0 comments/ 70762 views/ 9 favorites The Nude Model By: Guitman69 Here I was, standing out in the hallway wearing nothing but a long blue terrycloth robe. The door in front of me had the words "Art Dept." stenciled on the frosted glass. What am I doing here, I thought to myself. I know I’m broke, but do I need the money that bad? Just as I was about to walk away, a hand from inside the room grabbed me. "There you are, Jim. Come on in." The hand belonged to Ms. Thomas, the head of the Art department for the college. She addressed the class as she pulled me up to the stage; "Today we will be doing a study of the male nude. You may use any medium you like." The students were sitting around me in a semi-circle. Each sat upon a stool and had an easel in front of them. It was then that I noticed that all of the students were women, and gorgeous too. I swallowed hard and dropped my robe. Ms. Thomas moved me into position and asked if I was comfortable. I nodded my head yes. I was too nervous to say anything out loud. "Are you sure," she asked. "You are going to have to stay in this pose for a good hour and a half." "I’ll be fine," I managed to croak out. The instructor smiled at me and then walked off the stage to wander around the room. I looked around the room as far as I could without moving his head. Man, I thought, maybe I should change my major. I started to think about all these beautiful women staring at my naked body. That was when I felt my dick start to move. Oh no! Not now!! I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the most unsexy images I could. It was embarrassing enough standing here naked in front of all these beautiful women, but to also be sporting wood was just too much. I started to think about dead animals on the side of the road...my grandmother coming out of the shower…Rikki Lake. That did it. I could feel my little soldier starting to ease. A gorgeous red head in a very short skirt was sitting directly in front of me on a stool. Her easel was on her right side so I had an unobstructed view of her beautiful legs. She sat with her legs crossed and stared at me with a look of total concentration on her face. When she turned towards her easel and started to paint, her legs uncrossed. It took me a little while to notice it, but I could tell that she wasn’t wearing any panties. Let me tell you, she was a natural red head. She just sat there drawing; oblivious to the show she was giving me. Rikki Lake was not going to help me this time. My dick started to resemble the Washington monument, and there was nothing that was going to stop it. My face turned redder than the young artist’s pubic hairs. It didn’t even phase the girls in the class though. They just kept working like nothing was out of the ordinary. Ms. Thomas came up and whispered into my ear that, "This happens all the time Jim. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about." As she turned away, a cute little brunette wearing a pair of glasses and a low cut shirt walked up to the instructor. "Ms. Thomas," she asked as she pushed her glasses up with her finger, "could I move closer so that I can get a better look?" "Certainly, Tina," Ms. Thomas said. Tina pulled a chair and placed it a foot and a half in front of me. She lay a pad on her lap and started to draw. She was so close that I could feel her breath moving my pubic hairs. If this girl needed to be that close to see, she must be almost blind. I on the other hand was not blind. She was sitting right under me and without moving my head I couldn’t see what she was drawing, but I could see right down her shirt. I don’t know if she knew what I was looking at, but she looked up at me a few times and smiled at me. I saw some movement out of the corner of my eye. A lovely blonde was walking across the room. She went into a locker and pulled out a jar of red paint. She walked over to the counter near the sink, opens the jar, and starts to poor some of the thick liquid into a small bowl. She bit her lower lip as she tried very hard not to spill any paint on the counter. Behind her, another young artist sits up and starts to stretch. She was still holding a charcoal pencil in her hand though. As she reached out, she accidentally stabbed the blonde in the ass with it. The blonde jumped up and screamed, spilling the paint all over the counter and herself. The other girl jumps up yelling, "Oh shit! I’m so sorry Jen; I didn’t see you there. Here, I’ll clean this up, you try to get that paint out of your shirt before it sets." She went to grab some paper towels, and Jen walked over to the sink and filled it with water. She took off her shirt and threw it in. The shirt was baggy so I was surprised to see the how big her tits were. They looked to be a large C, almost a D, encased in thin, white lace. Well, it used to be white; the paint had stained them too. The paint must have been cold too, because I could see her nipples trying to poke through the material of her bra. "Oh damn," Jen said," it got my bra too." Then she did something I never would have expected… She took the damn thing off!!! I couldn’t believe it. Without any hesitation, she took her bra off and threw it in the water with her shirt. She stood there completely oblivious to everyone else around her and started to scrub the paint out of her clothing. Her nipples grew even harder in the cool air of the classroom. As she scrubbed, she motion caused her breasts to shake, which caused my dick to throb. Meanwhile, her friend had finished cleaning up the paint and was walking back to the closet to put it away. As she passed in front of me, she tripped over Tina’s chair. She went one way, and the jar of paint flew the other way; right towards the riser I was standing on. She must not have tightened the cap on all the way, because when it hit the floor the cap came off and splattered me with paint. Ms. Thomas rushed over to help the fallen girl off the floor. "Are you alright Julie?" she asked. "Yeah," Julie replied as she rubbed her elbow, "I’m fine." Ms. Thomas turned toward me and saw the paint that had spilled all over the place. "Oh my!" she said. "Don’t move Jim, I’ll clean this up." Then she turned back to the class, " The rest of you keep working. Julie, get me a rag and a bucket will you." When Julie returned with the rag and a pail full of water, Ms. Thomas knelt down in front of me and started to clean up the paint. Tina got up to get out of Ms. Thomas’s way. She stood behind the teacher and winked at me. Then she showed me what she had drawn. On the pad was a close-up of her face with my dick in her mouth. She flipped the page. Now my dick was in her hands as it spurted all over her face. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle and ran back over to her stool. Just then I felt Ms. Thomas cleaning the paint off my foot. The water was warm. I looked over at Jen, who apparently found some more paint on her breasts. She kept circling them with her soapy hands. The skirt on the red head in front of me had ridden up; giving me an even better view of her neatly trimmed pubic hair and the puffy lips below. Tina gave me another wink and licked her red lips. Ms. Thomas worked her way up my leg. Jen was working up a good lather. The red head spread her legs a little more. Tina undid another button on her shirt. Ms. Thomas got up past my knee. Jen moaned as she washed her nipples. The red head dropped her brush. She jumped off her stool and turned her back towards me. As she bent over to pick it up, her skirt slid up her ass giving me a complete view of her pussy. She must have had a hard time picking up the brush, because she stayed in that pose for a while. By now, Ms. Thomas was up to my hip. She stood next to me with the rag inches away from my cock. "Do you like what you see?", she whispered into my ear. I was too shocked to reply. "I bet your wondering what’s going on here." I nodded. "You see this is not an ordinary art class," she let out a short laugh. "Hell, most of the girls here can’t draw at all. What we are is a masturbation club. With the threat of STD’s this is a much safer way of having sex. Also, the girls don’t have to worry about some drunken frat guy not knowing what NO means. "We meet here every week and have some guy pose for us to get us all hot. Then we get him all hot." She looked down at my leaning tower. "And I can see it’s working. Now I want you to put on a good show for us." She noticed the confused look on my face. "Just do what comes naturally." Then she gave my earlobe a light bite and walked back to her desk. All the women around me started to get undressed. They stared at me, and this time it was different. I could see the lust in their eyes that they were hiding before. I was so confused. What do I do know? I could almost hear my dick screaming at me that it knew what to do. I closed my eyes and reached down to rub my swollen dick. It felt so good after all this visual stimulation to finally touch it. I heard a moan. I opened my eyes to see that the "artists" had taken my lead. They were all naked now and all were rubbing their pussies. A few used a free hand to twist and pull on a nipple. It was fantastic. I was in the middle of a circle of women that were using me to masturbate to. Every where I looked I could see fingers rubbing clits, plunging into pussies, and pinching nipples. It was the most glorious site I had ever seen. The room started to fill with the scent of sex and the moans of self-pleasure. I was getting close, but this was so great I didn’t want it to end so soon. I held it back until I could hear the first sounds of a female orgasm. It was Jen. Her self-stimulation earlier must have put her closer to the edge than the others. Hearing her scream out was too much for me. My dick exploded. My orgasm must have triggered everyone else’s. It was like a chain reaction. Exhausted, I fell back onto a chair behind me. No one said a word as we all tried to catch our breath. Ms. Thomas was the first to break the silence. "Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say, ‘Thank you Jim.’" There was a murmur of agreement from the girls and a few nodded heads. She walked over to me and handed me my robe. "We’ll keep in touch if we need your services again." She grabbed me by the arm and pushed me out into the hall before I could even put my robe on. I got half way back to my dorm room before I realized that I never got paid. The Nude Model Trini, an art model, was often nude. Totally nude, as the lustful eyes of young artists gazed upon her firm, supple form with thinly veiled hunger. Yes, Trini was tall and tan, young and lovely, though not from Ipanema. And yet today, Trini was not nude. At least not yet. Trini knew that silky, skimpy lingerie teased not only the viewer, but also the wearer. She felt the appeal of the fabric and colors. She liked the secret power and sexiness just feeling the luxury lingerie beneath her clothes. It provided a concealed, sensual, knowledge, and inclined her mind subtly and daily toward the pleasures of the flesh. Paul Batiste scowled in distaste at his rendition of his model's sleeves. The white lawn of fabric was proving difficult to paint. He'd always heard that white was the hardest color of all, to be layered with washes of color so that the undertones gave body to the painting. Body. Hard. These were words often associated with Trini. She was lithe and entirely luscious. Her lightly tanned legs were hardened by years of dancing and aerobics. Gazing at her firm, seductive body, Paul struggled to concentrate on the task at hand. He tore his mind away from salacious thoughts and thought about one of his favorite works, Renoir's depiction of a snow-covered Pont Neuf with passersby providing relief from the whiteness. He'd heard that Renoir's brother engaged pedestrians in conversation so that Renoir could capture them in paint, but Paul felt a paid conversationalist would not only confuse his model, but distract him. There had to be a better solution. Sure, he could ask Trini to change her shirt, or even put her in a baseball jersey with contrasting sleeves, but where was the attraction of painting a simple joyless red or purple? No, he needed a different strategy to knit up the raveled sleeve of care. Then Paul recalled John Ruskin's sneering comment about another Pont Neuf painting. Monet's. Ruskin abhorred the work. In fact, he said Monet's subjects were reduced to mere "tongue-lickings" of paint. Hummmm...it could work. Not that he would actually dip his tongue in the tempera, but perhaps a difference canvas. If he painted on actual skin, the natural luscious cafe-au-lait color of Trini's skin would show through and forget the layers of washes. Ah, that skin. His professionalism lapsed whenever he gazed upon it. Like coffee lightened just so, Trini's skin glowed in the light streaming through the studio windows. Pausing to admire her skin, Paul felt a certain rigidity begin. But this was work. Like Elvis, Paul wore a ring with "TCB" on it. Taking Care of Business, that was Paul's approach. He sought to separate lust from business. Alas, his business involved long stretches of time looking at lovely models clad in very little. To hide any erectile activity, Paul had taken to wearing chambray work shirts with the tails out. Trini had been almost asleep in her pose, the sunlight of the studio and airy Mozart playing softly to induce a looseness of limb Paul felt necessary for the painting. As she idly watched the dust motes dancing in the brightness, she almost dozed off, and her eyes closed, only to fly open as she felt the silky tip of the sable brush against her tan skin. The cool liquidity of the paint was barely perceptible, but tickled slightly as Paul drew the brush in a wide arc just under her breasts. Paul's fingers pulled up her blouse and brushed her ribs. She arched her back slightly, feeling a sudden warmth while savoring the slippery wash of paint over her skin. She squirmed slightly as her pulse began to throb. The sensation changed, becoming even more slippery and she realized that he had, after all, exchanged the brush for his tongue. What kind of work was he going for exactly? Was he doing minimalism? Could she be reduced to a mere cone, a sphere, a cube? Trini found the idea curiously satisfying, and immediately became amenable to artistic innovation. As Paul's tongue moved back and forth over her tummy, Trini noticed that her sighs were growing to a crescendo in counterpoint to the Mozart. This distressed Trini because she did not want to become personally involved in the act of artistic creation. She viewed her work as a model as part and parcel of the process of getting her Ph.D. in art history. Throughout her studies, though, Trini had wrestled with the question of her passion. For her, art was life itself. She appreciated artists like Picasso in almost a visceral fashion. And so Trini felt that being a model was an inherently active endeavor, not merely a passive time of being viewed and painted. Because of her educational and vocational goals, Trini wanted to assure that her passion for artists did not overwhelm her need to maintain a scholarly demeanor. Thus, Trini found that a long, sensual shower before a posing session tended to lessen her own personal tension and make her a more professional model, one less inclined to be drawn into the intrinsic passion of posing. That particular morning, however, Trini had overslept. Upon arising, Trini realized that she simply lacked the time to enjoy her customary morning orgasm before meeting the artist. Thus, Trini felt a bit more vulnerable to desire that morning as Paul's tongue ran back and forth over her stomach. For his own part, Paul felt strongly both ways. On the one hand, he wanted to pursue his artistic vision. On the other hand, he could understand why applying paint to a lovely young woman with his tongue could lead to other distractions. Still, he remained confident of his professionalism as he asked Trini to unbutton her blouse and remove it so that his experiment in oral paint application could continue. As she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, and her firm breasts became visible, Paul could not help but notice that her nipples were swollen. However, determined to proceed apace with his novel method of application, Paul began to tongue-apply paint to the sides of Trini's neck. She gasped as his tongue found her ear, her throat. Relentless in his artistic quest, Paul put more paint on his tongue and began to lave her breasts. Trini felt, and then saw, that her nipples had become engorged as Paul's tongue gently lashed her breasts. Just as Trini's back began to arch, her body involuntarily rising up to seek his questing tongue, Paul's tongue moved downward, along her sides, and then over her stomach again. His tongue traced a path along the top of Trini's sarong, causing her to gasp repeatedly. She felt the hair on his head lightly tickling her lower abdomen as he licked paint onto her body. For the sake of art, it became clear that Trini would have to remove her sarong. With fingers deft and strong from hours of stretching canvas, cleaning brushes, and daubing paint, Paul untied the knot of her sarong. She shivered at his touch and let the sarong fall to the floor. The play of shadow and light on her hipbones made him think simultaneously of shading and sex, but he was, after all, a tortured artist, so he grabbed his brush, dipped it into the paint, and began to stipple just under Trini's navel and above the line of her Rococco Cocoa lace thong. The repeated motion of the paintbrush tip touching her sensitive skin again and again teased her relentlessly -- a tap, then a pause, then another tap, then another pause. Lord a mighty, Trini felt her temperature rising. Suddenly, the stippling stopped, and Trini waited with eyes closed, sensing the artist's dissatisfaction with the controlled pattern he'd created. She heard him walk to the easel and pick up something, then heard a faint metallic click as he set something heavy down. As Paul walked, he noticed that his erection was rigid. Well, perhaps that was redundant. He was rigid. Even with the tails of his shirt, he found it hard, er difficult, to hide the stiffness. Having a utilitarian cast of mind, Paul hung a towel on his rock-hard erection, grabbed some paint supplies, and turned back to Trini. Coolness dribbled on her sleek, tight thighs and she looked down to see them splashed in cobalt blue. Immediately, Paul began to dip complementary yellow on top, creating a vibrant Pollack-y pattern. He added a tracery of chartreuse, then turned to a roll of canvas leaning against the wall, swiftly unrolling several yards on the floor. He beckoned to her, and she realized he wanted her to roll on the canvas. In the grip of her own elemental passion, she could but obey. She writhed on the canvas, leaving her textures on the rough surface in supple, undulating patterns. As the harsh canvas fabric touched her nipples, as the slippery paint covered them, Trini felt as warm as the heat wave that swept Paris. When she had covered the fabric, she lifted her eyes to Paul's and saw naked desire lurking there. As her eyes moved down his body, this impression was confirmed by the erection his shirt could not conceal. She stretched on the art her sensual body had created, reveling in the way his eyes raked over her curves now pulsating with color. Ripping off his bohemian chambray shirt, he upended a container of cerise over his shoulders and joined her on the canvas. He seized her wrists, kisssed her roughly, and turned her, leaving long feathery strokes of crimson on the canvas, shading into purple where it overlapped with her blue. Suddenly, Paul stood up and cried out "Wait a second." She watched his quadriceps flex as he sprang to the CD player to put on Ute Lemper's "Punishing Kiss." Just before he returned to join her on the TGV to ecstasy, Trini wondered if the explosive passion that had created the painting would be immediately evident to viewers. She pondered a title. Ecstasy in Cobalt and Cerise? Violet Interlude? Jambes d'une Femme? She stood up to discuss possible titles, but he turned and sank to his knees before her. He kissed her stomach, then the outside of a thigh, then a knee. And then she felt she felt him moving her, felt his kisses falling her hips, exposed by the thong, felt him turning her again, felt the kisses on her thighs. She gasped as his kisses burned through the thin fabric of her panties. She felt his tongue licking along the edges of her thong. Then, almost unconsciously, she was assisting him in the removal of the thong. He grasped it in his teeth and slowly, slowly removed it. Then his hands reached around to fondle her hips as he kissed her thighs. Then, with a shock, she felt his lips tracing the tiny triangle she had shaven far above her clitoris, her self-control vanished, and the day dissolved in violent sweetness like pigment in universal solvent.