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Modelling Mary Ch. 01

By: Kevsta



Okay, so I wasn't all that sure about Mary modelling for the Art Class. I had heard some right tales of goings on, and I didn't think she would ever handle it if they asked her to model nude. She had worked at the college for over a year now, part-time in the mornings, and had hummed and harred over putting in for the two afternoons a week when the advert was placed on the vacancies board. But two three hour sessions? At ten pounds an hour? No contest!

Although in her mid fifties, she still looked good. She was still pretty, had a fair body on her (So I'm biased) and always turned heads when we were out and she was dressed up. Man, I'm telling you, she was good. No matter how many times I told her though, she never believed it. And inside? At home? Miss Prude. Being married to a hot looking woman, who doesn't like or initiate any sexual activity? Frustrating! For me anyway. She could go for three months without any sex at all, and not be bothered. Me? I would be steaming and building up to boiling point. Every time I was ready to blow, or walk out, she would somehow sense it, deign to relieve me, and we would have some of the hottest sex, leaving me wanting more. She would roll over, go to sleep, and then it would be another wait of God knows how long before I got it again.

I figured the art class would give her confidence, so was happy for her to go, though I couldn't see it lasting. And I checked it out. All the models before were always clothed, never totally nude (what did that mean!) The class specialised in pencil and charcoal, no paints or colour, all black and white stuff. I had surreptitiously popped along to one of their open evenings and looked at the Art on display. And was impressed. I figured that she would be getting sixty quid a week extra, just for sitting on her arse (still trim and neat by the way) and somewhere along the line I might get a decent picture of her that I could buy or get hold of.

She was given many of the preliminary sketches, and some of the finished ones, by the students. Madeleine, the professor in charge of the class, saw this as a way of keeping a good model, and the students were always chuffed if Mary asked for one of their drawings in particular. She kept them in her wardrobe in a growing folder.

Which was how come I had got to see these. I had finished work early one Thursday, and instead of going to see the kids, or drift off for a game of snooker, I had come home and got myself ready. It had been six weeks so I was hoping to steer her to a little bedroom action later. After a shower, I was picking through some shirts in the wardrobe when I noticed her portfolio folder, and thought "what the hell". I was not averse to jacking off to good material, and some of these really showed her looking sexy and mysterious enough that I could pretend it was whoever I wanted.

Thumbing through them, looking for one of my favourites, an A4 envelope slid out of the back. It felt heavy and fairly full as I picked it up off the floor, so slid out the enclosed papers, thinking it would be wage slips and the like. My hands shook as I stared at the first piece I held in my hand. It was a line drawing, done in pencil I think, one of those heavy black numbers that the drawing people seem to like. And it was good. And it was Mary.



Modelling Mary Ch. 02



"Come on then slowcoach, I'm famished," she said, as she pulled a long summer dress from a hangar and slipped it on, stepping into low heeled sandals. God I love this woman, she is so damned sexy without even trying! I was definitely going to get to the bottom of this, sooner rather than later.

The evening went well, I'd taken the precaution of ringing John and Angela, and meeting them at the Whistling Ferret for a bar meal and a nice quiet evening chatting. Me and John played Pool while the girls chatted, and I couldn't help but wondering what Angela was being told by Mary, as her laughter rang out. We didn't really drink to excess, it was a week night after all, but who needs alcohol with good company. Mary seemed in a good and relaxed mood -- more than she ever was at home -- and I hoped she was in the mood for another blow-job.

As we said goodbye to Angela and John, she seemed quieter in the car, back to her normal grannie self. Ah well, it was good while it lasted. When we got home, I was expecting the TV to go on, and a cup of tea in front of the telly, but Mary had more surprises for me. She flopped down on the settee as we walked in, still in her sandals, hoiked her dress up above her waist, and simply said "Come on then! Return the favour"

Faced with a knickerless pussy, what else could I do. I dropped to my knees, and bent to kiss her shaved lips. "Shaved? Whoa? When did THAT happen?"

"Come on tiger," she whispered "I need it -- ahhhhh!" 

Her moans filled the room as I savoured both the taste and the sweet smoothness of her mound. Nothing. Not a hint of stubble. "When had she done this? Where had she done this? WHO had done this, if she hadn't?"

As soon as the thought hit my head I almost stopped, but then my cock sprang hard and painfully restricted within my trousers, and in my mind I saw her, posing for "Andy", and then shaving, or being shaved, for him, to draw her there. I almost came myself as Mary grabbed my head, forcing my tongue deeper and deeper into her, as she began to gush. 

I love the taste of Mary, and even though it seems to be far between tastes these days, I can always anticipate, and then enjoy, that unique flavour of Mary. I haven't had many comparisons over the recent years, but every woman is different. And Mary was sweet, and the texture of honey. Intoxicated as I was, I made a mental note that I would make the most of this occasion, and deliberately dribbled some of her down the crack of her lips to her arse, then in ever widening circles, I laved her with my tongue, till I was sweeping the flat of it across her puckered opening.

Anal play was never discussed, and she would never comply with any request to play with her bum, but when she ws like this, in the throes of an orgasm, I could always do with her what I liked. As I played, teased, and then penetrated her forbidden delight with the tip of my tongue, I pictured her, erotically posed, being drawn and then devoured by a group of artists, on a chaise long, sucking, fucking, licking. My cock was starting to spill pre-cum from his tip, and I knew that I wanted her, wanted sex, wanted release. As soon as I felt her nearing the peak, I wiped my tongue the full length of her crack, from below her tight little bum hole, upwards, spreading her swollen lips wide apart, across the nub of her clit, she trembled and groaned at that. And as I rose off my knees, I licked her neck before kissing her, and pushing the head of my desperate cock against her, and pushed. As soon as I was in, I knew I was coming, I just couldn't hold it back, I just came, pulsing and spewing my cum into her. Her eyes were wide open, looking at me.

As I kissed her orgasmic stone-cold lips, she was gasping from coming, her breathing, or rather gasping was interspersed with moans, the gist of which was "Yes, yes, yes, come in my bum" and I suddenly realised that in her state of ecstasy, and dilation, I should have realised that the hot tunnel I was gripped in, the head of my cock trapped by the ring of her muscles there, was her forbidden fruit. I waited till she seemed to relax a little, and slipped my soft cock out of her, with a weird sucking sound. It was only when he banged his head against the fabric of the sofa that I realised I was still hard! At my age! After cumming! I was almost ready for her to start and protest, when I heard her snore, gently, with the way that only a woman can. "She must have enjoyed that!" I thought. I carefully covered her legs with her dress, but not before I peeked at her little rosebud, almost hidden now below her, leaking my liquid onto the upholstery. In the fading evening light, she looked a picture of perfection, and the woman I loved.

It was only when I was standing in the kitchen, raising a glass of whisky to my lips, sipping, willing my hands to stop shaking, and my semi-erect cock to soften, that I remembered the drawings. I checked that she was asleep still in the room, and tiptoed up the stairs, to the wardrobe. I ignored the favourite shots of her that I liked (my cock showed an interest in the thought though) and went straight to the A4 envelope. With the bedside lamp on, the door wide open, and one ear cocked to the sound of her opening the room door, I began to thumb my way through them.



The one thing that I noticed was that they were all portraits, but none showed her face. "This Andy" (they were all signed) "might be able to capture the body but he couldn't draw faces! " I thought to myself. Which gave me a bit of a smirk. He wasn't that good then! She wasn't drawn as a perfect woman, not at all. Begrudgingly, I must admit that I admired the fact that he had drawn Mary as she was. I wouldn't say warts-and-all, but at least he had captured every wrinkle and fold of skin to a degree, which a 55 year old woman was entitled to have. After all, that's what gives them that look of maturity. My cock, protestingly, was now starting to ache, and just as I started to give him a stroke or two, I heard Mary call out to me from the room downstairs.



I was almost on the verge of coming, I had been looking at a profile picture of Mary, showing her breast peeking out -- god that made me harder still - and I was almost torn between finishing myself off and getting caught, but I elected to go down to Mary. As I tucked the photos back in the envelope, I saw the last one -- and I was shocked. Numbed as I was, momentarily, I pushed the lot back where they had been, tucked my hard shaft back in my trousers, and bolted downstairs. Mary was stood in the room doorway, looking dishevelled but happy.

"Hey Tiger, where did you go? That was -- um -- fantastic" she spoke as her arms snaked around my neck, and she began to rub her body against my leg, trapping my cock between us. She felt warm, and smelt of perfume and sex and woman and lust, and as I bent to kiss her, all thoughts of the photo I had seen disappeared from my mind. Unseen and unfelt she had dropped one arm, and the hand now gripped my cock through my open fly. I moaned as she began to stroke me. "Up stairs" she moaned, and led me, I followed her, ready to ravage her on the bed.

But - she stopped on the second step of the stairs, and there, bathed in the dim glow of the street lights, flipped her dress up over her waist for the second time that night. Her bum, curved, round, soft, appealing, inviting, was presented to me like a feast, and she whispered "now fuck me, hard"

I pushed him against her moist slit, sliding imperceptibly between those hot lips, into her, the lubrication of my earlier tonguing and her juices meant she was well oiled. There was hardly any friction, as I buried myself into her. I steadied myself with one hand, and reached round to finger her clit, only to find her nimble ringed fingers there, working at a feverish pitch. I grabbed her by wrapping my arm under her belly, and pulled her back onto me, as I thrust forward, each stroke as hard as I could. My legs ached, my knees trembled, and my head span, and all I could see was the last drawing, that one, that last intimate etching, as she came, noisily screaming out loud, and I came too, still driving hard into her, even in my softening state. We stumbled our way upstairs, and into the bedroom. 

I watched in the light of the lamp I had left on as she stripped the dress off over her head, she must have removed her sandals when she awoke on the settee, and slipped her naked body into bed. By the time I was undressed and turned the light off, she was asleep. I was tempted to take the pictures downstairs and look at them all intently, but sleep overcame me as I lay back. Never mind, I was off work in the morning, but Mary would be out by eight. My last thoughts, before I drifted into sleep, were the pictures I had seen, especially that last one.