0 comments/ 40317 views/ 7 favorites The Artist's Model By: Natalie Nessus (Dedicated to my kind and stern editor who measures my words into strict order and then interprets my meaning so skillfully.) * * * * * Paris, the summer of 1929, 'the last summer' we called it later, remembering the October Crash; it was the end of an era but I also remember it as the summer of my awakening. It seems like yesterday. A heat wave had swept through Europe and its arrival in Paris coincided with my own. The heat wave died after five days but as it died I was reborn. Paris sweltered and so did I, as my mother had insisted I wear conservative clothes complete with foundation garments, and as a dutiful daughter, I obeyed. My mother described me as 'an ample woman' so the foundation garments kept my full and rounded body in check. As I laboured in the heat, walking down the boulevards in my starched dress and brushed cotton petticoat, short of breath because of my corset, I envied the freedom of the Parisian girls in their breezy dresses. They wore their skirts to the knee (my mother would have fainted at the sight) and those girls had obviously eliminated the restrictive undergarments; garters, petticoats and corsets were no longer appropriate for the girls of Paris in these wild times. Everywhere I looked the girls displayed their legs, and they dressed as if they were free to move, to dance, to swing and sway. Stockings were rolled, the sheerer the better, while seemingly respectable women wore rouge and powder. I was glad my mother was not with me. I had been dispatched to Paris in a hurry after my fiancé had run off to Canada with the daughter of his father's chauffer. We had heard the news just as my mother and father were about to take me to my first opera, Puccini I believe it was, but after that abrupt announcement the opera vanished. I had seen Mother scream with rage at the whole incident and I could not decide whether she was angry with my fiancé for leaving me or for causing such embarrassment for her. To make matters worse, the maid wasn't even British! My mother, her face red with embarrassment, arranged with my uncle to have me assist an anthropologist in Paris while the humiliation evaporated. My role was to sketch articles of interest that were to be published in the anthropologist's thesis. Each day I would climb the stairs to the second floor, to that small office with its big desk, unlock the iron chest and lay the articles so I could draw them. The building had four floors and a jazz band rehearsed on the floor above me, while an artist had his studio on the top floor. As I climbed the stairs on that fifth day, I could hear the band playing upstairs and small children squealing in the street behind me. The office was stuffy and hot, so I opened the doors leading out to a small balcony and let in some air. The anthropologist was in the country, and for that I was grateful as I hoped that the humiliation would evaporate quickly so I could return home, before I had to meet him again. I unlocked the iron chest and selected an artifact to sketch, carefully placing it on the heavy wooden desk. Charcoal and crayons, together with crisp sheets of cartridge paper, were taken from the drawer and spread out on the desktop. I drew steadily through the morning, starting first with the shrunken head from Equatorial Guinea. When I completed the sketch, I took the calligraphy instruments from the second drawer and carefully lettered the description and illustration number below my drawing. I had learned the art of calligraphy as a young girl at the knee of my aunt on many a rainy Sunday afternoon, and it now proved to be very useful indeed. The clock chimed ten and, flushing self-consciously, I opened the door to the hall and furtively glanced down the stairs. For the past few days I had opened this door, so I could watch her go past on her way to the artist's studio. My obsession with her, for that's what I feared it was, began on my first day while the anthropologist was detailing my instructions. On that day she had glided past the open door, a long green knitted scarf loosely hanging from her throat, and our eyes locked for a moment over the gesturing hands of my instructor. She had an exotic and exquisite beauty with lush brown skin, dark pools for eyes, pouting lips and short coal black hair. Those liquid eyes swept over me, she raised an eyebrow mockingly and was gone. From then on, I opened the door so I could watch her undulate past on her way to the artist's studio. I knew the studio was her destination for I had followed her once, stealthily keeping back so she would not see me. She knocked imperiously on the artist's door and, while waiting for it to open, turned and smiled slyly at me, causing me to blush furiously and hurry back down the stairs, my skirts rustling. Late at night when the heat stopped me from sleeping, my nightgown sticky and clinging, I wondered about her. She had to be a model for the artist, I had decided that almost immediately. With such beauty there could not be any other conclusion, but what was her nationality? Was she a gypsy or a dancer, a singer or an artist herself in some way? One afternoon I had heard a woman's voice singing with the jazz band and I wondered if it was the beautiful model, as the voice was husky, raw and emotional. I heard the front door creak open and I rushed back to the desk, perching on the hardback chair, hunching over the paper in an effort to appear busy. As I listened to her footsteps grow closer, my heart raced, and I forced my eyes to remain on the paper, sensing her stop in the doorway. My face was hot as I lifted my eyes. She was standing on the landing with a cane basket on her arm, her eyes on me as a slight smile played around those full lips. "Il fait chaud aujourd'hui," she said. The chair clattered as I stood, nervously adjusting my ankle length skirt. "I'm sorry," I stuttered. "I don't understand." "C'est très chaud un jour," she said with a smile. "Et vous êtes très chaud." I shrugged helplessly, face glowing as she blatantly inspected me, that smile still there. Her blue silk dress, tiny pale blue flowers on a deep blue background, was so short, almost to the knee and I gasped a little when I saw her legs were bare beneath the hemline. "Il importe pas," she said, turning away and in a moment she was gone. Slowly, I sat down, my fingers trembling as I reached for a charcoal stick and breathlessly began to sketch a small white bone. As I worked I could hear the traffic in the street and my mind drifted until the feeling of another's presence startled and overwhelmed me. I jumped a little when I saw her standing there, once again leaning in the doorway and calmly watching me, a small crystal bowl in her hand filled with ice cream. Hypnotised, I watched her slowly eat the frozen treat with a silver spoon, sucking on each mouthful until the spoon shone clean. With her dark eyes fixed on me, she walked in, casually kicking the door shut behind her. I found myself standing, my fingers nervously checking the waistband of my skirt and the collar of my blouse. Her eyes never left me as she stood next to the French doors, my own eyes watching the spoon between her lips, while my ears filled with the sound of my own heartbeat. The noise of the traffic also seemed louder and I thought I heard an almost imperceptible suction noise from her as the spoon moved in her mouth. "Do you speak English?" I croaked, my throat as dry as the cartridge paper now forgotten on the desk. She tilted her head, watching me as I spoke and then shrugged. Moving so close to me that I could smell her musky perfume mixed with garlic and tobacco, her eyes locked on mine and she raised a spoonful of her dessert to my face. Without thinking, I opened my mouth and she slowly slipped the spoon between my lips, the ice cream cold and sweet, melting on my tongue. She fed me like that three more times, as my breath rasped in my throat, my knees so weak I gripped the edge of the desk for support. Her eyes watched me impassively each time she lifted the spoon, with only a sardonic lift to the corner of her lush mouth as I whimpered softly the third time that she slid the spoon between my lips. Without warning the bowl and spoon clattered on the teak desk, and her fingers moved towards the mother-of-pearl buttons on my blouse. My breasts were rising and falling quickly, my breathing restricted by my tight corset. Exhaling sharply, I watched as she deftly undid the button at my throat and moved onto the next one, her eyes searching my face all the while. "No!" I gasped, moving my hand to stop her. With no change of expression, she slapped my hand away and continued until all the buttons were undone. My breathing was loud in the room as she retrieved the bowl and licked at another spoonful of ice cream. She watched me in wry amusement as I panted against the desk, my blouse open to the waist. She moved quickly and her silver spoon flicked down as she tapped it against the buttons still fastened at my wrists. Mild irritation flickered over her face and she tapped sharply once more on my wrist. My hands were shaking as I undid those buttons for her while she watched, savouring another small mouthful of her ice cream. Once again, the bowl and spoon rattled on the desk and she deftly pulled my blouse from my skirt, opening it wide and then pulling it sharply down so my upper body, encased in those stifling undergarments, was exposed. I gasped in shame and struggled to move my hands, but my blouse imprisoned them for a moment as she calmly studied me, her finger idly stroking the side of her nose. Then reaching out, her hands seized the blouse and in an instant it was gone from my body, sailing through the air to land on a chair. Hot with embarrassment and the beginnings of something else I couldn't yet name, I folded my arms against my large breasts but once again, she slapped my hands away, her eyes moving over my breasts as they rose in the white lace cups of my corset. She then hooked her fingers into the waistband of my skirt and pulled me sharply towards her. Her eyes burned on me as her soft fingers stroked the valley between my breasts. Suddenly, she spun me around so I was pushed against the desk, my breasts flattening against the teakwood, as she deftly undid the buttons of my skirt and pulled it, along with my petticoat, down around my ankles. With my stockings rolled to my knees, I felt a flood of moisture in the thin fabric covering my sex and wondered if I had wet myself or worse, my monthlies had arrived early. I swallowed hard when I felt her hand press against my sex and I flushed in humiliation as she rubbed through the silk crotch of my corset, realising in that instant that someone, other than the family physician, was touching me intimately for the first time. I moaned in protest as her hands pulled at the studs that held my stiff undergarment in place but she ignored me, opening the corset and then roughly pulling it down and away and I felt a sudden weakness, accompanied by a strange forbidden feeling, flooding through me. She spun me around once again, and I faced my tormentor naked, the hot breath ragged in my throat. I saw a faint smile transform her serious face, her eyes travelling up and down my body as my arms and hands futilely tried to shield my nudity from her. Her hand slapped my arms away but, in silent desperation, I swung them back across my breasts and my mound. Without changing expression, she slapped me firmly across the face and I dropped my hands, a sharp cry of pain and shock escaping me as the stinging heat rose in my cheek. Her fingers held my chin firmly and I felt my naked body crush against the silk of her dress, as her lips met mine in a surprisingly slow and delicate kiss, her tongue smoothly touching mine. A quick tug at the nape of my neck and my long hair fell free, tickling my bare shoulders and sweeping down my naked back. I swooned against her as her wicked fingers ran through my pubic fleece, stroking, caressing and flicking at me as a foreign and wonderful feeling rushed through me like a rising torrent. I had never experienced such exquisite pleasure, which coupled with my sense of humiliation, sent me reeling against the desk while her fingers teased at my wet sex. I groaned with a mix of self-consciousness and pleasure as she leaned forward to gently lick my swollen nipples, my heavy breasts swinging free as she pushed me back further against the desk. Her fingers stopped moving as quickly as they had begun and I felt a desperate need to continue, to keep going as I felt myself floating free. "Please," I moaned, face flaming and eyes tightly closed. "Please don't stop," I begged and her fingers started again as she whispered softly in my ear in French. My body rebelled against everything I had known up to that moment, my life, my upbringing and my conservatism, and I bucked and writhed in ecstasy until I screamed out unintelligibly, my mouth pressed against her long neck, my body taut like the stretched string of a violin. Slowly, I rejoined life and I heard the sounds of the city and the low growl of thunder as dark clouds rolled in. The temperature was falling quickly and I could plainly see my sweat and my juices smeared against the veneer of the desk. The shrunken head lay on the floor, the crisp cartridge paper was rumpled and damp, my breasts were smeared with charcoal. I lifted my head and she was standing by the window, watching the clouds move rapidly over the horizon as she finished the melted remains of her ice cream. I didn't know what to say to her and I lay on the desk naked, certain that I looked like a beached white whale and wondered in amazement at what had just happened to me. She turned then with a look I could not interpret, and she walked toward me, tucking my corset and petticoat under her arm, then tossed me the crumpled blouse and skirt. Eager to hide my body, I slipped into the skirt and then the blouse, hastily buttoning it over my bare breasts. It felt odd to be naked under my clothes but it also felt strangely liberating and sensual. A crack of thunder shook the building and rain began to flood then like a cleansing torrent of tears. I shivered in the cool breeze that came with the rain. My nipples were plainly visible through the blouse but I did not attempt to hide them as she leaned close to kiss me one last time. Her lips, so full and soft, lingered on my own for an eternity as I gave myself over to her. "Anglais esclave", she whispered, raising an eyebrow and I nodded, not knowing what I was committing to, but she seemed to expect an answer and I gave it to her willingly. She had a cheeky smile on her unforgettable face as she left the office, my undergarments under one arm and the bowl and spoon in her hand, as the rain drummed hypnotically against the windows. I shivered again as I watched the rain and wondered what I was going to do, now that my life had changed forever. Nothing could ever be the same and I thought about tomorrow morning when the artist's model would once again glide past my door. The Artist's Model The doorbell rang. I wiped my hands on my jeans and went to open the door. A young man stood in the hallway with a piece of paper in his hand. "Mrs Reed?" he asked. "MISS Reed," I said. "That's me." "I'm Tommy," he said. "The model." Ah, yes, the model. The model I'd hired. I'd been so involved in my latest project that I'd forgotten about this. "Come in," I said, and backed away from the door. He followed me into the gallery. I put away the clay I'd been working on and put up a clean, fresh canvas. "Where can I... undress?" said Tommy. "Oh, you can just put your clothes on that chair in the corner," I said. Acrylic colors or pastels? "You mean... right here?" he said. I looked up. "If you're shy, you've chosen the wrong profession," I told him. He took his jacket off, looking a little embarrassed. "I'm only doing this to make a little extra money," he said. "I'm really an actor." "That's nice," I said, absent-minded. I decided to go for pastels. He took off his shoes and socks, and I threw a glance at him while I prepared my crayons. He wasn't very tall, about my height, but he had a slim, muscular torso, wide arms, and slim hips. He looked sort of... compact. He turned his back at me while he took off his pants. I hoped he wouldn't turn out to be prudish, or he'd be difficult to work with. "Do I need to take all of it off?" he asked. "Yes," I said, frowning. "But you're not going to paint... THAT, are you?" he asked. "Look," I said. "I've got no interest in seeing your pride and joy. I'm an artist. This is my job. I paint people naked. If you're not comfortable with that, you might as well put your clothes back on." He bit his lip, and pulled his briefs down. I couldn't really understand why he was shy, seeing as he had a cute, round butt as well as a muscular body. He had a spiteful pout, like a grumpy kid, when he turned around. As if he was daring me to look at his dick. To spite him back, I looked carefully at it, and nodded. "Nice," I said. "Now, take a seat, and lets get started." He sat down in the armchair I'd placed there. I walked over to him and arranged his position to what I wanted. He was pretty tense, and pressed himself against the back of the chair when I leaned over him to arrange his arms and legs. "If you start feeling stiff, we'll take a short break so you can stretch your muscles a little," I said. I picked up my charcoal and held it out to take his measures, then I made a rough sketch. The arms... and that leg... no, a little higher... what a great angle between the biceps and the hand hanging down..! OK, I got it. Now for the colors... "Actor, eh?" I said. "Theatre or film?" "Anything I can get," said Tommy. "But I'd like to make it to the white screen." "Have you done anything yet?" I asked. More white... there was a glance of light on his left arm... "I've been in a commercial," he said. "Really?" I said. "Which one?" "`Footjoy´," he said. "I'm the 23:rd head from the left in the big crowd in the background." He smiled sarcastically, and I laughed. The guy had a sense of humor, after all. I noticed that he was a bit more relaxed now. Good. Tension makes you get tired faster, and I didn't want his tension to shine through my painting. I kept the tone light, now that I knew that this was what he needed. "Well, now that you've tried nude modelling, you could move on to porno movies!" He blushed, which surprised me. I've never seen a guy over 18 blush before. "I couldn't do that!" he said. "Why not?" I said. "Because it's not serious acting?" "No, it's not that," said Tommy. "But I don't think I've got what it takes." "Yes, you do," I said, gesturing at his crotch. "I mean... the guys in porno movies have really BIG dicks," he said. "I'm just... normal." "That's rather unfair," I said, taking a few steps back to compare my work with the original. Had I been using too much yellow? "Guys in porno movies are often fat and ugly and in their 40'ies, but the girls are always young and slim and pretty, with big tits! It's like, a guy can be ugly as hell, as long as he has a big dick!" "Yeah," said Tommy. "So I don't think a Joe Average has a chance." "That's a pity," I said. "Women would rather watch a cute guy like you than an old geezer!" He smiled a little awkward. He really WAS shy, I thought. How young could he be? "How old are you?" I asked. "20," said Tommy. 20? And still so inexperienced? So... pure? "You have a girlfriend, Tommy?" I asked casually. "Not right now," he said. "I had a girlfriend, but she dumped me a couple of weeks ago. She found a richer guy." "She dumped you because you weren't rich enough?" I said. "Sorry if I'm rude, but she sounds like a slut, to me." "Hmmmm..." he said. "I'll bet she'll be sorry when you're a famous movie star," I said. That shadow next to his thigh needed a little more green, it was way too reddish... I was so focused on my work that it took some time before I noticed that he was getting a hard-on. I looked at his face. He looked very embarrassed. "It's OK," I said. "You're nervous. It's only natural to... feel a little tense." I put my crayons away and stretched my arms and back. "I think we can take a short break here," I said. "Stand up and stretch your muscles a little!" He almost fled over to where he'd left his clothes, and put his briefs and T-shirt on. "Can I look at the painting?" he asked. "Sure," I said. "But it's not done yet!" "I'm just curious," he said, and walked up to me. He inspected my work with another "hmmmmm". "What does that humming mean?" I asked. "Do you like it or hate it?" "I like the colors," he said. "Light and fresh. But it doesn't look very much like me, does it?" "No, it's not supposed to," I said. "I'm not painting YOU, I'm painting your shape. You're a body. You're angles and lights and shadows." "So I'm just a body to you?" he chuckled. "Well, isn't that nice!" I grinned when I heard how it sounded. "Well, you ARE a model..." I said. "Now do some stretching, and we'll continue!" He obediently stretched all his muscles, then he stripped and took his position on the couch again. "It's not quite right," I said, and walked over to him. I bent down and corrected his pose to what it should be. He moaned quietly. "What?" I said. "What's wrong? Does this hurt?" "No..." he said. "It's just that... well, you may be used to this, but I'm not. I've only posed 2 times before, and neither of those involved any... touching. I mean, everyone stood in a circle, on a distance from me... I mean..." I looked down. His dick was now fully erect, and pointing up at me. "I'm sorry, I can't control this," he said. "I guess I'm not very professional." Normally, I'd just joke such a situation away, but now... I don't know what came over me, but I suddenly kneeled down next to the couch, and took his dick in my mouth. He gasped from the shock. Had I done something wrong? Hardly. He moaned happily, and caressed my hair as I slid my tongue around the head, like it had been a lollipop. His dick was of normal length and girth, like he'd said. It matched the rest of his compact body, and stood in a bed of short, brown curls. It wasn't long, but I still couldn't get all of it in without gagging. "Easy," he said. "Don't choke on it!" I pulled it out and gave him a wicked smile. "Imagine the headlines," I said. "PROMISING YOUNG ARTIST DIED FROM ASPHYXIATION - CHOKED ON DICK WHILE GIVING BLOWJOB!" He laughed. "I'd be the most popular guy in prison," he said. "Everyone would want to see The Killer Dick." "But no-one would dare to blow it," I said. "Good," he said, making a face. "I don't want to be blown by guys." "But it's all right that I do it?" I asked, and licked the head. He closed his eyes. "Of course!" he said. "You're a woman. A very sexy woman..." He moved his hand to my back, sat up, and kissed my neck right below my ear. He went on to kiss my neck and collarbone, pulled off my paint-stained sweater, and took my breasts in his hands. He squeezed them lightly, as if he was weighing them. He took my right nipple between his lips and nibbled on it, then he moved to the left one, and moved his tongue around it. Tingles ran from my breasts down to my pussy, making it moist and warm. I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them off my hips, down to my knees. Tommy moved his lips over my stomach, breathing warm air on my skin, and buried his face in the hair between my legs, and caressed my hips. "You're so soft and warm," he said. "And you smell nice." "I smell paint and turpentine," I objected. "You smell warm skin," he insisted, and kissed my pussy. "And woman. Sexy, horny woman!" "You got that right!" I said, and stood up. I stepped out of my jeans and panties, then I put a foot up on the armchair, opening up my pussy for his touch. He sucked on my clit, and put 2 fingers into me. He fingered me slowly, and teased my clit with his tongue. The double stimulation made the tingling grow in strength, and when I came, my orgasm was stronger than usual. I had to grab on to him to keep from falling; my legs felt like wet clay. "Was that good?" he asked. "Yes!" I said. "Wonderful!" "You look tired?" he chuckled. "Come and sit on my lap!" I straddled his lap with my back turned against him, and he steered his cock against my opening. I sank down on him, supported myself against his knees, rose a little, careful not to let him fall out, and then I sank back down. I rode up and down on his dick, and he caressed my butt and thighs. "You've got a gorgeous ass," he panted in my hair. "I love seeing it move up and down like that." "I love feeling your cock go deep inside of me," I said. "It makes me so hot... oooh, yes! I'm gonna come again!" This second orgasm used up the last bit of strength I had in my legs. I leaned back against him, helpless and tired. I couldn't have stood up if you waved a chocolate chip cookie in front of me, even! "You're not tired already, are you?" he teased me. "My legs are dead," I said. He surprised me by putting his arms under my thighs and held me up in the air a bit, then he thrusted upwards, into me. He was stronger than he looked. "This feels a little kinky," he said. "Kind of like being in a porno movie." I giggled. It DID feel a litlle naughty to float in the air like this, and get fucked from underneath, from behind. Just like in a scene from a porno movie! "Oh, yes, baby!" I shouted, imitating a porn star. "Fuck my cunt, baby! Yes! Yes!" "That's so sexy!" Tommy moaned, and his thrusts became harder. "Keep talking to me, baby, it's turning me on!" "Gimme that big, hard cock!" I moaned. "Yeah, baby! Ram it into my wet, hungry cunt! Give it to me! Yes! Harder! Harder! Make me come, you stud!" "Oh, god!" he groaned, and pumped heavily in and out of me. "It feels so goooooood..!" "Yeah, baby!" I continued my little show. "Come inside me! Fill me with your hot cum!" He grunted 3 times, and then he became still. He exhaled loudly, sounding rather exhausted. "Oh, my god," he sighed. "That was amazing!" "Tell me about it!" I said. "I think you can paint my portrait now," said Tommy. "I promise to sit still." "Oh, I can't even stand up!" I said. "How about we go into my bedroom and take a little nap? Then we can go on... painting." Tommy kissed my cheek. "An inspired idea," he said. The Artist's Model This is entirely a work of fiction. ANAIS She leant her hips into the washing machine. The motion during the spin cycle was strangely addictive but even as she was becoming sexually aroused the telephone rang. "Hello." She listened carefully before replying. "Okay Albert, that's ten o'clock tomorrow, but Email me with the address." She climbed the stairs to the appointed place regretting having walked all the way from the 18th Arondissment for although wrapped up well against the freezing temperatures the wind had eventually found a way through the layers and she was now chilled to the bone. At least his studio was nice and warm she thought as the artist sat her down and pressed a bowl of hot coffee into her hands. She already knew and admired this man's work so when the agency had rung she had said yes even before terms were agreed but now meeting him in the flesh Anais liked what she saw. Being naked before strangers had never been a problem for the model. Her mother and father had worn few if any clothes around their Danish home and not surprisingly their daughter had been brought up the same so when she posed for painters it was as natural as being fully dressed. JEAN His last show at a prestigious gallery in New York had been a resounding success and with the plaudits of the critics still ringing in his ears and a bank balance that would see him through at least another year if not two he was very happy. That is until he wondered where the inspiration for the next painting would come from. The well was dry following two years of intense work so he had picked up the phone and rung the agency. He would go back to life drawing, do what he always did when the muse temporarily deserted him. "...for god's sake Albert I don't want a fashion model, I don't want some skinny woman who is just biding her time until she gets something better...I want a professional...someone with a body that's been around the block a few times...someone with character...oh yes, and able to hold a pose. Haven't you got one of the regulars?" He listened, not encouraged by what he heard, but eventually capitulated. "I know two years is a long time...Okay, send her round and I'll see if she's suitable." At least she had turned up and punctual to the minute but huddled up in cold weather clothes and with a knitted hat under which her hair had clearly been carelessly stuffed he could not assess her potential. He heard the woman sniff an appreciation of the welcoming warmth in the studio but she stayed in her outer clothes until the coffee was provided. "Sit down...err...Anais and I'll fill you in on what I need." She dropped into the chair he indicated and gripped the bowl with frozen hands. "I'll have no idea what pose I will eventually settle on until I've got used to your body...you know...done a series of sketches to familiarise myself." Her positive reaction seemed to indicate an understanding of what he was saying so maybe, just maybe, she was perhaps more experienced than he had first thought? "When do we begin?" Her first words surprised him. He thought from her accent that she was a foreigner or perhaps French but from Alsace? She was obviously an educated girl but maybe French was not be her first language. "As soon as you are ready." He showed her the dressing cubicle and indicated a clean newly laundered dressing gown before leaving. Back in the diffused North light of the studio he began to assemble an array of charcoal sticks and his preferred drawing paper. She reappeared a few minutes later and turning he saw that she was already naked but with the gown over one arm. He could then take in what had been so highly recommended. Anais was tall, probably 1.75 metres in her bare feet. She had good shoulders and fine facial features, enough flesh on her bones to define the shape, and was displaying no hint of nervousness under his steady gaze. "Okay then let's get on...oh by the way, who have you sat for?" She mentioned three artist's, all the names were familiar with but none had work he knew. Anais had sat, or rather stood for him on three consecutive days before opening her mouth to ask a question. "What shall I call you? 'Monsieur Bernard' seems too formal in such a situation." She was about to settle into the pose he had decided to paint and had turned her face expectantly. "Jean...call me Jean." "Then Jeannot it shall be." She smiled for the first time in their short relationship and in doing so her face lit up. He hovered around while moving an arm or a foot, turning her shoulders a few centimetres, tipping her head forward slightly, retreating to assess the pose then returning to make a tiny alteration until he was completely satisfied and finally chalk marked the position of her feet. Then disappearing behind the primed canvas he began blocking in with ultramarine only to find that he could not get past the girl's nudity. For the first time since he had been a young student he couldn't simply see the model as an object to render accurately, an assembly of muscle and bone in harmony. All he could see was sensuality, no, it was far more than that. He actually wanted to stretch out with her on that chaise longue, wanted to explore her flesh with his tongue, wanted to excite her passive body, wanted to arouse the woman, make her wish to cleave with him. It was no good, he couldn't work like this. "Mamselle you must leave. I find I cannot work today." When she was gone he picked up the dressing gown that she had worn and with his nose buried in the towelling collapsed on the nearby sofa upon which she had earlier perched. He thought long and hard. When had he last fancied a model? Rarely if ever. What was it about Anais which affected him so strongly? She was not conventionally beautiful nor even petite like his usual lovers. She had not come on to him, nor tried her wiles. Did she even have any wiles, did she ever use them on men or even women? He knew nothing about her but maybe that was a good thing. ANAIS His sudden decision to send her packing needed some examination. What was the cause? She had found a taxi rank close by his Atelier and was now sunk in the seat thinking back. Anais could only assume that he had either become unwell or genuinely found that he could not capture what he saw. However she was relieved when the sessions were resumed for, although the money was irrelevant, posing provided quiet introspective time which she needed to consider her writing. It was undeniable also that being naked before an attractive man always turned her on. Not just turned her on but while it provided the grist for much of her fiction it also gave her many a silent and intense orgasm. JEAN At least on the next occasion when she climbed the stairs and took up her position he found that he could work, even felt pleased with what he had achieved. There was a raw energy to the marks he made which augured well for the future. When she had gone he perched on a stool and viewed the work critically. It was during these times, after the subject had gone for the day, that he could check the proportions, verify the spaces between solid objects, hone the composition but today the memory of her breasts kept intruding and he had to take a long walk to an unknown bar in an effort to calm his thoughts. ANAIS "May I look?" He had offered a break and the question forced him to turn his mind away from the canvas. He merely nodded approval so she padded across to stand close beside him, her nakedness in stark contrast to his fully clothed body. Anais considered the half finished work for a time admiring the freedom of the brush strokes until it occurred to her that he was holding himself strangely taut. Was he concerned by her presence so near to him? Whatever the reason she thought it better to move away. In fact she needed the toilet and by the time she returned to resume the pose he seemed to have regained his composure. Later she scrubbed off what little makeup she had worn during the day and dressed with infinite care. Her costume had come from the Paris Opera House where the wardrobe mistress Babette was her closest and most intimate friend so when she entered the night-club Anais felt excited but in control. The masked ball was one of the major events of the year and in the past had enabled Anais to find much to stimulate her writing. She had a fertile imagination which was just as well for the young woman was still technically a virgin. The sensual encounters described with such fluency in her fiction were composed entirely out of thin air although well informed by the regular practice of onanism. JEAN He had nearly completed the first painting and was casting around in his mind for how he would pose Anais for the next when he acted clumsily and out of character. Anais had finished for the day and was on her way to get dressed. As had become normal she had not bothered to don the dressing gown and was studying the work when he stumbled against her. She grabbed at him to keep her balance and to avoid overturning the easel which was when he was forced to clasp her body against his own. "Merde" he thought as he moved away. Please don't let her have noticed my excitement. ANAIS That night she found her mind was fixated on the unmistakeable erection she had felt when Jean steadied her. So does he fancy only me or do all his models have the same effect? Does he even have a woman? Is there a short story here?' "Have you finished the piece for 'La Plume'?" "Yes, it went in yesterday." Anais and her bosom friend Babette were seated in the rear of the café, well out of reach of the cold air which blew in every time the outer door was opened. "Do you want me to come with you to the award ceremony?" "Yes please...but can you get the time off?" "That's no problem." Impulsively Anais reached out to clasp Babette's hand grateful for the support. "I wont win of course but my publisher insists that I turn up and wear a proper designer dress." JEAN She had now become akin to a drug, a drug he could not do without, an opiate which got him off to sleep and got him up in the morning. He could draw her now entirely from memory, conjure up the sweep of her long legs, precisely depict the way her head was set on sloping shoulders. And he had at last discovered a way to successfully convey her rangy Scandinavian look and the precise paint mixture needed to suggest her ripe corn coloured hair which had, since the previous painting was completed, been cut in an even more masculine style. Today he would start a new canvas. He would silhouette Anais against the cold light which flooded in through the floor to ceiling windows. Encourage her to clasp hands behind her head. This would pull her shoulders back and thrust out her breasts. ANAIS Naked in the pose but far away in a world of her own a smile came and went in a split second. She had become involved with constructing an encounter in her head, honing the words, trying different descriptions, getting ever closer to what she wanted to say. JEAN He had set everything up and was sketching with the charcoal held at arms length when he saw the smile so swiftly hidden. Her nipples had been erect all the time that he had sought to capture the pose, even while he had wiped away a couple of earlier attempts until finally satisfied. What was she thinking about? What did she think about during all those long hours while he made marks on the primed surface? ANAIS "Go girl." Babette pulled Anais to her feet and pushed her towards the dais joining in the applause as she watched the author receive her deserved accolades. Later they lay in Babette's bed with their bodies entwined. "I never believe that I will win." "You never think you will but you always do." Later, after they had made love, Babette returned to a long running topic raging between them. "You will have to give up your virginity some time if only to find out what it's really like to have a man deep within you." "How can it be any different to a dildo?" "Oh believe me it is, admittedly not always so good but definitely different." "But you have always told me that you never came with a man...or at least not during penetration." "True, but being fucked is totally different and until you have experienced a cock filling your vagina then your writing must inevitably suffer." "Who say's?" "Me." Babette heaved herself up. "And what's more you know that I'm right." "But there's no one I like enough to give myself to...and what happens when I have? I don't want to be at the beck and call of anyone, let alone a man." "Just find a bloke who doesn't repel you and who can get it up but I can tell you it's a bonus if they last until you've had an orgasm so don't expect any miracles." "Well I don't know...maybe I will, maybe I won't." JEAN There was something different about Anais today. He couldn't put his finger on it but there was a tangible change. "Are you feeling alright?" He felt foolish as soon as the words had left his mouth for in all the time that she had been posing neither had ever asked even one personal question. But she answered without altering her position. "I'm fine, why do you ask?" "You seem different somehow but what do I know...we are still strangers." "But I know enough about you as I will ever need." He felt unaccountably sad at this bleak reply but persisted. "I know nothing about you." Again she retained the pose but at least replied positively. "Well what do you want to know?" He was silent as he collected his thoughts but then began hesitatingly. "Oh small things such as where you are from and what you do to make a living other than this." His free hand waved around clearly conveying her present occupation. She in turn was silent for what seemed an age before replying without any wasted words. "I'm Danish and I'm a published writer." He took time to digest this news before venturing further. "Then that explains your accent but would I know your work?" "That depends upon what you read?" "But I don't even know your surname." "Why would you?" He backed off rebuffed but in time she relented. "'Anais Becker" is my given name but I write as 'Simone Sargeant'." Hidden behind the large canvas he was immediately hit with a punch in the solar plexus. Here in his atelier and standing naked before him was a doyenne of the literary scene in Europe. A woman whose books regularly topped the best seller lists and were immediately made into films. Then his thoughts ranged further. Why does she need the money from posing? She was wealthy, he had seen the printed rich lists. The silence had already stretched to breaking point before she spoke again. "Do you know my work?" "Bien sur, of course. Who does not?" "But," unerringly she had picked up on a hesitation that he had thought unnoticeable, "you want to know why I work as an artist's model?" "Yes." That simple word was all he could manage to utter. ANAIS Should she be honest? It was a difficult question to answer without being entirely straightforward. There seemed to be no simple excuse which would sound convincing so she resolved to tell the whole truth. "It helps me think clearly." This time she broke the pose to watch his face and saw the cogs in his brain whir in an attempt to catch up. "So that's why you can remain silent and immoveable for hour after hour." "Partly. While I pose I can write in my head. I need no pencil, no keyboard, to record the words. My memory is sufficient until I can dictate everything later." She lifted her arms to stretch and remove the knots in her muscles while remaining entirely unconscious of the effect she was having upon the watcher. JEAN Later he gathered up in his portfolio all the sketches he had made of Anais or should he call her Simone. It was now a fat collection. Then he returned to perch on his stool before the current painting while realising that he had not asked if she would come again. On balance he decided she would not for he had been far too intrusive with his questions. ANAIS She prowled naked around her apartment unaccountably upset by the conversation with Jean. Why had he felt the need to disturb their comfortable arrangement? What was it that made people step over the line? Anais knew she was a loner, preferring her own company, Babette had told her so. But something about him had got under her skin, quickened her heart, disturbed her equanimity. Selecting a padded envelope she inserted the latest micro-cassette tapes and stuck on a pre-printed label. She would drop it off at the secretarial service and pick up last weeks pages for correction but first she would calm her disordered body. She went to a chest of drawers and put on a pair of masculine boxer shorts followed by men's dress socks then went over to her special wardrobe where after taking time she finally selected a black shirt which she carried to a cheval mirror. With infinite care she inserted her arms one at a time into the long sleeves pulling the material lovingly over her naked breasts then lingering over each button as her nipples rose and a damp stain began to form at the crutch of the boxers. Now to select a tie. She settled on a deep blue silk number and returned to the mirror. Would she use a half or a full Windsor knot or maybe a simple over and under? Half Windsor it would be. Her arms rose to execute the knot and she gasped as the material of the shirt dragged across her erect nipples. Now for the suit. Which suit? Again she trawled along the row of hangers. Yes the grey pin-stripe. Trousers first. Insert each smooth leg then deal with the fly buttons. One, two, three, four, now the clip at the waistband then draw the bracers up across her breasts to rest securely on her shoulders. Into the jacket. Settle it on her shoulders. Insert the middle button in the corresponding hole. Turn to admire the back view in another mirror. Shoes? Of course, the shiny black Oxfords. Now she was dressed to go on the town. Would Babette keep her/him waiting. Would the woman have changed her outfit a dozen times already. Was she sans knickers, bare for her/his marauding hand, or silk clad to rebuff his initial attempts. Later she would place Babette's hand at his/her flies and she would open them up to find...................... Anais came back to the present collapsed on a cane chair and winding down from an intense orgasm. JEAN He was working at cleaning his brushes when the doorbell peeled. Anais entered and behaved just as normal. She stripped and took up the pose without comment other than the normal 'Bonjour Jeannot' but he could not restrain himself. "Will it be a problem for you when I exhibit this work?" Strangely enough and despite all his soul searching this point had only now occurred to Jean. Her answer however was made without taking any time for consideration. "I am not embarrassed by my body so why should I care?" "No, I mean for you as a public figure." "Again it's not a problem." He worked solidly for an hour until she coughed to remind him of the time. "I'm sorry. You must need a break." She came to stand by him her breasts just touching his arm which froze at the contact. "It's only a breast." She smiled up at him and taking his paint streaked hand placed it over her nipple. 'You see. My breast is no different to any other." But it was to him. He finally cracked and pulled her into his arms. Somehow her head tilted back then his lips were on hers, devouring her as if he was starving. The Artist's Model God but she was a sweet armful, soft where necessary but firm where it mattered but then he remembered himself and put her from him before breaking into stuttering apologies. "What was I thinking, you could have me arrested." ANAIS She reached up even as he spoke and placed a cupped hand over his mouth. "Jeannot it was all my fault. You were like a lamb being led to slaughter." She watched his face as realisation dawned. "But you kiss very well." Fully aware of his confusion she pushed him into the little kitchen exhorting him to make coffee for them both while she went to pee. "Look it's like this," she was sat on the chaise and he was perched on his stool all of two metres or more from temptation, "I am a virgin," she saw the surprise break out on his face but forged on not wanting to get into the reason for her condition, "and I decided last night that you should be the one to deflower me." "Oh," was all he could manage but Jean did at least manage a smile at the quaint old fashioned expression she had used. For another hour he worked and they were both silent but when she was about to dress she spoke tentatively. "Is it out of the question?" "Is what out of the question?" She had come close knowing that he understood perfectly well. "That you will fuck me." His desire then conquered every doubt as he lifted the model effortlessly to deposit Anais on the chaise longue and stand over her naked body. As he unbelted his trousers she lay with legs spread wide. The winter sun glinted on her hair and she watched avidly as he stripped. "Are you ready." She heard him speak as if from far away and her reply sounded equally distant. "Oh yes, I've been ready it seems for a very long time." God but he's big she thought as he towered above. JEAN He would have her here and now. What the future held he didn't know nor during that first leap of desire did he care. As he entered Jean could hear mewing noises of encouragement in his ear, feel her nails on his back, but above all else her strength when she pushed back and then urged him to heights he had never known before. ANAIS So this is how it feels to have a man in me. I think I actually quite like not being in charge. It's good to have someone else decide the pace but will he last until I've had my fill? Oh but now I'm coming...so soon...Babette was wrong. Perhaps I will come again before he climaxes? "Yes my love, go on...deeper...harder." JEAN She felt marvellous beneath him, he would pound her until she cried out for him to stop, he was invincible. But of course in the end he had to accept that he was only human. ANAIS "Just wait until I tell Babette." She was whispering to herself in the Taxi. JEAN He had arrived before Anais but the patron was expecting him and showed Jean to the author's usual table. However when she finally arrived Anais started straight in. "Look, I'm feeling very guilty at how I behaved earlier today." He listened but his eyes were on her clothes. What could have given him any clue to expect the male garb in which she had arrived? Not that she was any the less feminine for wearing a wide lapelled suit as he knew well what delights were concealed beneath the material, but it took time for him to rise above his initial surprise and reply. "I am only grateful that I was allowed to be the first man to enjoy your body." ANAIS I have shocked him was her first thought when she sat down but was impressed by his speed of recovery not knowing that he knew more than one lesbian painter who habitually dressed as men. At least having confessed to being a virgin he must now realise that she was not married but was he? "Are you married Jeannot or do you have someone you love?" "I never married," neither his face or his voice gave any clue as to how he felt about this statement, "and I am not involved with anyone either male or female." Interesting choice of words she thought but then came the expected follow up. "What about you Anais?" How much did she want to admit? "You know that I never had a man, that is before you, but I do have a woman who is very close to me." "So do you dislike men?" This was the million Euro question and she thought carefully before she replied. "No, it's just that I have never met one that I wanted to give myself to. In fact I think that two people living together and always in each other's pockets must find life difficult whatever their sexual persuasion." Later, and before they parted in the street, she put her hands on his shoulders and reached up to kiss him softly but wordlessly. JEAN The relationship between artist and model had now changed irrevocably. Over the period during which he finished three more life paintings the conversation in the studio remained sparse but they had taken to eating together once a week. They had not made love again, she had not initiated it and he was too scared to try. Jean had even met Babette and undergone an in depth questioning from that plump well upholstered lady. Today he was putting the last marks on the canvas of another full length portrait when she spoke. "Have you decided on a pose for your next painting?" "It will not be figurative so will not involve you." "'So this is the end?' He got up and began to pace to and fro. Having made up his mind to return to abstract tonal subjects he had anticipated that this situation would arise but had been unable to see a way forward. What he wanted would surely not suit Anais particularly considering her firmly stated views but if he didn't speak from the heart then he would forever regret not having done so. "You should know that I am deeply in love with you. I think I have been ever since you appeared that first morning but I realise that you don't feel the same way about me." She looked at him and he saw her face become alight with pleasure. "That's just not so. Listen to me Jeannot and listen carefully. My feelings for you have stolen up on me, taken me over. I find to my surprise that I am now in love with my painter, in love with this gentle man who smells of Gitane's and turpentine." ANAIS She stood and went over to melt into his welcoming arms. The material of his corduroy jacket was rough against her naked skin then later and right there on the chaise she cried out as she came. "We will make it work somehow my love." Anais was whispering in his ear as she held Jean close. THE END The Artists' Model I try to shake off the cold as I stomp my feet into the art building. Small backpack slung over my shoulder, big, wet parka, and oversized winter boots... all soaked in the sticky, slushy snow of early December on campus. I'm trying to get to my job - it's an easy gig, just a couple of nights a week, and it pays better than anything else I could find, especially given my schedule. It's a little weird, as I walk up this long stairway, knowing that as I pass people by, many of them have seen me naked. Even stranger, as I move toward the main drawing studio, and the hallway is peppered with charcoal drawings of nude men and women - some of them, drawings of me. Some are quick gesture drawings, five smudges of charcoal on newsprint, and some are more detailed, with a spark of recognition. That wasn't just a random woman's nose; it was mine. That wasn't a nondescript shape made between the character's hip and ribs - that was my waist. Some of the pieces were truly beautiful, actually. This had little to do with me, specifically, I think. It would be false to say I don't think I'm attractive; I keep in good shape since I'm a dance major. I have smooth muscles, lush curves, and thoughtful eyes. No, it had much more to do with the artists in this freshman drawing class. So many of them came to this school with talent and drive, but skills were something that was developing over time. You were the one helping these people develop their talents. You were their instructor, in the first few years of your teaching career, thirtyish and young enough to be enthusiastic yourself. My job was simply to stand there in a pose, an immovable statue for these students to draw. This left a lot of time for my mind to wander - and for my eyes to follow you around the room, as you bounced from student to student, correcting lines, opening the people to new ways of thinking about shapes and textures. I've been working in this job for the entirety of the semester. I have the routine down pat. I come into the class, promptly at 6pm on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I go back to the little dressing area on the side of the studio, while you discuss the concepts for tonight's class, and I change out of my parka, snow boots, jeans, and three shirts. I strip down to nothing, and I tie my hair up in a knot at the top of my head. I've done it this way for the last few weeks, because I overheard you telling one of your students that it would be a shame to not correctly capture the elegance of my long neck. After I check myself in the full-length mirror, I slip on the black satin thigh-length robe that I have folded neatly in my backpack. I slide my feet into a pair of simple sandals and walk out, finding a corner of the studio to wait and watch, until you motion to me, asking me to step into the middle of the studio. You are polite and distant, same as always - though we have spent countless hours in the same room, you studying my body, me watching you teach, we haven't spoken any more than pleasantries. It's arranged with drawing horses all around, so no matter where I am or how I position myself, there will be eyes on my every angle. There's no hiding, and these people are being taught to observe - everything about my form is bare to them. The students can all hide behind enormous drawing boards, though - they're nothing but a sea of heads and eyes, popping up over the boards like alligators out of a swamp. Wordlessly, I look at you expectantly, knowing you'll give me some kind of instruction in the next moment or so. Sometimes, it's completely nude, sometimes it's the black robe draped around me interestingly. Sometimes, I'm sitting, sometimes standing or even lying down. Tonight, you simply ask me to start moving, and then inform me that you'll let me know when I hit a pose that you like. I ask if you want the robe on or off, and you ask me, politely, to remove it. This part never stops feeling strange - it's always a bit of a shock to the system to disrobe, let it fall over my shoulders, graze my hips, and slip down to my waiting hand behind me. I take a deep breath and quickly remove it, draping it over an empty drawing horse, not occupied by any students. I start to move. I don't know what to do, and there's no music, so I can't go on my normal instincts. I start to walk myself through some of our warm-ups in my morning class - stretching my muscles, creating elongated forms with my body, running my hands along my sides, over my legs, arms, neck. I feel you watching me, but I do my best to just move, knowing you'll stop me when you like something. I do suspect, though, that you are watching me for just a tad longer than necessary. You quietly say "stop," with this kind of intensity that always shakes me a bit... you've decided that you'll have me on the stool, one leg extended to the ground and the other hooked into the rung of the stool, my arms outstretched in an arch over my body, my torso forming a smooth half-circle as my body bends sideways over my outstretched leg. Of course, you've chosen a pose that will test my flexibility, stamina, and strength. I sigh, but I carefully force my face to remain impassive. This is going to be a rough evening, and I wonder how I'm going to hold the pose for three hours, perched lightly on the edge of this stool, my muscles extended JUST beyond where they are comfortable. No matter - it's a well-paying gig, and it'll probably produce some interesting drawings. All in the name of art... or something. The students in the class take a moment to rearrange themselves, finding the best angles for their drawings. After a little shuffling around, students trying to stay out of each other's ways while still getting the perfect view of me, the energy of the room settles down to a nice, comfortable hum... I hear the scratching of charcoal on paper, fingers rubbing and smudging the surface, erasers... people shifting in their seats while they settle in for a comfortable few hours. So long as I keep my body in the same position, I'm free to let my eyes wander around the room. I take in the students, all late teens to early twenties, mostly in the standard art-school uniform: beat-up jeans, boots, and sweatshirts or pullovers that have all seen better days. Their hands are already black with charcoal, and their faces are starting to get that way, too. You pop around the room, ricocheting from student to student, making a few quick strokes on their pages, giving gentle reminders and enthusiastic encouragement where you can. Your eyes bounce from their drawing boards to my figure and back again, making small adjustments. After we've been in the room for about forty five minutes, you've made your way to all of the students once, and from habit, I know you'll check up on them again once more before the mid-class break. For now, though, you're leaning against a cabinet in the back of the studio, your arms folded, one leg crossed casually over the other, and you are watching me. Looking intensely at me. And suddenly, I feel more naked than I have this entire semester. I'm not sure what it is, what is different tonight, but you aren't just studying the planes of my body, trying to pinpoint how to articulate the light and shadows on my skin... you are staring directly into my eyes. I gaze back, my defensive attempt to make you leave me alone with my thoughts - you have paid for the privilege to look at light as it plays on my body, but you seem to want more. Normally, when I stare directly at someone, they look away. You don't. Your serious eyes squint a little, as though you are trying to solve a difficult puzzle in your head. Mine harden in response. I've noticed you all semester - I've gone a little breathless when you gently touch me, those calloused hands on my shoulders, guiding me to the correct position or helping me down from the perch during breaks. When you have spoken broadly about me to your class, I have gone pink in the cheeks, furious that your attention, although not place directly on me, per say, has made me physically react. Even worse, I've gone home after the three hour class and slipped into the shower, the only private place in my overcrowded dorm building, and fingered myself to orgasm, thinking about those hands - strong, dexterous, and still gentle - all over my body. I hate that you take up any space in my head at all, since this is a job, and I'm not here to make attachments. A few more months, and I'll be graduated from my masters program, auditioning all over the country and planning on moving away, anyway. All these things running through my head, and yet you keep staring. Don't you have some students to go teach or something? Quit looking at me. I know this is a ridiculous thing to say while I'm naked on a makeshift stage in an art class, but seriously. It's like you're trying to get inside my head, and you haven't been invited there. I let my eyes flick over to the clock and back at you, and I pointedly raise an eyebrow. I'm going to need a break pretty soon, and you should go earn your teacher's salary. You raise an eyebrow back at me, and then you smirk - one corner of your mouth twitching upward just slightly, and you push yourself off of the cabinet, and with long, casual strides, you start your second round of student consultation. Inwardly, I take a sigh of relief. Shell firmly back in place, I start counting down the minutes until the break. I've done such a great job of holding this pose for the past hour, but it's starting to wear on me. My leg is going numb, as are my toes on my other foot. The arm that is arched over my head is decidedly NOT numb; it's on fire. My torso is twisted uncomfortably at this point - one side stretched and strained, the other crunched in an uncomfortable knot. I can't wait until the room clears out and I can stretch my body, loosen some of the kinks that are starting to form, move around a little to get my blood flowing again. You clap your hands and tell the class that we're taking a fifteen-minute break, and suddenly, the room is a clamor of coats and hats, as they shuffle out of the room to their breaks. Some of them sneak outside for a quick smoke break, some just go to the hallway so they can get a little change of scenery. Some run to their other studio labs to check on other projects - sculptures that might need a little more moisture, things like that. In a matter of moments, the room is cleared out, and my robe is secured safely around my body. Unselfconsciously, I sit on the floor and start to stretch, twisting my body, rolling my ankles, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of movement. My eyes are closed, I'm enjoying it so intensely... ...and then I hear you clear your throat. I look up, and there you are again, leaning against that same cabinet, shirtsleeves rolled up and arms crossed in front of you. You're staring at me again. I try to ignore the penetrating gaze and instead focus on the pleasantries. I continue to stretch and work my body back into shape, and while I do, I start to make chatter. I thank you for my position in the class - I know you have a lot of choices among the student body, and the main office in the art department tells me that you have requested me in specific from the pool of available models. I ask if you have any holiday plans, since we're close to the end of the semester. You say you're going to see your sister. Clumsily, shyly, I ask if you'll be taking your girlfriend with you back to your hometown. You smirk, and tell me there is no girlfriend. You're single. And I blush again, harder, more intensely than before. Absentmindedly, I grimace as I try to work out a knot that has formed in my back, inside my right shoulder blade. You stroll over to where I'm sitting and you sit down onto your heels. Almost hesitantly, you ask what's hurting. I tell you, and you reach out your hands to me. "May I?" you ask. You tell me you have been complimented on your skills at giving a backrub. You seem almost bashful, like you know that if you touch me, there will be some kind of barrier crossed. I give you one long look, and I nod. I pull the robe down over my shoulders, leaving it wrapped chastely around my cleavage, and I duck my head to expose my back. You take your charcoal-smudged fingers and expertly find the knot, doing slow, hard circles around it to relieve it. I can't help it - I let out a moan. Instantly I clap my hand over my mouth, apologize, and tell you it's been there for weeks. You laugh easily and tell me not to worry about it... and then you lean in to my ear, and your voice drops to a seductive purr. I can feel your hot breath against my neck, displacing a few tiny wisps of my red hair. You tell me you like it when I moan, and you intend to hear it again. I can't believe I heard that right. I turn my head sharply to look at you, and all I see is your eyes looking back at me, a hint of a smile making them crinkle just a tiny bit at the corners. I bite my lip, unsure of what to say next. I must have heard correctly, because that half-challenging-half-promising smile you wear can only be produced after saying something so shockingly inappropriate for a classroom. My body responds. I can feel my nipples grow a little stiffer, and I can feel slickness start to work its way down from my pussy to the tops of my thighs. I open my mouth and close it a couple of times, not sure of my next move, when a couple of the students start working their way back into the classroom. You stand upright, wipe your charcoal-smudged hands on your beat-up jeans, and you go to get me a glass of water. I finish my stretching, preparing for another hour and a half of class, and as the students all arrive back, you look at the clock and start to conduct class again. I assume my previous pose, and you adjust my position with your hands, making sure I am exactly in the same spot as before. I can feel the roughness of your palms, hands that have made things of beauty, administered pleasure and relief to my tired back, and, no doubt, inflicted exacting pain where needed. It sends electricity up and down my body, and I spend the next 90 minutes trying to ignore the thoughts that are making me wet and uncomfortable, even while I sit here for all the students to examine. I feel so exposed. The next hour and a half seems to take a year and a half, instead. My body has had enough of this pose, my pussy is getting distractingly wet, and my arms are just tired beyond belief. Also, the way you keep looking at me, I know that I wasn't wrong - something almost happened during that break. I want the class to end right away, but I can't decide if it's so I can leave quickly, avoiding the whole thing, or if it's because I want to stay here, see the students all gone, and find out what's behind that stare. Eventually, I see the clock tick down to 8:45, and you announce that people can start wrapping up for the night. The students know the drill - they pull the masking tape off of their drawings, sign and date a corner, and then take them into the next room to spray fixative (or, if the students are frugal, hairspray) to set the charcoal so it won't smear as badly. Then, they pin the drawings onto the wall outside the studio. You will spend the next few days offering a grade and writing up critiques for the students to use on their next figure drawings. They arrange their gear and their coats, and slowly shuffle out of the room, to begin the long trek back to their dorms and late-night dinner in the dining hall. I, however, move quite a bit more slowly. I'm waiting for you to take the lead, but in the meantime, I'm going through the process of stretching out my limbs, working life back into my feet and hands. Normally, I'd rush to go put my clothing back on, but tonight's pose was particularly brutal to hold, and I've decided I want you to be able to watch me. You start going around the room, arranging the horses in a neat circle again, wiping down the sink at the back of the studio, folding up the drapes and pushing the spotlights backward. You leave them on. The room is lit only by them, so the light and shadow still cut my skin dramatically. I spend a few more minutes stretching until I've decided I'm as limber as I'm going to get tonight, and I pad over to the dressing area. I quietly pull my clothes out of my backpack and unfold them. I pull the band out of my hair and shake it out - it falls wildly around my shoulders. I unwrap the robe from my body, let it fall from my shoulders, and hang it on a nearby hook. I'm about to slip into my cute lacy boy shorts, when I feel your gaze on me. I turn around, and there you are. I bite my lip, a little shy, and I smile. You answer with a grin, and say "I've noticed you watching me. Most nights, but tonight in particular. What's up with that?" I raise an eyebrow and counter, "I've noticed YOU watching ME too. Most nights, but tonight in particular. Why?" You shift a little closer to me, still not touching, and says "I like to study beauty. And you are beautiful. I'm an inherently curious person - I wanted to know more about the beautiful creature in front of me. Semester's almost over - and since I'm not teaching life drawing next session, I'm not sure when I'll have the chance to find out." My grin gets just a little wider, and my eyes take on a little extra light. "I'm an open book, generally-speaking. What do you want to know?" And then you surprise me. I shouldn't have been surprised, but I am. "I want to see what your face looks like when you cum for me. See the way your body changes shapes when you're not performing, not so carefully practiced." My eyes widen for a fraction of a second. I consider, but then I decide - fuck it - and I let my body take over. "So find out. Like I said, open book." I set the clothes in my hands down, and I step toward you. I reach my hands up hesitantly, and start to undo the buttons on your collared shirt, starting at your neck and working all the way down to your belt. I untuck your t-shirt and run my hands underneath, my fingers exploring your stomach. You run your rough hands over my sides, tracing the hourglass shape of my ribs, waist, and hips... very gently. Almost reverently. I close my eyes and breath in and out, reveling in the sensation. You lean in to kiss me softly, your lips firm and delicious, and I melt into you. I pull your shirt the rest of the way over your shoulders, and you grip my waist and pull me closer. Eventually, you break, and you take me by the hand and lead me back to the stage area. You spread out some of the spare fabric on the floor, giving us a soft place to land. You push me to the floor, and I sink down, looking up at you. You smile... what a picture I must be, my red hair falling around my shoulders, body bathed in light and darkness, my eyes big and expectant as they look up at you. Your hands start to explore my body in earnest - fingers digging into my hair, soothing my scalp, the back of your hands over my neck, which sends shivers up and down my spine. Your palms cup and caress my breasts, lingering, gently pinching my nipples, tickling the heavy undersides, and then moving along my body, grazing my ribs. When I arch my back up into your waiting hands, you push me back down into the floor. You continue your slow investigation of my body, wrapping your thick hands around the smallest part of my waist, letting them travel underneath my body, and you lean down to kiss my smooth stomach. You work your way down to my hips, over my freshly shaven mound, and you spread my legs apart. You kiss, tease, and lick me as you slowly draw closer and closer to my pussy, now soaking wet and aching. I don't want to wait any longer - I twine my fingers into your thick hair and I gently push your face downward, silently asking you to put your tongue inside me. You chuckle and nip at my thigh - not until you're ready, I guess. I'll have to be patient. The Artists' Model After what seems like a decade, you finally comply... hovering just over my skin, not making contact, only breathing softly onto me, the anticipation is just killing me - until finally, you run your tongue slowly, deliberately up along one of my lips and down the other. I let out a moan of relief, and involuntarily, my body rises up to your waiting mouth, begging for more. You alternate between lazy circles around my clit and deep, probing movements into my pussy, occasionally punctuating with playful flicks across my clit. with your hands, you spread my legs apart, fingers pulling my lips open to give yourself better access, making my nerves feel exposed and electric. I draw closer to my first orgasm until finally, I can't contain it anymore I feel the rush of orgasm slam into me and I moan, letting the sensations fall on me, overpowering me. As soon as my orgasm starts to wane, you slide up my body and kiss me deeply, letting me taste myself on your lips and nimble tongue. You give me time to catch my breath, but it only takes a moment before I'm desperate for more. I rise a little to pull you closer. I start running my hands all over your body, finding out what parts make you shudder, what makes you sigh with pleasure. I find that when I lightly drag my fingernails over your lower back, just above your tailbone, it raises goosebumps all over your body. When I graze my teeth over your collarbone, you shake. I tease every part of your body until you tremble, thoroughly enjoying the slightly wild look in your eyes as you get even more aroused. I turn my attention toward your cock, a small bead of precum already forming on the head. I roll us over so I'm on top of you and you are lying on your back on the drapes, muscles tense with arousal, cock hard and pointing skyward, casting a stark shadow across your body in the studio lights. I lean down for a taste, and I just flick my tongue over your head. That sharp, hissing intake of breath has to be the sexiest sound I have ever heard. I flick my tongue over your head again, before I take it in my mouth, swirling my tongue around, gently sucking, using more pressure, less pressure, faster, slower, then faster again as I let your growls, sighs, and moans be my guide. I love your cock - I love its length, its thickness... I love the color, like your skin but darker. I love how it pulses with your heartbeat, and the unmistakable texture... soft, hard, smooth, veiny, all at once... and the heat. Hotter and hotter, the closer you get to your orgasm, until I finally feel the telltale rapid pulses, and your cum floods my mouth and I greedily drink down all of it, its delicious salty taste washing down my throat. Panting, we lie there like that on the floor, sweat-soaked and blissful. Finally, two pairs of footsteps in the deserted hallway remind us that while these studios are unoccupied, they are still available for student use when class isn't in session. These particular students walk past into the painting studio down the hall, but anyhow, we decide that perhaps it's time to relocate to somewhere a little more private. You tell me your office has an extremely comfortable couch, and you smirk again... clearly, I can see the invitation in your eyes, and you know I'm going to accept.