An Evening with Artists

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Any resemblance of characters or circumstances to persons or events, living, dead, or fictional is entirely unintentional. Sexual activity should occur only between consenting adults in the absence of coercion. Fantasy is different from reality; one should be aware of the difference.

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My heart pounded in my chest as I opened the door to the arts building. It was after hours, almost 7:30 in the evening when classrooms were empty, lights were turned off, and only a small maintenance crew was cleaning and straightening in preparation for the next day's classes. Only a handful of classrooms were in use this time of night, and one of those handful was my reason for being here.

'I can't believe I'm doing this,' I thought as I checked the directions on my phone and turned down an unfamiliar hallway.

I was in my second year at state university and things were going well. I was enjoying my classes, I'd made good friends, and had found that balance between doing well and having fun. It was a nice change because high school had been hard for me.

My family had moved at the end of my eighth grade year, so I started school not knowing anybody. It's bad enough not having a posse, but nature had decided to play a trick on me. Most of the girls in my classes developed at the expected time. I... did not. I kept looking like a weirdly short boy while the rest of the girls were obviously becoming women. To the girls, I was someone to keep around to make them look better. To the boys, I may as well not have existed. I tried to make an impression, especially on a particular boy who made my heart flutter whenever I looked at him. Paul Hopkins- lean, well-spoken, and (I thought) sensitive and artistic. In my bed at night I dreamed of somehow catching his eye, arousing in him the fascination that he aroused in me. Sometimes I did other things alone in my bed at night, thinking about Paul.

One day Paul was standing in the hall between classes with a handful of other boys, watching the girls go by and discussing the size and shape of their boobs. One girl walked past and I heard a shout of "melons!" Another was met with "apples," and a third "tennis balls!" After every shout, the boys would laugh raucously. Sometimes the girl would glare, other times blush or just hurry past. The boys fell silent as I walked past, which was bad enough. But I heard Paul blurt out, "pancakes!" If I could have folded myself up into a ball and disappeared, I would have. Instead, I held a book to my non-existent chest and tried not to cry as they cackled and high-fived behind me.

The name stuck. From then on, only the teachers called me "Lana." To everyone else, I was "Pancakes Drake," or just "Pancakes." My entire existence at school was tied to my total lack of a chest. I learned to avoid notice and hide my figure, such as it was, in baggy clothes. It was only after I graduated that things changed. Finally, finally I grew taller, my hips grew rounder, and my pancakes swelled to become rather shapely B-cups. By about halfway through my Freshman year of college, I had grown into what I hoped was a nice figure. Not that anyone could tell; after years of being called "pancakes" the habit of dressing in the loosest, baggiest clothes possible was hard to shake. I thought that if nobody could see my body, they couldn't make fun of me. But really, I did it because I couldn't stand to see myself.

Things changed because college helped me start over and learn to be braver. Some of it was new friends who had never known me as "Pancakes," but always as just "Lana". Some of it was my classes. And I think some of it was just being fed up with hiding. I shopped a little with my new friends and (with their encouragement) wearing things that were a bit less concealing. By the time I started my Sophomore year, things had changed. I was hardly one of those coeds with her ass hanging halfway out of a tiny pair of shorts, or the crop top that just barely covered her tits. But I was at least wearing pants the right size and cute little tank tops. Compared to sweatshirts and baggy jeans, that was huge.

It wasn't enough though. I hated feeling ashamed of my own body and I was always looking for the next step that would help me get over it. Which was ultimately why I was in the arts building after dark. My friend, Jamila, had called me out of the blue a couple of hours earlier as I was studying. Jamila was a year ahead of me; we had hit it off when we sat together in calculus. She was tall, with olive skin and black hair, and was making it through school with a combination of scholarships, loans, and a whole flock of jobs.

"Heeeeey, Lana, how are you?" she asked, voice so raw it made me wince just listening to it.

Jamila had a job that evening, but she sounded like death and was clearly in no shape to do it. As usual, though, she needed the money, and if she could find a replacement, she'd still earn ten percent of the original amount. My finances were a lot more secure than Jamila's, but I wasn't exactly awash in cash. It'd be nice to earn a bit more, and to help out a friend. The catch was the job itself.

"I'm supposed to work as an art model." Jamila explained, "Show up, stand there, and let a class paint you. Pretty easy. The only thing is..."

"Yeah? What?" I asked, but I had a sinking feeling I knew where this was going.

"It's modeling nude, girl. I've done it before and it's really chill! The professor is a really nice guy and he watches out for you, and the students are nice and respectful. You just have to stand there... you know, naked... while they paint. Takes about an hour and a half and you get paid four hundred dollars."

I felt a whole rainforest worth of butterflies flapping around in my stomach.

"Look, I know how you are but everyone else I've tried is sick, or busy, or just chicken. You're kind of my last hope, hon. Please?"

My immediate reaction was to refuse. There was no way I could stand naked in some room so a bunch of strangers could paint me! I'd just spent the better part of five years trying to keep everyone from seeing me, from seeing my body, and now... what? I'm just supposed to get my tits out for everyone to see? But underneath I felt excited. Not like happy excited, but the kind of excitement you feel when you're hooked up to the bungie cord and you stand right on the edge of the platform and know that in a moment you're going to jump off. If I want to stop feeling ashamed of my body, wouldn't this be the way?

"You know what?" I answered at last, "Fine. I'll do it. Send me the deets and I'll do it."

And so, here I was, outside the door to an art studio where, I guessed, I'd soon be standing naked.

I took a deep breath, and discovered the door was locked. Bewildered, I checked the door number- yes, it matched the instructions in my phone. I raised my fist to knock.

"Ms. Drake?" A man's voice called out.

I turned, seeing him walking briskly towards me. He was older, probably mid-thirties, with neatly groomed black hair and a short beard. He was dressed in an old Greenday t-shirt over jeans and brown shoes.

"Um... yes?" I answered.

"Glad I found you! I'm Professor Stephens, I teach the class you're here for."

I shook his hand, suddenly conscious that this man was about to see me completely naked. It must have shown on my face because he smiled kindly and released my hand, taking a small step back.

"I'm impressed that Jamila was able to find a replacement. I understand this is your first time with us; have you ever done any modeling before?"

I shook my head and he nodded before turning on his heel and gesturing down the hall.

"We had to get a different room. I'm afraid a water pipe burst earlier today and maintenance is still trying to sort things out. Our new room is down this way. Would you like to see it and talk things over?"

I nodded, and he led me down the hall, still talking.

"So first of all, you should know that this isn't my first time running a class like this. I am very happily married and she DOES know what happens in class. Actually, we met just like this."

I looked at him sharply and he held up his hands, "Hey, I needed the money!"

I couldn't help snickering and he grinned widely, "That's better. Really, it's no big deal. It feels weird at first, but after five minutes you forget you're naked. And here we are!"

He pulled open a door and waved me through into a large room. On one side, directly in front of us as we entered, was a small round stage about six inches high and about ten feet across. A rack of spotlights hanging from the ceiling shined down on the stage and onto the hip-height stool sitting in the middle. To the right of the stage was a windowless door. And in a semi-circle around the stage to the left were easels with canvases already laid out. The room was noticeably warmer than the hallway.

"It's warm! So I don't get cold?" I blurted out, voice a little shaky.

Professor Stephens nodded, "Exactly. Class doesn't start for a bit so if you would?"

He crossed to the door behind the stage, opened it, and waved me through. The room was small and sparsely furnished. A table, a pair of chairs, a mirror, and a coat rack with a white robe hanging from it. He followed me in and the door swung shut automatically.

"Okay, so, here on the table you'll find some paperwork. Read through carefully and sign. If you don't feel you can sign, I'd rather know about it before class than after."

I nodded at him, "Okay."

"There's a robe over there for you while you're preparing. It's best if you get undressed early so that there's time for the elastic marks on your skin to fade. I can think of a great many nudes by the old masters, and not a one has a waistband crease in it. Although with Picasso it might be hard to tell."

I tried to laugh politely, but my mouth was bone dry.

He took a step towards the door, "This door locks from the inside like so... and I'll knock when I'm ready for you. Do you have any questions?"

"Um," I began, "how close will they get?"

"Not close. They can come up to the edge of the stage if they like, but not onto it. You stand by the stool, most models lean on it, so you're several feet away even if they come up to look. And I'll be in the room the whole time. Anything else?"

I shook my head.

"Thank you for doing this! It's a big help."

He ducked out, leaving me alone.

I glanced around and put my phone down on the table. Might as well get started. I crossed my arms, grabbed the hem of my tank top and peeled it up over my ribs, breasts and shoulders. I hadn't bothered to wear a bra; small, so not much need, and Jamila had warned me about the whole "elastic marks" thing. I folded my tank and laid it on the table before stepping out of my flip flops, unbuttoning my pants and sliding them down to my feet. The pants were baggy and comfortable, a relic of when I'd first come to college. I was left in only a pair of light blue polka dot bikini panties. I'd only started wearing them in the last few months, and sometimes I still felt a bit exposed in them, but not as exposed as I was going to feel tonight! I slid them down my legs and tossed them onto the pile of clothing on the table.

I moved to the mirror mounted on the wall and gave myself an appraising look. Brown eyes were framed by auburn hair cut in a bob that curled up and under at my jaw. Prominent collar bones drew the eye to delicate shoulders and slender arms. My torso tapered to a flat stomach before reaching the gentle curve of my hips. My legs were long and toned from running several times a week, a habit I'd picked up years ago. I shook my head, realizing I'd skipped over the parts of my body I always felt awkward about. I made my eyes rise and studied my breasts. They weren't large, I'd need one hell of a push-up bra to have the cleavage you see in a magazine, but they were respectable and very perky, with small, upturned red nipples. I turned slightly, looking at them in profile, and noticed that my nipples were shriveled into my areolae. I raised my hands to gently play with my breasts and nipples. I mean, it would make for a better painting, wouldn't it? While my fingers worked at my chest, I looked downwards. My ass was muscled and tight, but it didn't stick out the way some girls' did. Not much in the chest and not a lot of junk in the trunk either. Facing the mirror directly again, I turned a critical eye on my pussy. I hadn't shaved my muff but I'd done some trimming and my pubic hair was now a small, neat triangle. You could just see my lips peeking out from between my thighs.

A tingle was beginning in my pussy and pleasure was beginning to pulse out from my now firm nipples. With a sigh, I made myself stop and put on the provided robe, belting it loosely at the waist. I walked back to the table to look over the paperwork. Acknowledgements, contact info, a release for the artists... basically what you'd expect when you're being hired to take off your clothes. I worked at the paperwork but it barely registered I was so anxious. It was like I'd had half a pot of coffee in five minutes; my nerves felt like they were on fire and I could barely catch my breath. Right now, I was filling out some boring forms in a robe but very soon I'd be showing off my naked body to whoever was in that room! I was terrified, and excited, and turned on all at the same time!

After a wait that was endless and somehow also impossibly short, I heard three sharp raps on the door. It was time. I stood and walked over, heart in my throat and a sharp tingling on the back of my tongue. Right now, on this side of the door, my body was an enigma. In a moment, on the other side, a whole room would see everything. I thought about opening the door a crack and peeking out, just to get myself ready, but I've always been a "rip the band-aid off" kind of girl. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I threw the robe off, pulled the door open, and walked through.

I locked my eyes on the stool and walked towards it briskly, focusing on not tripping. I stepped onto the stage, took two paces over to the stool and paused. The door to my dressing room clicked shut behind me. I looked up and found Professor Stephens' eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open. He recovered quickly and stepped up onto the stage beside me.

"Um, normally the models wear the robe out until they're comfortable."

"Oh," I answered, blushing furiously, "Uh, I didn't know."

He gestured behind me, "Do you... want to go back and get it?"

I giggled, holding a hand up to cover my grin, "I don't think there's much point now, is there?"

He smiled back, "No, I suppose not."

He took a deep breath and clasped his hands together, "Okay then! Welcome! As you can see, we have a pretty full house today."

I looked around then, seeing the students for the first time. There were about twenty people standing at easels, a bit less than half of the ones that I could see looked to be men. A few people smiled at me or nodded, and one dark haired girl with a nose ring smiled and waved at me. I waved back, forgetting for a moment that I was naked. I noticed that several of the men had conspicuously blank expressions and I hid a smile. They were obviously trying to be professional and not ogle me too obviously. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all? Soft classical music was playing in the background and it was warm enough that I wasn't too cold.

"Okay, so, what do I do?"

Professor Stephens nodded at me, "Okay, so, let's just turn you a little this way..."

As he started to talk me into place, a voice to my left exclaimed, "Pancakes?!"

My eyes widened and I whirled around, looking for the speaker. Sandy blond hair cut short, a lightly freckled face framing ice blue eyes, a broad athletic chest covered by a Sigma Nu fraternity jersey. Athletic shorts left most of his toned legs easily visible, down to his plastic sandals. My eyes snapped back to his face in time to see a grin start to form. For the first time in years I was staring at Paul Hopkins.

All at once I realized that I had turned all the way towards Paul. I was completely on display for him; my legs, my pussy, my breasts were all right there for his eager eyes to enjoy. And it was obvious that he was taking advantage.

"It's good to see you," he continued, stressing the verb.

At my elbow, Professor Stephens cleared his throat, "Mr. Hopkins. I believe I explained last week- again- that our models are volunteers and shouldn't be called out in class. Do you expect to have further difficulties with that?"

Paul's smile faded a bit, but didn't disappear completely, "No, Professor. Sorry, Professor."

He went back to preparing his paints but glanced up at me now and then, still smiling.

Professor Stephens stepped around, blocking Paul's view. I looked up at him and he whispered, "Are you okay? Is this going to be a problem?"

I swallowed, shook my head, and whispered back, "I'm fine. Just surprised. He's... someone I knew from home."

"A good someone?" he pressed.

"It's complicated," I answered, "Is he any good at this?"

Professor Stephens snorted quietly, "Technically, he's very good, but he doesn't let himself feel anything. He'll make a wonderful graphic artist for a third-rate advertising firm someday."

He paused and then gestured at the stool, "Okay, so, shall we get you posed?"

For the next few minutes he coached me into something called "contrapposto," which involved me putting my weight on one foot, putting the other a bit in front, and twisting my torso. He positioned me, on purpose I think, so that I was mostly facing away from Paul, but the torso twist was back towards him. Paul probably had a perfect view of naked ass with my breasts in profile. Holding my head as instructed, I could flick my eyes to the side and see Paul without straining. Professor Stephens showed me how to do "ballet fingers" by touching my thumb and middle fingers together and then letting them part just a little. He positioned my right hand on my chest between my breasts, and my other at my left hip just cocked back. The entire time he patiently demonstrated on himself and talked me through it, never touching me and always giving me space. When he was done he stepped back to look me over with a critical eye. I couldn't see my reflection in anything, but from the appreciative looks the men were trying to hide, I think the pose was working.

Professor Stephens stepped back, turned to the class and clapped, "Okay, everyone! We're running slightly late because our scheduled model wasn't available and her replacement is here for the very first time, so let's get cracking. You know the rules and should have our recent study of shadow and definition in mind as you tackle today's assignment. I'll be circulating to help, as usual. And Nina, watch your easel this time! We don't need you tripping over your own feet and getting a face full of paint again.

The class laughed cheerfully and set to work. Professor Stephens moved away, drifting from student to student. He'd obviously worked with them all for some time and had an easy way about him. I became conscious of eyes constantly roving over my body. I'd see a woman eyeing my legs and hips, or a man carefully studying my breasts. Okay, I noticed the men studying my breasts a lot, but at least they were trying to be professional about it!

I felt warm all of a sudden, but not in the sick, twisting way I had felt before. I realized that men were looking at me, at my naked body, and they weren't laughing. I realized I wasn't nervous any more; I was actually enjoying this. I wanted them to look at me, to study my breasts, to gaze at my pussy and ass. I had my tits out in a room full of people and I loved it.

I was simply reveling in the this new feeling, being naked in front of all of these people, when I realized Paul had approached the stage. He kept his feet planted just off of the stage, but leaned forward at the waist, staring directly at my tits in profile. After a few moments, he shuffled around until he was able to see me from the front. His back was to the Professor and I could see his eyes tracing all over me, lingering longest on my breasts and my pussy. His eyes came up to meet mine and his lips pursed in a silent whistle. Paul Hopkins, who I had fantasized might notice me one day, was drinking in every inch of my body. He could see my pussy lips past my bush, he had a perfect view of my round tits capped by hard nipples. He was looking at everything.