Art Modeling as a Weapon

After I got settled in with my drawing supplies, I looked toward the model, and was shocked beyond belief: tonight's model was the girl I'd just broken up with, and she was staring right at me! I knew she'd never modeled before, but here she was, about to strip naked and pose for our drawing group. She knew I usually spent an evening every week with this group, and that I'd be here.

As she undressed, she kept her eyes locked to mine. Why was she here? She obviously knew more about this situation than I did! We'd been dating for nearly a year, enjoying each other in many ways, especially sexually. In fact we had been exclusive. But the previous week I'd made the decision to take a job in a different state, and she had just started her dream job here and didn't want to relocate. I was looking forward to the excitement of a new life on the other side of the country, but she really felt let down after all she'd invested in our relationship. I felt like crap doing this to her, but really wanted to move on. I tried to persuade her that we could travel back and forth to see each other, but she needed an everyday relationship, not the itinerant one I was offering. So, we broke up, bitter-sweet, but mostly bitter.

Maybe tonight she was giving me something to remember her by. But I doubted that. More likely she was exercising her right to make me feel really bad, the very night before I was leaving town. Either way, my brain was exploding. I sat down and looked away from her, trying to collect myself. Should I just leave the studio now, or stay and play her game? But what for? There was nothing to prove. We'd already broken up, and it was by my own design. I would stay and let her punish me.

What she was doing was really brazen. Not only had she never modeled before, she'd never exposed herself nude except to make love or our few timid trips to a clothing-optional beach, which she really didn't like, or hanging around naked in our apartments, which she did like. So now, here she was, nude in front of a studio full of strangers, and me. And keeping her eyes on me! The other artists might have been having thoughts of sex with her as they looked at her very attractive body, but my head was too conflicted for that.

(By the way, I should describe her appearance: Gorgeous figure, long shapely legs, graceful arms, pretty face, her blond hair in a neat twist, small pert breasts, firm tight nipples. Her trimmed light brown pubic hair ending at the top of her slit so her pussy lips were totally visible. She knew I liked her this way, and apparently she'd made no changes for tonight's special event. I guess she wanted me to see her just as always.)

This group was a bunch of artists, both men and women, mostly graduate students at nearby colleges, who met informally once a week in a private home, and not affiliated with any art school. Just a bunch of amateurs chipping in for the model. Anyone could attend, and it was someone else's job to find the models. Tonight my very recent girlfriend had somehow arranged to be it.

She'd attended with me once a few months earlier, so she must have learned enough about modeling to meet the minimal requirements this group had: Be naked and be still. Beyond that, she'd brought her own sheet to spread over the sleeper sofa she knew would be there for reclining poses. She hadn't brought a robe, so she just stripped off from street clothes to nude, right in front of us. Right in front of me.

She first did some quick gesture poses, about two minutes each, always positioning herself to give me a full frontal, and she kept torturing me with her gaze. At the end of the first hour she took a break, slipping on a shirt of mine she'd kept and brought with her. With my shirt to cover herself, she walked around chatting up the other artists but avoiding me.

After her ten-minute break, she tossed the shirt to me and took her place again in front of the sofa, which she and the homeowner made down into its flat configuration. After spreading her sheet over it, she stretched out on her stomach, with one leg extended straight and the other one out to the side and bent at the knee. This gave a very wide and open view of the underside of her cunt, which she carefully aimed directly at me. Her outer lips were smooth and parted, framing the thin edges of her inner lips. With her legs so far apart, the first inch or so of the inside of her vagina was open to view. She knew I loved to see her this way, and that it was my favorite way to take her. Now she was teasing me. She looked back over her shoulder, directly at me. Very unusual for a model, but she was no longer acting like a model. This was something very different.

As for the other artists, they were being treated to a view rarely offered by professional models, and I saw that they were rushing to capture it on paper.

I and about a dozen other artists were now peering into a place (both visually and emotionally) I'd privately been many times before. She held this sexually inviting pose until the next break, just over half an hour later. But it seemed like an eternity to me.

From this view we could see her smooth and hairless underside all the way back to her tight little asshole. As far as I knew, she had never displayed herself this openly, even in the privacy of her apartment or mine.

Finally, the break. This time she didn't cover herself with any garment; she just walked around to each easel, bringing her bare breasts within inches of each artist as she looked at and commented on his or her work. But this time she didn't avoid me. Naked, she came to my easel, looked at my drawing and, treating me like a stranger, asked why I had neglected to fill in the details of her genitals. She pointed to the very realistic renderings of her open vagina and clitoris on some of the nearby easels. "Don't you like how my pussy looks? I once had a boyfriend who adored my pussy." I didn't have an answer, and she moved on.

The break over, she returned to the sofa bed, and this time lay on her back with her head and shoulders propped up on a pillow. Setting her shoulders, she pointed her nipples straight at me. With the soles of her feet together, she let her legs flop out to the sides. And of course she had placed the open view of her cunt once again in my direct line of sight. And of course she never once released me from her penetrating gaze.

About twenty minutes into this pose, she quietly moved one hand to a breast and started fondling her nipple. Still staring at me, she placed her other hand over her vulva, lacing her fingers through her pubic hair.

Models usually don't make eye contact with the artists, but by staring at me while displaying herself she was was drilling straight into my innermost feelings for her and for myself, and for us as a couple, the couple that would be no more. She was showing me not only what I'd be missing, but letting me see a vulnerable side of her that I had now cut myself off from ever exploring.

Still staring straight at me and letting her mouth fall open, she slipped a couple of fingers into herself and left them there. Then, finally, she closed her eyes and started stroking herself, slowly strumming her finger tips over her clitoris as she slipped them in and out. After a couple more minutes, she slid her fingers back inside and started working her clitoris with her thumb. Just the way she had done so many times before with an audience of one. Now with an audience of about ten or so she kept right on stroking. This could never happen in an academic art class, but since we were a private group there were no rules and we all knew it. And so did she. There were no limits.

And there were no limits to how messed up my head was. While she seemed to be in full control, my brain was totally out of control and my emotions were a jumble. Like everyone else there, I just stared dumbly. But I was staring dumbly at what I'd just given away.

She brought herself to a full orgasm, visibly and audibly. All the artists, including me, had long ago put their paints down, and now most looked away, unwilling to take advantage of her vulnerability. As she recovered, she sat up, found my eyes again, then collapsed back onto the sofa bed. I could see tears forming at the corners of her eyes, now closed in sleep, or exhaustion, or pleasure, or triumph; I'll never know which.

We left her alone. Obviously tonight's session was over, and people packed up their supplies and started leaving. The owner of the house assured us he and his wife would see that this lovely person would be taken care of.

I was the last to leave. And cried all the way home.