The Artists' Model

She loved the feeling of their eyes on her nude body

The first two parts of this new series will be free to read. After that, there will be times when it gets a lot naughtier, so it will continue for paid subscribers

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She loved the sensual feeling of their eyes on her body. The art class was mostly young men, a couple of older students had crept in and then, of course, there was the professor. They all called him that, but he had never divulged his qualifications. He was probably a moderately good artist who, past his prime, now made a modest income from teaching.

Moving just her eyes so as not to break the pose, she looked around the room. Was she just an anonymous body to them, something to be used, a collection of curves and lines to be posed, copied and scratched onto their paper or daubed in paint on their canvases?

Were the curves why she was so popular as a model? Full breasts, a rounded stomach, wide hips and long, straight, chestnut coloured hair; did she resemble a mother goddess or was she just sexy?

Her mind strayed into her wildest fantasy. Would they use her in other ways? Suppose she took them all. Laid back on the dais, legs open, her sex revealed, its lips parting invitingly. Would they form a polite queue? Or maybe she would take one in her sex, one in her ass, one in her mouth and one in each hand. Would she end up leaking, liquid, bathed in male spend?

She concentrated on her pose. It was nothing more than a fantasy.

Did they see the woman beneath? Was there one amongst them that would want to possess her, claim her as his?

Why did men always talk about possessing women, taking them? Surely the reverse was true. The act of penetration involved the woman possessing the man, taking him inside her, grasping at his cock with her muscles. What if they were powerful enough to grip onto his flesh and not let go? She had read about foxes; the vixen locking the male into her, holding him there so they remained welded together, sometimes for hours.

Despite coming to the studio regularly, peeling off her clothes, removing all external semblance of her personality, she knew as little about the men who studied her as they knew about her. Some were handsome, some not so. Maybe the better looking ones, those with a strong jawline, muscular bodies and a mop of tousled hair, were brutes. There were some that were shyer, more studious, not so outwardly masculine: perhaps they were kinder, would worship her if she gave herself to them.

When she took a break, she donned her robe but rarely tied it tight. On warm days it flowed open, revealing her curves. Once, she had walked amongst them naked, delighting in the sensation of baring her skin to a group who remained clothed. She moved among them and even stood out on the balcony smoking a Gauloise, until the professor, frowning with a disapproval, held out her robe.

Despite the fact that they had just spent the last half an hour gazing at her naked form, examining every detail, every curve of her body, the men all acted like schoolboys caught in the act of peeping when she stepped down from the dais. It amused her when they turned away, embarrassed at having to converse with a real woman who was nude.

Their awkwardness enhanced her delight still further. She knew her age gave her more confidence than the younger models. She was more mature than many of the students, but was still not old enough to be their mother: an older sister or maybe an aunt. An averted glance, the occasional evidence of an increasing firmness in their trousers, they all stimulated her. Not to the point where she would want to act out her fantasy, but rather, she told herself, it was as pleasurable as thinking about eating a good meal or sipping a fine Burgundy.

One day, there was a new young man present. This was nothing unusual; new students often arrived and some dropped out. There was an ever-changing sea of faces in front of her. During her break she wandered around looking at the artists’ works. When she came to the young man’s easel, she stopped.

“Do you like it?” A voice said from behind her.

She looked at the drawing. The lines captured her body, the fullness of her breasts, the curve of her belly and the ripeness of her thighs, in an elegant, sensual drawing, but it was her face that she studied. There was a twinkle in her eyes, something in her expression that she could not quite place. A cheekiness maybe. It was as if he had looked inside her mind and seen what she was thinking. “Yes,” she said. “Very much.”

She turned and looked at him, her robe falling open so that it exposed the inner curves of her breasts, the roundness of her belly and the dark curls in the shadows between her legs. He did not look away. “I should like to pose for you,” she said.

“That would be nice,” he looked down. “But I have no money. I can barely afford these classes.”

“I will not charge you,” she said. “Maybe you can do an extra drawing or painting for my personal collection.”

The other students were beginning to sit at their easels again.

“Give me your address. I will call on you and we will discuss it.”

She knew that he was unaware of her secret, as were all of the students. She was a woman of some wealth. She had married well, an older man whom she had loved dearly. They had both enjoyed the intimacy of sex and often joked, as he thrust into her, his face beetroot red and puffing like a heavily loaded steam engine tackling an incline, that he would expire in the midst of their lovemaking. And then, one day, he did.

He had left her well provided for with a large house that felt empty without his presence. She had been an artists’ model when they met and had continued to pose during their marriage. The money was poor, but she had no need of it. She found what she had always known; she enjoyed exhibiting herself. The sensual feel of men’s and women’s gaze on her when she was nude excited her. Not that there were many women at the school.

“What is your name? He asked as he handed her a slip of paper.

“Tatyana. You are the first one to ask. I will call on you tomorrow afternoon,” she glanced down at the note, “Paul.”

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