, like the furred skin of a peach, and the roundness on the rising swell of her breast was taut and firm. Nicola's drawing captured the delicate subtlety of the fair fair hair in that cleft and her pale colours swept a blush of rising blood warmed skin to Joanna's throat, there on the page and there on the woman on the couch.

Sarah's painting of me, by contrast, was a swirl of shape and colour, and a vibrance of thick lines of paint, brushed on in long vigorous lengths which captured the thrust of my limbs and the taut tightness of muscle on my chest and torso. Once my erection was pulled hard against my gut by the sweep of her wet brush, like a long spit trailed tongue right up the shaft of my cock, her painting was colour rich and vivid. 

She saw a dark shadow beneath my rising balls, hidden, dark, musk tight and scented, and on her canvas there was a great slash of vibrant purple for the darkness between my legs, and a rounded, brighter redness that was her look at my domed cock head, caught in a rise of colour. Her painted shaft was long and prideful of me, and even in her strong womanhood that needed no man, she at least honoured my length and heat, and painted a thickness, even if she did not want it.

Her painting was like a bruise of colours, vibrant and thickly brushed, slabs of paint like a slap on my flesh. Sarah was painting out her anger, I think, and her rich palette was a punishment and an ugliness. She was not painting my skin, she was painting my flesh, and beneath my flesh. I was flayed and exposed before her fierce gaze, and her painted wetness was like a drench of blood. Her vision of me, on her page, was ripe with revenge and I was splayed and opened up before her. 

Her painting was not of the surface of my flesh but of the depths beneath my skin, my flayed muscles and bones. I was everyman, and she was a begrudged woman, fierce and powerful in her fight back. Her painting of me was of a sacrifice, me before her, but also of a strength fighting her strength. We were matched, she and I, but would not want the other in the flesh, but would respect that flesh for what it was. Sarah was a complicated woman, and her painting of me was complex and powerful.

And Sophia's image, that started as an image of me but was overtaken by an image of herself, hot and dark, her charcoal great sweeps of dust and shadow and shade. Her vision of herself dripped sexual heat off her paper, and her portrayal was near life size, for she used a huge sheet of parchment on her easel. My thighs, that she used as a seat for her taut ass, were dark into the background, while her legs, which she portrayed spread wide and held upwards and away from her sides, were long and slender. The only parts of me that she had left clear and detailed in her drawing were my hands; these she had drawn clutching around each of her upper calves, holding her legs splayed and wide open.

She had drawn her clefted sex and the ridge to her asshole, and the key highlight of the whole picture was the rounded shaft of my cock embedded deep in her ass, catching the light above the dark hair of my balls, swollen and full. Her fuck hard up her ass was the visual centre of this graphic image, and it was crude and powerful, erotic and sensual, revealing a truth from her soul even as it portrayed a fantasy from her mind.

She had drawn her torso with powerful curves of her charcoal, rounded tone and darks about her navel, and curved ridges of muscle to her ribs. Her breasts were drawn big and full and high, and she had exaggerated the length and thickness of her nipples, hard with her arousal. In her drawing, even though those dark nubs were impossibly large, the drawing would have been wrong if she had portrayed them realistically. She showed her gaze strong and direct, looking straight back at the viewer. 

By challenging the watcher so directly, Sophia made that staring visitor a participant in her fuck, for who would not want their hard prick deep in that proud body? Ah fuck, Sophia so proud, so arrogant, so confident, she deserved herself in this portrait. Her portrait was of an ass in repose. A proud woman, she would not let others portray her, but would do justice only to herself.

But those drawings were done, that coven disbanded and separated, those women gone.

-- ooo OOO ooo --

I found myself on the bus, in the street, buying the Saturday paper in the local news agent, and wishing I was a better artist. I wanted to go up to people and say, "you are just beautiful, I want to draw you. Can I?" But I'm nowhere near good enough an artist to ever do their beauty justice, so I never do.

Unfortunately, I did not have easy access to any life models, so I found myself browsing through blogs and websites looking for images to copy, and as time passed, to inspire. I slowly learned my way around proportion and shape, and started to identify photographs that might echo some elements of a live person in front of me, with real shifting light, and real shadows, and real movement, and real stillness.

As I began to draw, especially on weekends when I was there in the light, I began to see, slowly and over the course of time, a strangeness in my drawings. At first I could not place it, or figure out what it was - it was an elusive thing. And then I found it. 

Looking closely at a drawing I had left on my easel for several days, I saw that I had drawn a palimpsest. I had worked on this drawing over the days, and I must have subconsciously worked at it harder than I realised, for when I looked closely I could see a faint shadow of the drawing beside and under itself. I must have worked at the drawing, and then, when I was reworking outlines and edges, I had cut the image back with an eraser. For there was a faint shadow of itself, drawn there on the paper. Or rather, an erasure there on the paper. It was a unconscious thing, for I had no clear memory of doing it.

And then, on another drawing, I found it again. A faint shadow of the drawing on the page, this one done in charcoal, but the shadow was about one inch away from the dark tones and edges of the sketch. It was as if the image had been lifted from the paper, and moved an inch or so to one side, and then placed down, leaving a faint impression in its previous place. It was a curious effect.

But it was a strangeness, for I had no recall of doing it. Over a number of weekends I found myself doing it repeatedly, but only on drawings started during an afternoon when the sunlight streamed in the window, never in an evening when it was dark outside and I was working in an artificial light. I must be putting myself into some kind of odd trance state, where time passes but I do not, some strange fugue that I could not recall. Some small madness?

I didn't mention it to anybody, because it was scarcely believable, and I did not believe it myself. But then, one morning, after the moon was high, I found such a change in one drawing that I knew that there was something really wrong. I could not be doing this. The drawing was a small image of a nude girl, done on a small A4 sheet of paper. I had drawn her standing, one hand resting on a hip, a tilt of leg and a toss of hair, and small, provocative breasts. 

But when I came down to the studio the next day, the image was facing the opposite direction, and the hand was straight by her side, no longer resting on her hip. It was as if the image had lifted itself from the page, rearranged itself, and then placed itself back onto the paper, quite different. This was madness.

I gazed at that drawing, not moving, for about ten minutes, desperately trying to recall every moment of its creation the night before, but for the life of me I had no memory of doing this picture as I found it now before me. I took out the reference photograph, and yes, it was as I had drawn the image, but not as the image was now. There in the photograph was the girl's hand, hung off her hip with elbow thrust out, fingers curling soft onto her thighs. Those slight breasts with their perky, thrusting nipples, those delightful shapes, they were facing to the right. I had drawn the image because she was vibrant, sassy and lively, a slender young thing facing the viewer provocatively.

But now the drawn page before me was of a sadder being, her face down-turned and a slump on her shoulders. This was the image of a tired girl, saddened even, no longer a sprite. I could not place this drawing in my memory, it was not from my hand, but there it was, evidence in front of my own eyes. There it was, a drawn figure, sad. But not my drawing.

I backed away from the easel, fearful for my own mind, and as I did so I bumped a table and some motes of dust bounced into the air and swirled on an eddy of air. I saw the spiralling dust in the corner of my eye, for the swirl was caught in a sunbeam leaning in from the window and falling upon the easel, just glancing the edge of the paper pinned there. What was that small movement? The little shaft of light touched on the drawing, just on the edge of it, and something shifted in my vision. 

I went back closer to the easel, looking hard for I had seen movement but no movement could be there. And there in front of my own eyes, as utter proof of insanity, there it was. The drawn image of the girl now had her head raised, looking at me, the viewer, beseechingly, Her hand and arm drawn outstretched, as if reaching out. No, no, no, this could not be, I had not drawn this picture, not this girl reaching out.

I backed out of the room, not daring to take my eyes of the drawing. Nothing happened, even though I feared it might. I snapped the lights off and made my way elsewhere in the house. I needed sleep, for my mind must have been fevered, and I was imagining things. That night I dreamed, and there was a running girl in my dream, naked and slender, the girl from my drawing. She just ran through my head, a momentary dream and a whisper, and I slept. 

The next morning I went to the studio, and once again there was a shadow on the page. The image was as I had drawn it, but there were two shades alongside it, as if the drawing had been erased twice and redrawn. On the floor nearby, a trail of tiny black smudges led from the base of the easel into the room. Dust on the floor, from dropped charcoal, surely. But weird, strange and unsettling.

-- ooo OOO ooo --

That afternoon I again set up a page for a drawing, and the sunlight was streaming in the windows, motes of dust eddying in the corner of my eye, lazily moving in the heating air in the room. 

This time I had a larger sheet of paper, and sketched a picture of a naked woman sitting on a simple wooden chair, her legs spread wide and open, challenging the observer. This one I coloured with strong bold tones, the lips of her sex a gash of red, crimson red, and her small breasts were pink budded, nipples tight. I do not often draw faces, as I am still trying to get their proportions and features right, but this picture had a bold portrait of a woman gazing off to her left, not looking at the painter, not looking at me. It was not Sophia, but her boldness was probably in the back of my mind as I drew and coloured this portrait.

The image was unlike any I had drawn before, and bore no resemblance to the photo that inspired it. In particular the face, with big over sized eyes, had a personality of its own. The portrait was of no one I knew, but it was, without doubt, a portrait of someone. I was pleased with the painting, perhaps the first one that I could call something more than a drawing. 

I stepped back from the easel to see this portrait from a distance, and yes, she was crude and erotic. It was not a sensual picture, the colours were too vibrant and up front for that, and both the bold gaze and the spread wide cunt with its slash of crimson red in the centre of her spread wide legs, it was almost an affront. It was not a polite image, not at all. But then, maybe, I'm not really polite. My drawings certainly aren't.

I had been working on the portrait for a couple of hours, and needed a drink and bite to eat. As I left the studio to go through to the kitchen, I thought I heard the soft wet sound that skin makes when it has been stuck to a smooth surface, and lifts away, sliding and slick. 

But I was through the door. In the kitchen I made up a mug of strong filtered coffee, and sweetened it with dark chilli flavoured chocolate, making a spicy, heady concoction. Returning to the studio, for I had a couch there and would often sit with my feet up and look at my current drawing, or read my latest book; returning to the studio I heard the sound of a wooden chair dragged along the floor. What the fuck, nobody's home but me, what was that?

Fuck, what the...? The coffee spilled, and my hand shook, holy shit, what was this? There in front of the easel, its size all wrong like something down a long corridor with the perspective all skewed, there was a dragged chair, and sitting astride it, my painted woman, solid and tangible. Her legs were spread, just as in my drawing, and her cunt was open and red, just as in my drawing. 

Behind her, on the easel, the paper was blank, just the faintest ghost of the original image. She gazed at me, with her big, unnatural eyes, dark. So fucking dark, for I had drawn only the smallest whites in her eyes, but pupils and iris drawn huge. Her thighs were solid and massive and her torso and breasts smaller. She was big thighed and deeply cunted, just as I had drawn her, with less interest in her breasts. 

There was silence in the room, and the only movement the drops of coffee spilling to the floor and motes of dust spiralling in a shaft of sunlight which just touched the leg of the chair, making it bright. Silence, the only sound the intake of my breath, and the wet landing of the coffee drops, tiny and fallen, on the floor, my hearing acute.

She slowly gestured, and her hand and arm movements were unnatural and only just learned, but enough that I got her meaning. Sit on the couch. I had the momentary sense to place the coffee cup on a side table, but then just sat, slumped. Silent myself, for I was speechless. Perhaps the only sound I heard was my heartbeat, a speeding pulse and faster. 

I was aware of my balls rising with fear, and my mouth drying. But spellbound. Sophia's studio had shown me how a painting or drawing could directly affect the flesh of a model, so it was only a small jump to understand what was happening here. But to comprehend it, that was a different thing entirely.

This painted woman, all gash and colour, and her powerful eyes direct and commanding and holding my eyes from ever looking away, this spread legged woman sat before me. And I realised that, while I was looking at her, she could do nothing else. For I had drawn her seated, so that was all I could see. I had drawn her black eyes unblinking, so she never blinked as she gazed at me. 

Christ, her eyes would be so dry, so I had to look away, to give her a time to blink. While my back was turned, it was clear she could move, for how else could that chair have dragged? How else could she have climbed out of that page on my easel? I looked back, and the expression on her face had changed. It was undefinable, but perhaps she was thankful that I had looked away and allowed her to blink, for her eyes looked wetter, shining. 

I had drawn her with her arms raised to her head, touching her hair, but they were lowered to her lap now, one hand resting on a wide spread thigh, the other hand with fingers just touching the top of her widening lips. Her legs were spread, and my eyes were drawn to her vivid sex, for that was my intention as the artist. As I gazed, fascinated by this apparition in front of me, my drawing somehow come alive and moving, I slowly realised that when my look was direct, all was still in front of me. 

But every time I glanced away, or looked longer away, when I turned back, there had been movement. So I found that I could allow her to move, to shift the look on her face, and to slowly, slowly move her fingers, hands or limbs. Every time I looked away she would shift, and slowly we picked up a rhythm between us.

I did not control where her fingers strayed, except to the extent that there was an intent in my original painting. And the intent of this painting was clear. The hot, erotic, brazenly sexual woman in my portrait was demanding just one thing of me now. She wanted me to watch and glance away, stare and then look away, so that her fingers could lower themselves and spread apart her cunt lips and find a glistening wetness, and her other hand to widen its fingers and pull and tighten upon one breast and nipple, and for her head to arch back in a slow, silent ecstasy. 




The Artist's Studio Ch. 02



She wanted me to look away and then look back, lose my focus over her shoulder and then lock my glance to her glistening crack, that bright crimson slash spreading and opening, so that she could ripen and bulge and split her sex with lust and a fingered fuck, deep into her opening cunt.

My drawing must have anticipated a lush wetness, for when I looked away for over a minute (and God knows how I did that, because I just wanted to penetrate her with my stare), when I looked back her fingers had made their way inside her slit, two bent finger tips gone inside her, the other two fingers displaying open her thick, brightly coloured lips. 

There was a bright highlight shining on a glistening wetness, glittering in the angled light. Her spread sex was openly lit by a slanting beam of the sun shining into the room, and my looking away and looking back was taking the rhythm of a deepening fuck now, for I wanted to see her build up to a peak and and ecstasy and an orgasmic splendour. How crude and vibrant would such a picture be, and here it was, before me. 

Fuck, I was hard now, but my gaze was torn between looking away so that her finger could twitch and her clit pulse, and her nipple throb. But then I wanted to stare and stop, to look at every inch of her changed position, the different weight in her tight, small breasts with long full nipples, to see her slightly open mouth and her teeth just showing, and a fervid stare in her dark eyes. I could stop her pleasure building and watch it all over her body, and then look away as she pleasured herself some more. 

I was Tantalus, but it wasn't a boulder rolling. No, it was the agony of wanting to see her fingers move and her breasts heave, but every time I looked she was stilled. Ah fuck, I had to torture myself and torture her, so that she could bring herself to her painted peak, her drawn fucking wetness, so that I could see it. Damn, we were in lust driven, urging torment, and ah, we both knew it. 

Every time that I looked to her face now, her eyes were beseeching me to look away, so that she could finish herself. But every time I stared upon her and her heightening pleasure, her eyes and begging cunt commanded me: look. Her eyes drilled into me with both conflicting desires.

Look away, that I might come. Look at me, as I come. Don't look. Look. Fuck. Don't. Fuck. Don't look. Look now. Ah God, don't see me, I want to... Watch me. Don't. Stop watching me, I'm so close. I can see that. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Look, look, look. Look away, look away, look away. Come now while I look. Come now while I close my eyes. Ah fuck me, just stare. God no, look away, I'm so close, ah fuck. Loooookkkk. Don't. Stop. Looking. Now. I'm. Looking. Ah fuck, I'll close my eyes, just come, you magnificent slut, just come. Slick your magnificent, crimson slit with your deep fingers, I'll not look, just come.

And when I looked once more, her throat was arched and her eyes were wide and her fingers were deep, and I stared at that rich, bright crimson wet centre of her, and she was spread and open and taken with her own fingers. Ah fuck, I looked, I stared, I could not look away. She was open and fucked and finished, and I stared long and hard at her lush wetness. Oh yes, how I gazed, how I stared. And how she came, in that lush, coloured, graphic spread legged sprawl, her sex an open wetness, glistening, ah goodness, how she came. 

The motes of dusted sunlight danced in the room and then there was a silence, broken only by a soft scrape of sound that was the light falling onto the paper, a delicate softness and a stillness. For she was just a painting, and an impossibility in front of me. 

I opened my eyes and the painting was back on the easel, the red slash of colour livid in her spread groin. I got up and looked closely, and there was a slick shining highlight on the curved line of colour that was the inner lip of her sex, in a brightened flare of light. I had not drawn that, but it was there from the last half an hour, the shine of her coming. 

I looked to the portrait of her face, and there was the slight curve of a new smile on her lips, and a different shine to her dark, dark eyes. My portrait had changed from being of a wanton threat of a hungry woman, spreading her legs wide and demanding attention. It now showed the image of a fingered woman, self fucked and self satisfied, needing no man, but content to sprawl and display herself to that man. My drawing was no longer mine alone, I had conjured up a vision of her. But I never knew who this woman was.

--ooo OOO ooo --

Later, some days later, I decided I needed to draw hands, to practice drawing more complex parts of the body. The easiest thing to do, the quickest model to find, was my own hand. So one bright night, pale blue light streaming from a full moon through a high window, I looked to my hand and started to draw. I sketched a number of different views of my left hand, turning it one way and another in the soft shadows of the moonlight. Then I wanted to show my hand holding something, and again I thought, the easiest thing to hold is me.

The idea turned me on, to observe myself closely, to really see what was in front of me. I would see myself with new eyes, and discover new detail. Narcissus, you have a challenger. The night was warm, the moon was bright. Why not? 

So I peeled off my clothes, and arranged a mirror so that I stood before myself, my pencil in one hand and my hardening prick in the other, my fingers spread more than I would usually hold myself. This was, after all, a study of my hand, not my cock. And of course, because the mirror was a reflection, the left hand holding my swelling cock, that became my right hand. So the vision twisted about in front of me, but was still me. I would study myself, but at the same time, feel myself. My senses tangled.

I thought I should watch myself grow from soft to hard, to see if I could catch the key changes. I let go of my cock and walked around the house naked for five minutes until my cock returned to its soft hanging state, gentle against my thigh, my balls loose and hanging. Flaccid, my cock hangs maybe four, five inches down, depending on the temperature. 

Tonight it was a pleasing thickness, just over an inch diameter, tapering to a hooded point, my foreskin fully over the head. When it's soft a thick vein runs along the front of the flesh, curving off to the side as it reaches the foreskin. My balls never hang really loose, they never have, but when there is no arousal the left testes hangs lower and slightly behind the other. As a consequence, my cock hangs just left of centre.

I draw myself in my flaccid state, closely observing the way the folds of skin are creased, my balls rippled and ridged. As I draw, the testicles rise and roll on themselves. I cannot feel this movement, and it is a visual sensation only. It's a completely independent movement, I cannot make it happen nor stop it happening. It is my flesh adjusting itself to the temperature of the surrounding air and the freedom to fall, I suppose.

So there on my page is my first drawing, just of my cock. I have been concentrating on the act of looking, and I am an impartial observer of myself, and my cock does not react. 

But now I begin to think of myself, and tense up the muscles in my groin. I now want to feel myself thicken and grow, and match the sensation to the visual look of it. As my awareness of my looked at self intensifies, so does my cock thicken and lengthen, and now it hangs, not yet hard, but no longer soft and fluid. 

The head of my prick slowly emerges from the shelter of its foreskin, and the shaft thickens and fills behind it. My balls rise and tighten in their hanging sacs and I begin to feel heating and shifting sensations in my prick.

My cock is about six inches long now, straight and thickening and beginning to harden, but still hanging. 

I draw myself once again, closely observing the curve of my prick head and the size of the slitted opening, and the colour is deepening and reddening. A second image is captured on my page, right next to the first, and I can study the changes between them, and my cock hangs thick against my thigh. My balls are filling, and they too are shifting in their colour. Purples and browns define their tones, and the brown-black of my curled hair.

I consider how I can draw my fully erect prick, for it will stand vertical against my belly and no longer hang, and the size and length will be defined in different ways. Fully hard and stiff, the tip of my cock just touches the bottom edge of my navel, so that scallop of hollowed, swirled flesh becomes a part of the third portrait of myself. 

My cock is fully hard now, the head thick and full and the softer skin stretched down the shaft. A tracery of smaller veins spreads away from the central vein, and there is a clear junction of two veins joining on the top side of the shaft. On the bottom side of the shaft there is a leaf shaped shadow of darker skin, a birth mark blaze that is a family trait in the men of my blood line. A darker flesh on the shaft of my core, brown like a fading bruise, but it is not a bruise. It is a curious thing, and is darkening as I grow older.

I have drawn a fully filled prick now, eight hard inches, and also drawn the artifice of my hand with spread fingers holding the shaft, so I have a portrait of my prick and a study of my hand, but the drawing of the next stage is beyond me, for it will all be movement, both of my hand and my stroked shaft and my spilling seed. 

I cannot draw this movement which is steadier and faster now, stroking the long shaft and then pausing to stretch and tug on my rising, tightening balls. The pencil has been dropped, and I no longer pretend this is art or practice or a study. 

No, quite simply, this is now about me and sensation and I no longer care about what my cock looks like, I am more interested in what it feels like. My curled hand feels a heat and a shaft, and the movement of my thumb tip is slow over the head of my cock, rich and red and swelling, the slit at the end beginning to open and redden. I drag my balls away from my body to slow the quickening, but I can feel the rising from deep within me.

My cock thickens and, impossibly, seems to lengthen, an imperceptible amount - it is as if the length of my shaft is straining and stretching out for something. At that point the moon light flickers from behind a passing cloud, and a bright moon beam illuminates my straining prick, and another beam flares on the drawing of my cock and hand on the easel. Is there a tiny stretch in the drawn cock on the page as the real cock reaches towards it? 

A movement flashes through my imagination, just as the deeper surge of my spine starts the first pulsating burst of come up from my swollen balls, spurting up the length of my shaft, spilling on the floor in front of me. I come, copiously, spilt seed a white mess on the floor, my fingers swirling one last time over the wetness at the end of my prick, and I taste myself as I always do.

In real life my cock softens and falls between my legs, but on my page, my drawn cock remains proud and erect, tight and hard, my drawn hand gripping it. And the angle of the drawing has changed from the way I drew myself. The hand in the drawing is now holding the rigid cock, no longer hard up against my drawn gut, but outwards more, as if an offering. My hand is presenting the cock, the bulbous head swollen and rounded, succulent like a plum, the slit glistening wet with pre-come. 

Below the shaft my balls are drawn, but they are heavier and hang lower than mine in life. This drawn cock is offered up, and there is a bigger weight of seed hanging in those sacs. There is a hard magnificence here.

But my ejaculation has made me drowsy and it's getting late. I stretch myself out on the couch and cover myself with a soft rug, warming my body. The moon drops and the night is still.

I feel a gentle stroke of fingers on my cheek and through my hair, rousing me from sleep. The fingers, and they are curiously familiar, gently caress over my cheek, down along my jaw line and stroke down my throat to the top of my chest. Whoever it is, and I have no sense of anybody in the room, pulls the top of the rug away from my body and pulls it down to my hips, exposing my torso. 

The hand returns to my face and tilts it forward. Fingers and then a thumb caress my lips and press into my mouth, a delicate press and probe, slow. I suck on the fingers, and am rewarded by a little push, a tiny fuck into my mouth. There is just the one hand caressing me, and my own hand rises to my chest and plays upon my nipple. I twist and pull on the nub, and it tightens to a tight peak, erectile tissue hard. I do the same on my other tit, and a hot link threads to the base of my swelling cock, and throbs there.

Now I scent a familiar waft on the air, a muskiness that is my own prick, but I am curious, closed eyes but curious, for the scent is strong and near. Then I feel a gentle soft touch on my cheek, slowly brushing my skin. I open my eyes, and before me is a softened cock, just as I had drawn it, grazing my cheek. A hand, and good God the hand is familiar but the angles are all wrong, I have never seen my hand from this angle before except in a mirror, my hand is offering the softened cock to my lips. 

I want this cock, more fiercely right now than I have ever wanted a woman's slick wet lips, I want this cock to fill and swell in my mouth. I am hungry for it, and open my mouth and take in the soft offering. I savour the sweet taste of the thickening head, and roll my tongue about it. 

Impossibly, I feel a tongue and suck on my own prick and I thicken and harden beneath the rug. There is a rough sensation on my sensitive cock head as my shaft rises against the cloth, but beneath that rubbed sensation there is also a hotter, wetter feel, that of a swirling tongue.

In my mouth the cock head is growing and a heat filling and lengthening, and I am twisted between senses. I can feel my cock being sucked and nipped down the shaft, and my tongue and teeth are busy and biting on the growing thickness in my mouth. I'm sucking and being sucked at the same time, exquisite sensation along my hard prick and my teeth nipping at the head and shaft. 

I realise that this erecting prick will transition through three states, for I know that this is the drawing of me done in the moonlight come real in the room. I also know that I came in the room after completing the third stage of the drawing, and hope and wonder if this swollen cock on my tongue and sucked in my cheeks will spurt and fill my throat. But I could not draw that spasm because of the movement, so I do not know what might happen here. 

But these are the first two thickened but still hanging stages of this filling cock, and now I am eager to take the testes sacs into my mouth, to fill my opened wide mouth one by one, sucking long eggs between my heated, spit slicked tongue and lips. I can hear my own wet sucking, and my groin is wet and hair tangled, and I suckle on my own sweet sacs, pulling them away from the base of the cock that is starting to rise to its full height and hardness and thickness. I have to change the angle of my throat to take this rod deeper, and bring my hands to pull and twist and tangle on those heavy balls as the long shaft goes deep. 

Aggg gg, I pull back on the shaft before I gag, but now there is a hand behind my head holding me from pulling back too much, and the fully risen cock is held deep in my throat. But it is too thick and I can no longer easily suck, and I want to nip the sensitive flesh on the head of me, so I force my head back. I can now slide a long spit wet tongue along the shaft and nip the tight skin around my head. 

And I like this more, for the head of my prick is bulbous and pumped in my groin, and the taste is salty and wet drenched in my mouth, and I slow and slow and slow, taking long swirling sucks and feeling those heavy balls and squeezing and pulling them in my hand. My other fingers are twisting and flicking the hard tits on my chest and ah fuck, it is all sucked and thick sensation. But I slow and slow and slow. I don't want to hasten my coming. I want it to be slow, and a waiting thing. I want to suck and fuck myself for a long time.

I have drawn a thickened vision of me and taken it to my mouth and sucked hard and sweet and a rising starts in the base of my spine and I feel a fullness swelling in the devoured prick. But there is another wetness place that this shaft can go, and I slick and wet the fingers that held the back of my head and offered up this delectable hardness to my lips. I have fucked gently into my mouth, but now I want to be fucked harder, before this night is done.

I throw the rug away from body and rise to my four limbs like an animal. My ass rears high and my thighs spread and a coolness swings across my heaving balls, and a coolness tingles on the high bud of my anus, twitching. I lower my shoulders, my head resting on my arms, my face sideways to a cushion on the couch. I want to be fucked now. 

I have only drawn one hand around my hard erect long prick, so there is only hand to pull a cheek wide from my hot asshole, and only four fingers and a thumb to cup my heavy balls hanging down, and only one long forefinger to push into my clenching ass.

I'm too dry, and need moisture and wetness all around my hole and in me. I scrabble on the floor with my own hands, and find a tube of paint dropped there. I undo the lid and do an exploratory squeeze, and it is a gouache or something, quite soft and fluid. It will do. I pass it back to the hand parting my cheeks and, fuck, that's cold. But the moist paint is ideal as a lubricant, and my ass is filled and probed by deep fingers, and I am wet and leaking stickiness. 

Because the drawing of my prick is an ethereal thing with no body behind it, I find that I cannot push back against it as I might a real cock, for as I push it moves away with the tightness of my opening. I've never taken the weight of a man in my ass, only fingers and toys and a strapped woman, so I can only imagine real heat and weight on me and into me; my own body a futile resistance. But fuck, being Narcissus now is a frustration, for I can feel the heat of the big prick behind me but it's not in me, and I can't force myself back on to it. 

Ah God, the frustration. I am Tantalus once more. Fuck, no. But then I find that if I rhythmically squeeze and contract the muscles of my ass, that I can loosen and relax my rim; and with the slow pressure of the swelling cock behind me, it slowly pushes in and I can push back on to it and slowly my asshole opens out and opens around it, and inch by slow hot inch my drawn prick eases into my tight channel.

It's a tantalising and tormenting slow thing, and slowly oh so slowly, the longest tease and fill. But then there is a point where this hot ridged prick has eased its way some two or three inches into my body, that the resistance of the rings of muscle give way, and the depths of my ass shaft want to open up and suck the long prick shaft in, and it's easier now. The wet sliding cream of the paint heats into my flesh and is smoother and more fluid, and with a final lubricated thrust, my ass high and urging backwards, the long shaft finishes its push, and oh my sweet fuck, my ass is filled. 

I push and rock backwards slowly, my tunnel exquisitely filled and stretched, and can feel the heavy weight of those hanging balls press against my own, and the tangled touch and press of the four eggs together, fuck, my groin is all sensation. The wetness of the paint leaks from my cock filled ass hole and smears around my balls, and it is like a dripping cunt of flesh between my legs.




The Artist's Studio Ch. 02



And I slowly begin to fuck myself, cock rigid and ass opening, and the sensation is incredible. I can feel the tight grip and hot squeeze as if it was my own prick embedded deep in a musk drenched tunnel, but my cock swings thick below my legs and thrusts in the empty air beneath my belly, pushed hard and tight with each thrusting fuck. 

At the same time the deep drive of the cock inside me is spreading me and opening me and taking me hard and full, and I am fucking and fucked together, taken and pressing and fucking sweet and long and thick into me. The thrusting shaft sets up a long slow stroke, and slowly my ass opens and swells and the depth of me is fucked long and deep, and I become as a woman is, fucked with a long prick, my sex and ass opening wide like a flower.

Fuck I am deep into me and deeply taken and filled, and I settle into a long swithing rhythm, pistoning deep into my dark channel, my prick plundering my cunt opening asshole. Fuck. Into. Me. Harder. Deeper. Longer. Thicker. Wider. Faster now, oh fuck, faster. The cock settles to a swift fucking stroke, and my body rocks and I am pummelled and plundered and fuck I get taken, hard. 

I urge back on it as hard as I can, and the faster fuck into me provides a resistance, so my ass is pounded now, oh so hard and fucking into me. I feel a rising churn deep in the base of my spine, and the thrusting cock is sliding past my prostate, and a long stream of milk starts from my cock and over the couch below me, and deep in me I feel a build up of coiled pressure, and my orgasm is building.

And behind me, the shaft buried deep in my ass is huge, and I feel another urgency building, and there is a race as to which pair of heaving balls will rise and churn their seed first, which long shaft will thicken and spurt first, which hard thrust will deliver thick, wet semen first, which part of me will come first. Ah fuck, it is both. 

I explode in a writhing spasm, come jetting from my prick and at the same time I feel a shuddering fullness in my ass and that prick too has come, its seed mixing with the lustrous paint and spilling from the widened opening and ah, fuck, there is an ecstasy deep within me and a final thrusting surge, and I collapse onto the couch, my ass clenching around the prick trapping it there, our heaving balls wet and hair tangled. 

A hand slowly caresses the cheek of my ass and the only sound I can hear in the room is my panting breath and a gentle wet slide and lick as the mess that is in me drips from my asshole, the cock there not softening. My own cock softens, and my belly is a sweat of cream and a slide of dribbling paint, pressing to the couch. Fucked.

--ooo OOO ooo--

In the morning I awoke, my ass and balls a mess of sticking wetness and paint, my tightest hole still throbbing from the filling and shafting that took place during the night. On the easel is the drawing of my rising cock, soft, rising and rigid. The last image is still shown hard and erect against my gut on the page, but the head of my drawn cock is rich purple and red, and there is a smear of whiteness all down the shaft, a wash of the paint that was used to wet my channel so that the dry drawn cock could slide. So the fucking left its trace on the paper.

But what I didn't know, was how on earth this was all happening. How the fuck could pictures come to life and find sexual pleasure? I could understand what was going on in Sophia's studio, because there were real people drawing and real people modelling, and it was easy to see how the live emotion and sensuality in a room could translate to paper and to touch. But me, by myself, how did that work? What was going on there?

And then I figured it out, during my regular morning swim. I swim through summer, and it's just past the solstice now, and that gave me the clue. Even though I swim at the same time each morning, the sun is a little lower each day. But over the half hour I'm in the pool, the sun climbs a bit higher, and by the time I'm doing my last laps, there is a pattern of shade from nearby trees alternating with direct sunlight on the water. And that was the solution. 

I was swimming in the lane next to a faster swimmer, a long svelte girl, long limbs propelling her past me, a trail of bubbles from her kicking feet. As she passed from shadow to sunlit water and back into shadow, it was as if she disappeared when the light was not on her, just a trail of bubbles lingering. She flashed like a fish from darkness into light, and there it was, the flicker of light from the rippling, splashing water. Under the direct light of the sun her body shimmered and flickered with the light, and then in the shadow she was gone. Back into the light, and there she was. 

Light. Dark. Flickering light. Motes of dust caught in the light, like small live things, faeries floating in the air. Blue moonlight, starlight in the darkness, starlight and moonbeams, bringing astral light into the room. Light itself was being caught in my drawings and in my room, live spirits in the light, aerial fantasies finding solidity and with it ecstasy. Light and living energy. Fucking fantastic. Fantastic fucks. 

--ooo OOO ooo --

A week or so later and a storm is brewing. The weather forecast is for wind, rain, and lightning. I have an idea.

I get the largest sheet of drawing paper that will fit on my easel, nearly four feet high by three wide. I find a photo on-line that will serve as a prompt, and that's so easy now. And memory will also serve, a favourite flower of spreading petals, blooming, moist. I take a thick stick of charcoal, thick and dark, for I will be working in big bold strokes and curves for this drawing, with a singular focus and no distractions, no peripherals, no background. 

Just a single, bold image, carefully shaded and toned, showing every crease and fold, every soft curve of flesh. Every corrugation and shape before my eyes and in my mind's eye, I sweep them on to the page in dusted folds of blackness. I work on the drawing with my finger also, teasing up a high bud peaking up from a long channel of folded lips, the careful detail of folded creases, crisp and neat.

In the distance thunder rumbles, echoing off the surrounding hills, and the storm is away across the plain, but will circle closer. The storms are like animals in this city, they pounce and prowl, circle and return. There is time. 

I return to the easel, and ease my finger over the highlighted peak of flesh, and the paper sighs softly. Again, it whispers. So I oblige and the high pearl of flesh is fuller, higher. I draw the curved slope above it and lace a delicate curl of light hair around and away, fanning out. I lightly smooth the drawn hair with my palm, and the paper is warm and soft under my skin. 

With my charcoal I lightly shade down the inside of one drawn thigh and capture the hint of a strong leg. There are more dark tight whorls to be drawn, and a deep roundness, ridges radiating in soft spokes away from a heated centre, and a ridge up to the centre of the page where I also tease open two delectable petals of flesh, opening like a butterfly with a long damp centre between. 

I focus on highlights of light and glistening dew, fine pearls of glistening wetness, and the paper sighs. More, it whispers. And again I am light and delicate with the tip of my finger, delicately smoothing and blending the tones before me, lifting little highlights away from the paper, and the dust follows the trail of my finger tip.

And the paper lifts from the easel as it tries to follow. But I'm teasing now, and dart my touch to another part of the image and lift another highlight, deepen another darkness and shadow, gently twirl my finger tip over a smoothness and a wetness. The paper gasps. I sigh in return, and my prick is rising. The image is huge, filling the whole sheet, and it is central on the paper before me. I step back to see it as a wonderful, complete thing and it is lifelike and magnificent, but huge, filling the whole sheet. 

I have drawn the erotic centre of every woman's lush, ripe sex on the easel before me, folding petals of lips and flesh, glistening with dewing moisture. Above is the high peaking erect clit, nestled below a mons lightly covered with a fine down of hair. Below the spreading sex is the deep musk darkness of a sweet dark asshole, on each side the curving strength of muscled legs.

I step back and have to be naked to view my creation. I have to take my risen prick in my hand and spill seed in worship of this altar, drawn huge before me. I begin to gently stroke myself.

The storm is circling closer, the time between the flash of lightning and the rip of thunder shorter and shorter, the thunder louder and louder. I have angled the easel towards the window, so that all of the crackling light can fall upon the image. The room erupts with a thump of sound, a massive pulse of thunder and the Iight is instantaneous.

Ah fuck, I am Mary Shelley...

--ooo OOO ooo--

"Jesus, Arbogast, what the fuck happened here?"

"I have no fucking idea, weirdest damn thing that I've ever seen, almost." The detective replied, musing. "Almost as strange as that guy Cain, who disappeared the day we electrocuted him."

"Oh yeah, I remember him. Fuckin' strange shit with those birds too, as I recall."

"Yeah, that's the one. Still, we'd better call the mortuary, come take this sorry fucker away. Don't know what went on here, but the place smells of cooze, so I hope he had a fucking good time before he went. Must have been a heart attack, there's no sign of violence."

"Not sure 'bout that, boss, what's that white dribble near his mouth? Looks like he might have had a mouthful of boy juice as well. Fucking artists and their models,eh?! What we gonna do about this picture? Jesus, that's the biggest damn cunt I've ever seen. I'll say this for him, he had a good eye for a woman."

"Part of a woman, at least." Arbogast laughed, and turned his back. "Find Alexandra Cain, she'll buy it."



The Artist's Studio



Ah yes, we drew her until she came.

And when she came, with a quiet intensity that was wordless, for these papers and canvases caught no words and we could not paint it nor draw it, for it was Joanna's own ecstasy that we had aroused; when she came our three images captured the moment just before her peaking pleasure. That was the moment we could see and capture, but the tumbling, soaring waves of pleasure that were beyond that moment, we could not capture those. 

For they were the intensity right there in front of us, now, and we all wanted to stay and bear witness and gaze upon this woman in her pleasure that we had helped create but she had made her own. As she came and quivered with the swooning delight of it, Joanna made one soaring cry and moan, and the room throbbed with her sound.

We four were motionless, and our images forever captured the moment before. And in the moments after, four artists who had shared this luscious model and her generosity, the four of us each looked deep into ourselves and took our own silent pleasure, each in our own way. 

I vowed that I would place my drawing on a wall and had no doubt that I would spill my come on the floor before it like a sacrament, many times. In that room and in that place, though, I held my hand firm on my hard prick held tight within my jeans, and felt the hot peak within my nipples and that was enough. I had my drawing.

I looked at Nicola, and in her own shy way, I saw that she had one hand cupping her breast inside her soft bra, and with the fingers of her other hand she traced the blossom of heat on her own throat; and her gaze was upon the face she had drawn on her paper. That was why she was here, in this class.

On the other side of the room, Sarah still held her brush in one hand, poised and still, but her other hand was hidden inside a fold of her skirt, and there was a slow movement at the very core of her. She was responding to her own response to the woman who lay before her, and it was her skill that had brought Joanna to her peak. Sarah was clearly going to celebrate women in her art.

And by the door, leaning against the door post, Sophia had one hand down the back of her low slung jeans, inside the band of her high underwear, and I knew she had one finger pressed to the bud of her asshole and it was clenched there.

If there had been another artist with a wider vision and precise quick skills, then the studio would have been a silent tableaux, filled with tiny details but soundless. And then movement crept back into the room, while the images on the easels were still and forever now, and sounds returned as well. Joanna broke the spell first, by getting off the couch and then moving to see herself portrayed. Each of us stood by our easel and were silent as she gazed upon herself.

In front of my drawing she held one hand to her own belly, and reached the other to the image and lightly touched it on its belly there, and made one tiny final adjustment to the picture, based on some intimate knowledge of her own, that I could not see. So she knew that the sensations in her belly and ribs were from me.

"Thank you, your touch was gentle when I wanted it to be gentle, and stronger when I wanted that."

Seeing Nicola's drawing and that shy girl standing beside it, Joanna reached her finger to Nicola's own throat and stroked the side of her neck. 

"Your fingers are so soft, you must draw me again, I would delight in that." Ah God, the look on Nicola's face, hearing those words.

"Oh Sarah, I am still as wet as your paint; and Sophia, I see that you could not resist dabbing your deepest purple on my clit. You wonderful tease, I thought I felt your colour there!"

--- ooo OOO ooo ---

The next day it was I who ran late, seeming to catch every red traffic light on the long straight road on the plain, and then the curving climb up the hill was slow and truck blocked. By the time I arrived, Sophia, Nicola and Sarah had claimed their spot in the studio, and set up their easels.

But the women were despondent.

"Joanna can't make it today," said Sophia, "she's been tangled up in some other business. I don't know what to do about a model, I'm sorry."

I immediately thought of Joanna's experience yesterday. 

"Hey, if nobody minds, I'm willing to give it a go. I've not done it before, but I'm willing."

Eager at the idea: truth be told, if three women could paint me and I could feel it like Joanna felt it; fuck, I could manage that.

Sophia looked at me with a serious gaze, "are you sure?"

"I might not be a David, but I'm not Jabba the Hutt either," I replied, "and if Sarah and Nicola would like to paint a man's body, then yeah, I'll give it a go."

"What do you think, ladies?" Sophia asked.

"Why not," replied Sarah, "it will be something new for me." 

She looked at me in a different way, but I couldn't begin to guess what was going through her head. I remembered how she had painted Joanna's open and fecund sex, and how her quick brush strokes had brought Joanna to her peak. Her peak of purple bruise and vermilion crease.

"Me too," said Nicola, blushing, but not catching my eye. I couldn't read the girl.

Sophia looked at me for maybe five seconds, but she too was unreadable. Perhaps she was wondering about my willingness to strip naked before a group of unknown women, when she herself found it so hard. Perhaps she was appraising me with her artist's eye. I don't know, but then I saw a small smile in the corner of this elegant blonde's mouth, and the smile creased to her eyes.

"OK then, if you think you can do it, let's do it. I'll paint as well - I wonder if I can get a good likeness." 

Damn, was she teasing me or challenging me? I knew that much of Sophia's income came from portrait commissions, so what the hell was she on about?

I looked at the three women, and it was only then that I realised that I had no real idea what I was doing here. I didn't know these women at all. My thought from the previous day flashed into my head, about a coven of white witches. And then the witch scene from Macbeth flashed through my mind. Polanski had filmed Macbeth, darkly.... 

Shit, maybe I wasn't so clever after all. I didn't even know if these women even liked men. Nicola certainly had a thing for women, that was obvious, but she seemed uncertain, so I think I was safe there. But Sarah, hmmm. Lady lawyers could be ball busters, since they needed to learn to survive in a male dominated world, in this town, at least. And Sophia? Fuck, I knew I was way out of my depth with that woman.

It was no wonder then, with these thoughts swirling through my head, that my cock was small and fragile when I stripped out of my clothes. Sophia had shown me to another room to prepare myself, knowing perhaps that my bravado might disappear. Damn, I can't go out there with you looking like that, I said to myself, as I looked down. My cock ignored my head. Fuck you mate, say it to the hand. That's better, a bit more heft and length, but nothing to startle the ladies. OK, I can do this.

I went back to the studio in the same kimono that Joanna had wrapped herself in yesterday, and the silken softness was smooth against my skin. My hanging cock brushed against the cloth as I walked, and even that little movement was tactile and sensual. It seemed that my senses were becoming more acute already, with the expectation of the next hour or so.

Still, it was a bit daunting. Here I was, naked under a silken gown, and the eyes of three women already on me, and knowing that I was going to be looked at more intensely than ever before. But Sophia the teacher took control, and for a minute or so there were instructions and the moving about of easels as they each found an eyeline and then I was stretched on the couch as they decided what pose they wanted me to hold.

In the end, it was much the same as Joanna's pose from yesterday. I was sitting slightly higher on pillows, with my right arm along the back of the couch. My left hand was resting on my left thigh, my right leg was slightly raised, so my body was tilted ever so slightly forward. 

My cock and balls were nestled, coiled in my groin. Because of the angle of my body, my cock was curved around my right ball sac, nestled over the top of the left sac. I am uncut, so my foreskin was just over the end of my cock head, the prepuce quite tight. Soft, my curved cock was maybe four, five inches long and would, I hoped, make a nice study for the women. The room was comfortable and warm, so I had no concern that my cock would shrivel and shrink with cold. 

I did not know if the drawing and painting would work the same magic in the room as it had with Joanna, I did not know what magic might be involved. The women might be witches, but I am no wizard.

"Are you comfortable, A?" 

Sophia makes sure that I am settled and relaxed, and then she becomes the teacher, once again.

"See how the bulk and shape of a male body is so different to a female body. Joanna was all curves and soft round shapes, whereas A is all about flat planes and lengths, and the muscle contours are different. You still need to find the main gesture and the outlines, but you will find that the tones and contours are flatter, and the shapes more angular. When you are capturing the essence of a male physique, you need to think in terms of columns and length and flat planes. For a woman, you think curves and roundness. Unless you are drawing a catwalk or a fashion model, in which case it's all angles and elongation."

There was a laugh around the room at the last comment, but the point was made. Bodies are different, it's that simple. All you need to draw a body is close observation.

And as their drawings and paintings began, I went into a zone of my own, some inwards observation, some contemplation. For maybe ten minutes I was aware of the voices in the room, but because I could not see what was being talked about, and the shapes being made on paper and canvas were out of my sight, I found that I was no longer following the conversations. My eyes were half closed, but I was aware that Sophia had stood by each of the artists to see where they were up to. She hadn't turned to her own easel yet.

"That's excellent, Sarah, you've really caught that line well. Just close up the shape of his left foot and you will have a full outline and can start to block in the masses."

As Sophia says those words, I feel a strange sensation in my foot, as if the lightest, most delicate breath of wind has blown over my naked skin. Then there is a stronger sensation on my toes and on the base of my foot, and then a long sweeping line of pressure up the side of my foot to my ankle. It's not unpleasant, just unfamiliar. 

The same sweeping pressure moves up my shin to my thigh, and there is a circular motion around my knee, and a descending sweep down my leg. There follows abrushing sensation along the back of my calf, and a coolness also. I open my eyes and look towards Sarah and see that she is concentrating her focus towards my legs. Is this what it feels like to be painted, then? Each brush stroke a touch on my skin, and because she is using paint, a wetness as well?

I shift my vision to see where Nicola's concentration is, because I cannot feel anything else. Ah, wait, yes, the lightest, softest touch is around my face and eyes, just a shimmer of touch on my temples, and I guess that Nicola is sketching in my face and features. Again, the sensation is faint and gentle, like a ghost touching my skin. I think Nicola's touch is as light and delicate as her glances - almost not there at all, but repeated over and over as the line and shadow fall into place on her paper. She uses pencil and light colours, and her touch is like gossamer on my skin.

I find that I can feel the two different sensations at my head and on my lower limbs at the same time, even though they are quite different in the length of each stroke or touch, and their firmness. Sarah's strokes are more confident, and cover more of my limbs in one sweeping flow. Nicola's touch is lighter, more tentative (like the girl herself, I think), but every now and then there is a stronger sensation, and then that place is left. She builds up her detail in tiny, light touches, just finger tips on my flesh, and then she underlines a finished place with a stronger, confident, final touch.

Then it is strangeness around my chest and belly, and it is the gossamer light touch sweeping down from my neck, and the wetter longer brush moving up from my thighs, and both women are painting and drawing my chest and torso, together. Their different styles merge in my muscles and skin, and then there is a big swirling confident rub all over my body and breast, and a solid stroke all down my leg, and I see that Sophia stands by her easel with a thick stroke of charcoal in her hand, and her confidence is upon me. Her artist's eye has caught my line in one confident sweep, and the feeling is exhilarating.

The sensations from their three different styles of painting become intense on my skin, and I begin to get saturated with sensation, especially if the women chance to focus on the same place of me at the same time. Right now they are all still focusing on the main planes and long shapes of my body, and my skin is swept by a range of long touches, swooping and curving over my limbs and down the sides of my torso and across my belly.

Sophia is the more skilled artist, and her touch on my flesh is confident, swift and firm. I feel wide stripes of sensation ripple like bands of light across my body as she rapidly builds up the tone and shape of my muscles, my legs and arms. She runs her fingers over the curve of my upper arm, and it is like a firm massage, deep into the muscle. 

Sometimes her touch is almost painful, as she pulls up the dark tone from pressing hard on the charcoal. Under her firm sweeping embrace, which flickers quickly from one limb to another, from my chest to belly to thigh, I feel a softer, slower and more gentle caress. It is Nicola's fine pencil slowly filling in the darks and light and shadows on my skin, and she circles the fine point slowly down my arm, and she finds the sensitive hollow inside my elbow, and finds all the shadows there. Her style is slow and patient, as she looks closely into my flesh and finds the detail. 

There is a little scar on the inside of my left wrist, and she has spied it and traces out its dimensions, making a light prickle of shadow lace down my wrist. The inside of my wrist is delicate and sensitive, or it is Nicola's soft, gentle touch that makes it so.

Then, suddenly, there is a wetness on my nipple like a tongue, and Sarah has turned her eye and the bristles of her brush to my nipple, and she is twirling the tip of that nub of flesh into tightness. I can see that she has used a rich colour from her palette, and my nipple stands up in contrast. She spins the brush around my other nipple, and both are painted up to bright, sharp peaks, and a pulse darts down the nerve that connects my tight tits to the base of my cock, and there is a twitch and pulse deep in my groin. I feel my balls shift and roll, but the eyes of the women are elsewhere, and the slight movement is not noticed, not yet.

But as Sarah teases up my nipples for her canvas, this small movement in me is seen by the other two women, and my chest and nipples are brushed with a myriad of sensations, as Sophia presses firmly onto my chest to lay down her tone, and she then shapes it with two fingers, to get the fill of the shape on her paper, and she uses the pad of one finger to pull up a bright highlight. But fuck, the bright white light is on the end of my nipple, and the shaping feels like a pinch. Sophia is not gentle with her drawing, and I wonder if she knows she is being quick and hard on my flesh. Jesus, she has just pulled three fingers hard across my ribs, chasing the corrugations and shadows down the side of my body.

I ache for Nicola's gentle touch, but even she is more certain, more rigorous, as she pencils in the conical tightness of my nipples, both tweaked quickly, one after the other. The attention on my chest and tight nips sends more nervous bursts to the base of my spine, and my cock is starting to thicken. 

Nicola is the first to notice the thickening and slow straightening of my cock, and I feel the light feathering touches of her pencil like the stroke of a feather itself on my cock. Her exquisite subtlety in capturing what she sees is enough by itself to shift and lengthen my cock more, and Nicola is trying to draw an ever changing shape. My cock is not yet a shaft, but it has uncoiled in my groin and is moving on my thigh.

Sophia notices what Nicola is doing. 

"Don't use your eraser on the shifting shapes," she says, "think what that might do, it wouldn't be good!"

Nicola gasps as she realises what she was about to do.

"Just keep drawing over the smaller shapes as you see the bigger ones emerge," Sophia advises, realising what will happen in my cock before the younger, more innocent girl realises. And with the attention, for now Sarah also notices the shifting growth in my groin, my cock thickens and straightens and completely changes its position on my leg, and the head starts to emerge from its foreskin.

"Oh, I can't wait for all this slow arousal," Sarah has a laugh in her voice, "let's just paint him erect, right now, so we can each adjust our own drawings and paintings to show the final shape." 

And there is a broad, wet stroke up the length of my cock as she brushes up the full length of my erection, and swirls a full shape of rich red and purple colour for my cock head. The wetness is like a tongue, long and slick up the flesh of my tightening shaft.

Sophia joins the shape shifting with a firm grasp of her charcoal covered fingers, and my cock is fully erect now and hard against my belly, swollen with her grip and the firm, confident lines of her drawing.

"Well, there's a nice length for us to draw, I'm not sure I expected that," she says.

I sneak a look at the women from closely slitted eyes, each at work on their easels, and their different artistic approaches shift and shiver up and down my thick shaft. Now there are swirls of sensation around my balls as they translate these rounded shapes to their work. And here I can sense the different visions of my cock and balls being translated to their easels. This coven of three women view and portray me, their momentarily captured and captive man, in different ways.

Sophia's drawing is bold and assured, and her long fingers rub over the muscles on my gut and the shapes of my thighs, and she shades bold tones deep into my groin and lifts the highlights up onto the shaft of my cock, shaping it long and strong, upright and solid. She exaggerates the ripple of veins along the skin of my cock, and my balls are full and swollen in her image of me. She draws long shudders up and down the length of my body. I sense also that she is drawing my cock at a new angle, that is not what she sees in front of her, but is an angle to satisfy something in her mind. She is starting to add something to her drawing that is not only me. She is drawing some new curves for my hands to hold, that I cannot see, but they are in her mind's eye.

Nicola's drawing and touch is once again light and delicate, teasing soft sensations over the head of my prick as she shapes the head of it as finely detailed and shaped, like a succulent piece of fruit. Her fragile touch also drifts over the hair on my balls, as she shades and shapes those sacs, like other pieces of fruit, almost as if each soft hair is individually drawn onto a soft velvet background. 

Sarah has no patience, and I feel the swirl of her brush and the smooth wetness of the paint she uses, as if it were some wet sheath being wrapped around my limbs. She dabs at my cock, layering on shadows and colours, and almost as quickly as she shapes a limb, she swirls over it in a different direction, and it feels like my body is being torn and tangled. Her style is jagged and abrupt, and my flesh is bruised with the colours she uses. 




The Artist's Studio



I feel pummelled with her painting approach, and my flesh is some vivid and colourful thing in her hands. She slaps the paint onto my flesh like a drape of meat, as if my skin is being peeled back. Her wet paint feels visceral, as if she draws blood, and wounds me. It is the strangest sensation, as if she is feeling below the surface of my skin and touching the contour of my muscles, and the wetness spreads over me.

But now there is real strangeness in the touch of the drawing women, and I start to feel a weight on my limbs, and even a movement in the way I am lying on the couch. One of the women, and I think it must be Sophia, must be drawing me in a different pose on her paper. Both of my legs are being moved by the force of her forceful shading, so that both of my feet are now on the ground, and my legs are now spread. My groin is open and exposed, and there is a new weight on my thighs.

Sophia has completely altered the pose of me in her drawing, and she must also be drawing a new figure in her image, a figure placing weight on my thighs, and a new body placing fleshy weight into my hands. I realise that she is drawing a woman sitting on my lap with her back against my chest and the taut weight of her ass on my legs. My cock feels the sensation of my belly and also the heavy press of a back, holding it in place between two bodies.

Nicola and Sarah have both stopped their own drawings, as Sophia's new pose of me on the couch means their painting and drawing are done. What they have captured on their canvas and paper is no longer the view they see in front of them, and their work is complete now. They both come over to see what Sophia is drawing.

"Sophia, are you drawing yourself into the picture, sitting on his lap? Your gaze in the drawing, it is piercing, and staring directly at me. It's such a good portrait of you." 

Nicola tells me with these words who is being drawn into heat and flesh in front of me. But surely Sophia cannot be drawing herself into her vision of me? Surely the weight on my lap is from some other source of imagination, and not a portrait of her self emerging?

"Sophia, the breasts you are drawing for his hands to press to your chest, they are formless and misshapen. Surely, if this is a drawing of you, they would be more beautiful?" 

Sarah is offering honest critique, clearly something does not look right in Sophia's portrait of herself, on my lap.

"It's because I can't see my breasts without a mirror in front of me, and I can't feel them enough to draw them. There's no sensation in my breast to be drawn." 

From her words I realise that, just as the artist can affect the model, by drawing or painting a new shape which transmutes to the flesh of the model, so too can it work the other way. If the flesh of the artist can receive a sensation, then that sensation can be transferred to the canvas.

Sarah comes to the same conclusion. "I can solve that for you, I can give you the sensation you need to transfer to your canvas. I can shape your beautiful breasts, and you will feel them in my hands, and can paint them into your portrait. And A will feel their weight through your painting, and you'll be magnificent."

And Sarah moves behind Sophia, and is careful not to block the hand which holds the charcoal. She reaches around Sophia's body and undoes the buttons on her blouse and unpeels the garment from her arms. Sophia drops each arm in turn to help the other woman strip her, and she stands proud, her uplifted breasts clasped in a plain bra, cotton white. Sarah reaches around the tall blonde's slender body and takes the weight of those lovely breasts in her hands.

"Take it off, get rid of this bra," commands Sophia, and with no hesitation the other woman unclicks the strap on her back, and again Sophia shrugs off the slip of cloth. Her breasts are full and proud, tipped with hard brown nipples, and Sophia gives a low moan as her tits are held firm and pressed to her chest. Sarah caresses the tightness and pulls up the nipples between her fingers, and now that Sophia has a strong sensation on her own orbs, in all their fullness, she is able to draw the feel and softness and heaviness of her flesh onto her paper. 

By doing this, she draws herself, naked breasts peaked and full, and now my hands can feel a ghostly weight in my palms. I can feel the same erect nipples that Sarah can, and her fingers become as one with my fingers, and I know that the image is taking shape on the easel just as I feel a tangible heaviness and fullness in my hands. The drawing, charcoal dark and sweeping dust on Sophia's fingers, the drawing must be erotic and sensual.

The drawing of her breasts is not enough for Sophia, and she is drawing my fingers down to a wetness that is her cunt lips and her fair triangle of hair against my palm. But again the image is from Sophia's imagination, for she is standing tall and proud, and her long legs are sheathed in blue jeans, and there is no sensation, other than the tight fit of cloth, against her groin. But again Sarah has the solution. With one hand still firm and pressing on Sophia's hardened nipple, her other hand drops to the button and zip on Sophia's jeans, and they are undone.

"Nicola, come over and peel those jeans down her long legs," says Sarah, "and take your delight in what you find there." 

Sarah has been watching the younger girl these two days, and knows that another woman's flesh is the young woman's preference.

Nicola is no longer shy and wants to influence this picture being drawn in bold, charcoal swept curves and angles. Sophia is drawing the long angular planes of my male body, and she is now adding the curves and softness of her own female form. But there is the hardness of my prick between my belly and the ghostly length of her back, and her phantom ass is heavy on my thighs as she sits on my lap in her picture, facing away from me. Her cunt is drawn open and wet, and she draws my fingers into the wet depths of her.

But Nicola, with her feather light and delicate approach, Nicola has another idea. Ah God,I feel a slow tight hotness develop over the hard, purple head of my prick, and I cannot at first make sense of what is happening. But as time passes and Sophia's drawing responds to new sensations in her body, and she is able to transfer them to her drawing, and through her drawing, I am able to feel them on my body; I figure out what Nicola is doing.

She is the perfect, delicate thing, and her gentle hands take the taut tightness of Sophia's ass cheeks into her hands, and she separates them. The brown star of Sophia's asshole is exposed to the light breath of Nicola's hot mouth, and the girl blows on the woman's hot pucker. The asshole contracts and ripples, and the sensation is just upon the tip of my cock, through the drawing. 

Nicola crouches behind the teacher, and further spreads those taut cheeks, and then she places her own delicate tongue tip right on the centre of that tight, rich scented star, and penetrates. And the penetration of the woman by the delicate girl becomes a tight opening in the drawn weight on my lap, and the tip of my cock makes the same slow penetration into the drawn asshole that Nicola's tongue makes into the real one.

Sophia's ass is repeatedly probed by the hot wet tongue of the grateful girl, whose mouth is hungry and wet on that tight hole, sucking and licking, probing with her pointed, piercing tip. So the artist is penetrated, and her asshole filled with sensation. 

And she is able to draw that sensation with a subtlety beyond genius, for her charcoal dust image doesn't show her ass but does reveal the impact of that tonguing in her portrait. And because the sensation is revealed in the portrait, for that is the power of art, the sensation transfers to my skin and nerves, and it feels as if my prick is sinking, inch by slow inch, into that tight ass hole, each movement a tight small thrust that magically echoes the repeated thrusts of Nicola's tongue.

So there in the studio is the elegant blonde artist Sophia at her easel, and I am the naked model stretched reclined on the couch, my feet planted on the floor, my thighs wide and my groin and heavy balls spread and the subject of a powerful portrait, my neck and head arched back in ecstasy, and my prick rigid and upright and strangely pulsing and thrusting.

And the artist has the slender young woman Nicola crouched behind her, and the young woman's tongue is thrusting and licking in the ass channel of the artist, whose legs are planted apart to give the girl access, and whose cunt is filled by three slender fingers of the girl, who is thrusting upwards, just as I am thrusting upwards on the couch before them.

Standing just behind the artist is the other woman Sarah, whose hands circle the full and heaving breasts of the artist, and the third woman's fingers descend in swooping circles over the belly and onto the clit of the artist, and there is rising swell of female pleasure scented strong in the studio. And the three women intertwine their sensations and start to overwhelm the artist and they are about to become an orgasmic seeth of pleasure.

And on the easel, I imagine that there is an incredibly erotic and powerful image, a portrait of a strong woman with a prick deep in her ass, and the portrait of the woman's face is enigmatic and sexual beyond description, and her legs are spread wide as she sits upon a hidden image of me. For I sense that the portrait, that started as a drawing class demonstration of a naked male, has morphed into a magical depiction of a primal woman embedding a long cock as her own pleasure thing deep into her ass, and the three women in the studio have rendered me their own, and I am spellbound.

I have no concern that I am woven into a spell made by this churning drawing which is raw passion and rich pleasure, for I can feel through the continued sensation of brush and charcoal and rubbing fingers, a rising in my own core and a tight grasp on my cock and a long pull of a deeply imagined ass channel and a tightness around me. 

Sophia manages to concentrate still on what she is drawing, and captures the fullness of the real sensation on her breasts and belly, and in her wet cunt and in her tunnelled ass, and as she does so she weaves a sightless image into my head, and I feel every part of her strong, tall body, those high tight breasts, her tight long nipples, her exquisite grasp on my cock.

And in her drawing she depicts her own slender fingers swooping onto her raised clit and twisting it into heat and fullness and a rising throb, and Sarah is now crouched in front of Sophia and her tongue swirls over that clit just as before her wet brush and paint had swirled its wetness up my shaft. 

My cock is throbbing and thrusting and the sensation of a tight, slick asshole gripping and tight is beyond pleasure now, and I want to explode with my every upwards thrust and oh fuck, fuck, fuck there is an exquisite sharp shift deep within me, and my creaming semen begins a pulsating spurt up my long shaft, hard and ridged and deep in Sophia. Ah fuck, the magical image squeezes and pulls and my come is drawn from me in long streaming strokes.

My eyes startle open and my mouth is an open moan of pleasure as I come, and I expect to burst white and wet into the air because I know it is only a phantom sensation around my flesh and in my hands. My cock feels like it is sheathed in a frictionless place, and my skin and eyes lie to each other, for I can see my pulsing cock but there is no wetness by from it. I am coming, hard, oh fuck yes, so hard, but my cream is not to be seen.

I look to Sophia, and her hand has dropped the charcoal, finally, and her body is bounced upwards as if with a final, hard fucking; and I see on her face the tight pleasure of her own orgasm. And she comes, there before me, and she comes. 

The other two women have collapsed to the floor, and their tongues are deep into each other's mouths and their hands are grappling and squeezing the other's hard breasts, and they suckle in turn on each other's nipples, pulled without shame from their blouses, and I hear a low keening in the room, but cannot say which woman moans her pleasure.

And then I see, but cannot explain it, I see a white trickle of come seep down Sophia's leg, squeezing from her naked asshole, and it is my come which was lost into the air but real in her body. 

Slowly the sensations ease from my body, for Sophia collapses to the couch beside me and is no longer drawing, and my cock softens and begins to coil smaller into my groin. Sophia reaches down and places a cool palm over my smalling shaft and balls, and just lightly holds me, a soft soothing caress, gentle now, and not at all like her fierce drawing. I place an arm around her shoulder and she rests her head against my shoulder and the top of my chest.

"I didn't expect that," she says.

"You didn't expect that?" I reply. "How do you think I feel? I've never experienced anything like that before, ever. So that's art...."

"Yes, that's art. It can be overwhelming, sometimes."

"But well worth it," adds Sarah, who has moved to be near us, Nicola's hand in her own.

On the easel, a portrait of intense, dark passion, womanhood and a hard fuck in the ass. That portrait was finished.

"I wonder," muses Nicola, "whose portrait will you do next?" But it was not at all clear who she was speaking to.