The Model

What did it feel like to be bound, to be restrained, whilst a stranger, looked at her body? She had to know

Nov 25, 2025

Like a woman in a classical painting, she sits, her chin lifted haughtily as if she is peering down from high on the wall of a stately home. Naked to her waist, nipples pebbled with anticipation, legs swathed in sheer nylon, bright red panties seeming to glow, as if shining with her true desires.

She had seen his paintings, marveled at his drawings and sketches. The intimacy, the eroticism of them had aroused her.

“Will you paint me?” she had asked.

His dark eyes had swept over her body. She had felt his mind stripping her thin dress away, imagining the curves of her hips, the softness of her skin.

He had nodded.

A tremor of excitement had run through her, imperceptible on her face, but inside she had felt herself shaking. She looked at the nearest drawing of a woman entwined in a network of ties. “Like that?” She had wanted to know; what did it feel like to be bound, to be restrained, whilst a man, a stranger, looked at her body?

“If that reveals your true desires, then yes,” he had said quietly.

She had entered his studio with her face expressionless, her mask in place. It wrapped around her like a suit of armour. To others, it made her appear haughty, cold, untouchable. Even as she had removed her clothes, it had remained, hiding her thoughts, protecting her.

“Bind me.” It was almost a command but, despite her proud exterior, inside she seethed with impatience: to know, to discover the sensations’ effect on her.

He smiled, seeing beneath the mask.

In the past, she had taken lovers, but none had been able to master her. Plain, uninventive, they had cared more for their pleasure than hers. Now, as he wrapped the ties around her wrists and her slender legs she felt a new intimacy. The thought purred through her mind that most men spent all their time trying to get women to part their legs. This artist was revealing more of her inner secrets as he bound them together than any before him had.

She wriggled, found she could still move her body, but the ties placed restrictions on her. Arousal was tingling through her, seeping from her sex, coating the insides of her panties. At any other time, she may have allowed her fingers to stray onto the soft folds, pressed them against the swelling pearl to offer herself some relief.

A tiny gasp escaped from between her lips as she realised she was now totally dependent on outside forces for any stimulation. The idea, rather than quietening her, surged through her like a wind fanning a forest fire.

The artist sat and watched, his hand dragging the charcoal frantically over sheet after sheet of paper as if he was bringing himself closer to a climax with each stroke. As he discarded each drawing, and it fell to the floor, it seemed to capture the essence of her awakening passion.

Her body twisted, struggling against the ties as she snaked onto her front. Slowly, deliberately, she inched her knees forward, raising her behind into the air. Her fiery red panties were now all that covered her innermost desires. She was challenging him to pull then aside. Daring him to release her.

I have long been an admirer of the writing of Anais Nin. Although reflecting the mores of European society at the time her stories were written, they challenge what was then, and in some cases still is, a masculine, physical, view of sexuality by introducing the concept that female sexuality is centred in the mind.