I step out of the bath first, drying myself, looking down at Philip, at his rippling eddying body, wrapping the towel around myself, pulling it under my arms, over my legs, between them, rubbing my pubic hair, patting the tender damp skin of my sex, staring down, looking, at his firm hairy body, his soft swirling penis. Then standing back, dry, taking the towel away from myself, standing in front of him naked, letting him look, reaching for a fresh towel, inviting him out.
And drying him. Feeling his body, his arms, his shoulders, his tight chest, reaching around to his full firm ass, sliding down and up his legs, scrunching over his thick dark bush. And looking, oh god, seeing his soft penis start to stiffen, watching his small cock start to get bigger, pulling the towel over his male part, then dropping it to touch him there with my bare hand, feeling his delicious warmth, the hardening of his aroused organ, pulling, stroking him, his skin tight and clean from the bath, letting myself look at his smooth shiny tip, feeling him become erect again, fully, thrillingly erect, his foreskin slid away from his glans, letting me look, letting me stare at this most intimate part, Philip's is so smooth, shining, soft, pink, a slightly more reddish pink than the creamier, browner skin covering his tumescent stem. I stroke him, I want to see that first delicious drop of sweet liquid appear in his opening, I grip his sex until it is upright, until his cock is sticking up between us, full, thick, long, hot, always, why does this always surprise me, the heat of him, and so ready, the undisguise-able reaction of his body, that erotic chain of mind and sensation.
But, moving back, already looking, looking down, feeling my breath, my belly, my pleasure, feeling my own body react, sensing my own hidden responses, my own sweet swelling, the slick moisture seeping from within my sex.
And my mind, I stay still, Philip looks at me, as I shift my feet apart, as I offer him the most teasing view of my naked genitals, as he stares down, lingering over the moist folds of my warm cunt. I feel myself pulse with wetness, slip and slide with hot arousal.
My mind follows my eyes, I live again, back again.
He asked me out for coffee, or was it a drink? Casual enough, friendly enough. Laurent, our beautiful young male model, did not return, not for those classes. We saw the two women, and another man, older, again, though not old, in his forties I guessed. He appeared for our last class. Do I remember him? From those sessions? Do I trust the source of my own stories? My visual memory is clear though, is detailed for him, for everyone I have drawn or painted, clothed or nude. At least, again, I think it is. How would I know?
Our final model entered and nodded to the teacher, smiled at a few of us as he walked to the screen. I sensed the confidence of his experience. Within moments he was in front of us again, covered in a black robe. I sharpened a pencil, and waited. And looked. Without looking, at his short grey hair, his bare feet, his smooth naked calves. And then he undid his robe and dropped it behind him. He stood naked. And stepped into a pose. I looked carefully now, with fresh attentiveness. At his tight body, at the hair around his nipples, at the centre of his chest, at the small bulge of his belly, at his dark, thin looking patch of pubic hair, flat looking, not cut, I was sure, but it grew close to his body, his skin. I let my eyes slip lower and look at his suddenly exposed penis.
He stood, turning, extending, stepping. I watched. His soft penis wobbled and swayed. His cock was quite long, quite thick, and very circumcised. I supposed he was good looking enough, unobtrusively handsome, not a man you might stop to look at, to look back at, but someone you could get to like. My obsessions reverberated within me though, my physical pleasure at looking at nude men, naked women. I stared. The model was still, his cock hung down in front of him, touching the valley where his thighs met, his large oval tip in view, the tight slit of his opening, his long stem, oh god, his gnarled veined thick shaft, dark, the skin of his sizeable penis was darker than the rest of his body, the smooth bare cap of his glans just slightly wider than his fleshy stem.
His balls hung behind his cock, held tight, gripped by his exposed pouch, perhaps slightly lower than our younger model, showing around the sides of his penis, the crinkled skin of his scrotum slightly relaxed. I could see his large testicles shifting, swaying, as he breathed, as his body pulsed and expanded.
I explored my wicked imaginings, as I drew, as I studied him, my depraved fantasies, to have him undress for me, with me, for me alone, to draw him, to lay him down, to arrange him into a pose, and to request tumescence, to watch the first pulsings of arousal, to instruct him, to order him to touch himself, to masturbate until he was suitably erect. Watching as he did so, watching his penis lengthen, thicken. Drawing quickly, as he let go, sketching his bare body, the unambiguous focus the long extension of his sex sticking up over his belly.
And to reach for him, to let him soften, to hold his warm, soft organ, take that long soft penis in my mouth and suck him until he was rigid, to draw, to hold a mirror and draw myself, my face, my mouth open, stretched around his erect cock, to pull it away and take one of those large pendulous balls between my lips.
I enter myself once more, I drop back, back inside, to thoughts as clear and affecting as the tile under my bare feet. Thinking, re-living, living.
Do I have a thing for older men? I hadn't considered this before. For men? Any man? I think of sketching him, and undressing, simply, wordlessly, stripping for him, letting him look at my smooth firm young body, my small breasts, my tight dark nipples, my thick bush. Holding his stiff penis, pulling him against me, sliding my moist sex along his thick hard stem, sitting over him, feeling his taut smooth glans stretch into my vagina, and pushing down hard, enclosing him, enveloping his long thick cock deep inside my tight little cunt.
The hours pass, as quickly as usual. He is a good model, his poses are challenging, he stays as still as anyone we have had, I draw quick charcoal renderings of his firm smooth body, his small ass only just betraying the deflating signs of age, longer pencil drawings of his large fleshy soft penis, hinting at experience, at life, and hands, mouths, openings, closings. Making me, oh god, it makes me think of him hard, I think of him fucking, holding the swollen tip of his penis to a lover's opening, a woman's slippery warm vagina, a guy, I think of him with another guy, both naked, both aroused, kissing, touching, stroking each other, finding their rhythm, turning, opening themselves, kissing and moistening the other's tight asshole, entering him there, fucking, fucking his lover in the ass with force and need.
But then, in a moment he is by himself, in bed, in his apartment, in the afternoon, undressing in the daylight, his curtains drawn, a fifth floor, naked, already half erect, finding himself aroused, masturbating quickly and easily to orgasm, spurting thick loops of semen over himself, over his hands, his smooth belly, his hairy chest.
When he chats to the teacher between poses, during one of his breaks, he remains nude. I remain transfixed. As he steps and sways, as his soft cock swings and shakes, as his relaxed scrotum holds his testicles, as they hang lower behind his long penis.
His long pose involves him reclining on a long flat seat, long leg raised, the other flat, his penis hangs over his thigh, his soft pouch allows us to look at the shape of his balls.
My thighs are closed together throughout.
When I pack up it is with a large amount of sadness, that our course has finished. I know I will have to find another one, more models, nude men, nude women, posing for another group, for me. This thought has dangerous appeal, that I could ask people, friends, boyfriends, strangers, to pose for me? Could I? Would they? Then, one cascades into another, that I could pose. I barely move, I have slowed my packing to an absent shuffling of my papers, as I imagine undressing behind a screen, a class waiting, stepping out, letting my robe fall from my naked body, having a group of young artists look at me, at my bare skin, watching as I strip, as they are suddenly able to look at my breasts, my dark bush, my soft dark sex.
I linger so much over this thought I am the last one to pack up, to leave. Our teacher is still there, also packing. And he catches my eye.
"Juliette, how did you enjoy the course?"
"Oh, very much, it was new to me, but I enjoyed it immensely."
"Good, I am glad you got something from it."
"Do you teach may other classes?"
"Sure, a couple of others. You should try them, you have talent I think, you should develop it."
"Oh, thank you, I might, I mean, if you could let me know? Where they are?"
"Of course, um, are you free now? Would you like to get coffee?"
This surprises me, it continues to, when I am asked out, if that's what he is doing, when a conversation takes that sudden shift. Do I want coffee? Do I want to spend time with him? Do I sense any other interest? Does he? I answer a quick, if tentative yes to all.
"Coffee would be nice, yes."
"Are you okay to give me a minute to close up?"
I give him his minute, and wait, glancing out (was it winter? Do I remember cold weather? Our breath hanging on the air? Clouds, the sky low, having to go inside, when you could still smoke, double espresso for him, cappuccino for me. Cigarettes for both of us.
Had I looked at him before? For more than a passing glance on the way to someone nude? He had a nice face, creased around the eyes, his mouth, blue eyes, dark brown-black hair. And a thick dense beard. We spoke. I know we spoke. Conversation came easy. I don't remember any of it. Until the subject turned to painting, modelling, nudes. He asked if I had ever done any life modelling. I took it more as a flirt than a suggestion. Until I asked him in return if he ever had).
