"Stop moving!" The artist grumbled at us.
I resisted the urge to squirm as my companion's erection pressed into my thigh.
We stood together, nude, bound together by a strip of gauzy fabric around our legs. Bright sunlight illuminated our pedestal in the middle of the studio. The artist peered at us from behind his easel, pallet in hand. Paintings that would have sold for more than my rent leaned carelessly against the wall. The smell of strong coffee almost covered up the lingering aroma of turpentine, and tinny music played from a cheap stereo in the corner.
Of course, I wasn't really paying attention to the studio. It no longer held any mysteries for me. I had spent many long hours there, holding poses until my muscles ached, with nothing to do but stare at my surroundings.
Most painters only hire a model for an hour or two, and take reference photos. It's easier, but pays a lot less. This artist was unusual in his approach. Old-school. He believed there was value in painting from a live model, which meant long sessions.
My companion and I were two of the only models who were up for it, which is why so many paintings on the walls depicted our bodies. The curve of my hips. His broad shoulders. The swell of my breasts. His muscular thighs. My rosy nipples. His uncircumcised cock.
We'd never actually worked together before this, but when I walked in, our eyes met in a crackle of recognition. He paused in the middle of taking off his shoes, and I knew right away that he'd spent just as long staring at the paintings of my body as I'd spent admiring his. He arched his eyebrows, raised a hand in greeting, and pulled his shirt over his head.
I quickly retreated behind the folding screen. I'd always found the screen silly. After all, if I was about to pose nude, why provide privacy for the undressing? But this time, I was grateful for it. I hung up my dress and tucked my underwear into my bag, hoping the blush would fade from my cheeks by the time I walked out.
The artist bustled around us impatiently, and we fell into the usual routine of negotiating the pose, trying to balance what he wanted with what we could hold comfortably. In the end, we found ourselves facing each other, my hands on his chest, his on my hips. The artist wrapped a thin sheet of gauzy fabric tightly around our legs, giving him some texture and color to contrast against our skin.
We rested our heads together, with him gazing down at me, as if we'd just kissed. The artist fussed about our height difference, and I found myself up on my tiptoes, leaning against my companion for balance. My breasts pressed against his chest. We pretended not to notice the way our pelvises were making contact.
Satisfied, the artist retreated to his canvas to sketch and mix colors. I felt an odd blend of awkwardness and intimacy, pressed against his body like that.
"Hey," he said under his breath. "Nice to finally meet you."
"You too," I replied. "I'm Claire."
"Ben," he said, "but everyone calls me Tex."
"You don't sound like you're from Texas."
"I'm not," he conceded, "but you wear cowboy boots to work one time..."
I snorted. The artist looked up and frowned.
"Don't make me laugh," I whispered. "You're gonna get us in trouble!"
"Sorry," he said, trying not to grin. "I'm just nervous. I've seen so many paintings of you, it's like meeting a celebrity."
"Really?" I tried to play it cool. "What's your favorite?"
"The one by the door, with the red background."
"Oh?" I risked a quick look over my shoulder. In the painting, I held a hand dramatically to my head, as if about to swoon. A swatch of fabric was draped carelessly over my shoulder, leaving one breast exposed. "Yeah, I remember posing for that one. The studio was freezing, even with that noisy space heater going."
"How about you?" He asked with studied casualness. "Any of mine ever catch your eye?"
"Hmm." I pretended to consider the options. In truth, I already knew the answer. "I like the one by the window where you're sprawled across the couch." I'd spent hours admiring it. He had an arm over his eyes. One foot propped on the arm of the couch, the other resting on the floor. My eye was always drawn to his cock, prominent, but not yet erect. More than once, I'd imagined kneeling next to him, taking him in hand, and feeling him swell to life for me.
"Oh, yeah," Ben chuckled. "He told me to imagine I'd just had sex, and was lying there, breathless, after a climax."
"He did not!"
"Well," he grinned, "maybe that was just what I imagined."
"Stop talking!" The artist snapped. "I can't get the line of your jaw if you're chatting."
We fell silent, but all I could think of was his post-coital sprawl on the couch. I wanted to ask him more. Sometimes during a long pose, my imagination would run wild. How elaborate a fantasy had he constructed of this sexual encounter? Was she on top? Did he cum inside her?
Did she look like me?
His chest rose and fell against mine. I felt a flutter in my core. His hands were on my hips, and it was a struggle not to imagine them sliding downward.
Don't
, I scolded myself.
Be professional.
This was a dangerous train of thought. We could be here for hours yet.
The way the artist had positioned us meant his head was angled down, as if gazing lovingly at me, about to pull me into a kiss. I looked up, resisting the sudden urge to press my lips to his. Could he see the spark of desire in my eyes? He glanced away, but unable to move his head, he found himself looking at my breasts pressed against his chest.
I shivered, and my nipples stiffened involuntarily. I bit my tongue in frustration at my body's automatic response to his proximity. His eyes widened, and he averted his gaze as best he could. I felt a rush of gratitude for him not taking advantage of the situation, undercut by a confusingly contradictory annoyance that he wasn't.
It was becoming perversely clear that the very act of resisting my growing arousal was only intensifying things. My heart pounded and I struggled not to squirm. If this continued, the heat radiating from between my thighs would be impossible for him to ignore. I stared into his eyes, desperately praying that he couldn't tell how badly I was losing this battle.
I squeezed my legs together, as discreetly as I could, desperate for some relief. Had I ever become this turned on, this fast? I felt ridiculous, but I also wanted more. Rationally, I knew it was about the situation, more than anything. It was intoxicating, being so close, and unable to move away from this man I'd spent hours fantasizing about. His skin, his scent, his lips, his eyes. I was drowning.
Abruptly, I became aware of a growing pressure against my inner thigh. I inhaled in surprise, and saw the alarm in his eyes. Oh! I'd been worried that he would see my barely controlled lust as unprofessional, but he'd been just as busy suppressing his body's reaction to me!
His cock throbbed, straining and swelling larger. I shivered as a matching wave of desire rolled down my spine. His hands tightened on my hips, unsure of my reaction, not knowing whether to push me away or pull me more tightly against him.
He parted his lips as if to say something, but I lightly dug my fingernails into his chest to stop him. I risked a glance at the artist. His attention was mostly on the canvas, brush in hand, looking our way now and then. I licked my lips, and risked rocking my pelvis forward, increasing the pressure between us.
He stiffened in surprise, but I felt his cock twitch, trapped between us. I wanted more. I wanted to grind against him. For him to dig his fingers into my hips, then reach down, grab my ass and lift me up, until I wrapped my thighs around him. My insides clenched at the thought.
I gazed up at him, trying to communicate without words that I was just as turned on as he was, that he had nothing to worry about. Just moments ago, I'd been worried that my arousal was too obvious for him to ignore, and now I feared it was too subtle. I needed him to know. What could we do? I considered asking the artist if we could take a break, but it hadn't been long enough. Besides, what was I going to do? Pull him down the hall for a quick fuck in the stairwell?
Immediately, it was all I could think about. The feel of rough concrete against my back, thighs wrapped around him as he thrust passionately into me. I wanted to dig my nails into his back, bite his neck to keep from screaming as he fucked me senseless.
