"A private session? Private, as in--"
"One-on-one," Professor Williams said, leading the way into the university's atelier-and-drawing-studio multipurpose room. It was somewhat hidden in the back, behind many corridors and rooms full of workbenches, supply shelves and closets, arts projects, sculptures, busts, installations and paintings stacked upon paintings. Normally the halls were full of activity, but it was Friday evening just after 10 and everyone except Professor Williams seemed to have gone home already.
Well, everyone except Professor Williams and her favorite student. "Alice is a double major, has applied to be my research assistant and interns for an artist featured at the modern arts museum on the side. She politely asked me if she could have you for a more engaging and experimental private session, for a project to do with her internship and her thesis." She glanced over her shoulder at me. "I told her you probably wouldn't mind. You will be paid extra, of course, because of the unusual hour and the spontaneity of it all."
"It's not, uh... I mean, thank you." I didn't want her to think I was greedy. Really, sitting around naked or half-naked for an hour or two and being ogled by a couple of (mostly female) arts majors wasn't hard work in comparison to, say, working at a warehouse. The university already paid more than fairly as it was. "It's just unusual, isn't it? The one-on-one thing, I mean?" I was used to more than twenty pairs of eyes staring at me over the brims of canvasses. I tried to figure out which one of them might have been this Alice chick who had picked me out of all the possible male models for her special little project.
"Well, her parents are generous donors to this school," the professor said and threw me a meaningful glance which then softened a bit. "And also very demanding of their daughter, I must say.
Very
demanding. I have to admit, I have a bit of a soft spot for Alice. She is perfectly affable, clever and unbelievably disciplined for a nineteen-year-old but hopelessly overworked, and she needs all the help and support she can get. I thought I might help her out this once. You really don't mind I volunteered you, do you, Mr Morrison?"
"Not at all," I shook my head. "What does this 'engaging and experimental session' entail, exactly?"
"She can tell you personally," Professor Williams said with a smile and opened the door to the studio, gesturing for me to go in.
***
I was standing on the little oval pedestal, an empty wooden chair next to me. Seven spotlights were pointed right at me, making my skin prickle with warmth and sweat and blinding me from all sides.
The artist lurked in the darkness behind them. She hadn't shown her face, merely called out from a little side room that I should take off my shoes and shirt and get on the pedestal. I had done so, thinking that she would step into the light sooner or later, maybe arrange my limbs and body around personally. That's what Professor Williams had done the last few times.
Instead, she had told me to "just stay right there", and then said nothing else at all. I had heard her move around behind the spotlights once or twice, maybe setting up an easel or something, caught a shadowy outline and movement -- that was all.
Alice was making this session a mystery. It was irritating and slightly rude.
It was also undeniably special. Tense, in a good way. A little exciting.
We were most likely the only two people in the entire building at this hour. I was a tall man, strong and defined by muscles -- perfect for modeling, really. Judging by the sound of her voice and the lightness of her step, she was probably one of those waif-like women, delicately built, weaker than me in any case. If we had been able to see each other, I would clearly have held the upper hand as I did in every one-on-one interaction with any female, whether we wanted it or acknowledged this fact or not.
Instead, she decided to keep me on my toes, keep me guessing. Was she watching me from the side? Looking into my eyes? Sliding her gaze down my pecs or my muscled arms? Watching the ripple of my abdominal muscles as I breathed, following the V until it disappeared into the waistband of my jeans? Or was she standing behind me? Appreciating the way my jeans hugged my ass? I couldn't help a smile when I imagined her watching me, being affected by me.
"Sit," her voice suddenly rang out from somewhere to my left. I turned my head but saw nothing beyond the blinding white halo of the spotlights.
I pulled the chair into the center of the pedestal and sat down. "How do you want me, baby doll?" I asked into the darkness, intentionally lowering my voice to a sexy, slow drawl and tacking on the endearment just to lay it on thick.
There was no answer for a full minute. I almost thought she might have left.
"You are at home," she said eventually instead of giving me proper directions.
I rolled my eyes. Okay, now the power game was getting on my nerves a little.
Perfectly affable, my ass.
At home, huh? "Well, then." I got up again, undid the button, unzipped the fly and shoved my jeans down to my ankles so that I was only in my underpants. Then I stepped out of the puddle of fabric, sat down again, slouchily draping myself over the chair, one arm dangling over the backrest, legs spread nice and wide as if I was on my sofa, in front of my TV. And because there wasn't a beer in my hand despite the fact that I was at home, I slid the free hand into my underwear and cupped my cock. "Home, sweet home," I called into the studio's apparent void.
There was another long pause. Just before I could pull my hand out again -- because really, I was being a bit of a dick -- I heard, "Don't move."
No 'please', no 'try not to', no 'if you can'. "Demanding," I commented and tried to not feel weird as I sat there with my hand on my cock, my knuckles and fingers clearly outlined by the tight but stretchy material of my flesh-colored boxer briefs.
"Quiet," she said.
I pressed my lips together to stifle my next comment and only laughed through my nose. Very demanding parents, very demanding daughter.
Uncounted minutes passed. I sat with my eyes half-mast against the unrelenting glare of the spotlights, drops of sweat rolling down my neck and back, and regretted my boldness a little. I wondered if Professor Williams would ever ask Alice exactly how the picture she was currently drawing -- maybe? I had no way of knowing if she was actually busy, or even still in the bloody room -- had come about, and if I would have to find myself a new side job soon on account of being a fucking pervert. There was a fine line between art and porn. It was sometimes blurry, but it was there.
Also, I kinda wanted to touch myself properly. My cock was ready and a little voice in the back of my head kept egging me on.
Do it, see what happens. See how she reacts.
Would she watch? Would she keep drawing? Let me have at it for a minute and then tell me not to move?
Would I comply?
"You can take a short break," Alice's voice called from behind me, and suddenly all the spotlights went out at once, leaving me blinded by the darkness. I sat up, stunned to be robbed of my sense of sight.
I flinched when something cold touched my arm.
"It's water," she said, and I groped for the bottle, found the cap already unscrewed and drank greedily. I moaned at how good the cool water felt going down my throat.
"So, is this your shtick? Leaving the sitter literally in the dark?" I asked and wiped my mouth with my arm. My eyes were starting to adjust. There was a bit of light coming in through the windows, even with the curtains pulled shut. The lights were on in the next room and the door was a bit ajar.
"It creates tension that's interesting to capture," she defended.
I lifted my hands even though she wouldn't be able to see it. "Not criticizing. It's just an unusual idea. Gotta say, I kinda like it." It was definitely more interesting than the run-of-the-mill 'strike this pose' and the tension she had mentioned was undeniably there.
"You are very sure of yourself," she said, just a little reproachfully.
I grinned to myself, sitting there in nothing but my underwear, toned body covered with a sheen of sweat. "Well, yes."
"Do you want to go on?"
I got up, felt my way to the edge of the pedestal with the naked soles of my feel, put the now-empty water bottle down on the floor and gingerly made it back onto the chair. "Bring it on, Miss Alice."
I expected the lights to go on again. Instead, I heard a step behind me and then felt something brush against my face. I flinched back and ducked to the side, dodging whatever that was. "What the-!?"
"I'm bringing it on, Mr Morrison," her voice rang out from right behind my chair. "Now hold still."
I swallowed and forced myself to sit upright and to stop fighting. A soft material that smelled of something flowery and pleasant laid itself over my eyes and pulled tight against my face and the tops of my ears. She made a knot at the back of my head. A blindfold. I felt her fingers brush against my hair and my scalp prickled a little. "Kinky," I remarked, my voice a little rougher than I wanted.
"You'll leave that there," she said, already turning away because she knew I would do what she said.
And I would.
It was crazy, but it set my blood to a low boil -- both the order and the obedience.
"Relax your arms." I did, putting my hands on top of my thighs.
She switched on one of the spotlights -- I could see the shimmer through the dark blue material of the blindfold and felt the warmth against my right side -- and rummaged around the room for a bit. Eventually, she placed something heavy right in front of me on the pedestal. A chair or a stool. She sat on it. I heard the rustle of clothes, the creak of leather.
My skin shivered as if touched by hundreds of feathers, really reacting to her sheer closeness. It was as if I could feel her looking at me -- and not just looking, but looking. I thought I could even sense how the air was moving through her breath. Again, the guessing game began. Which part of me was she looking at? Which part was she caressing with her eyes right now? Did she like what she was seeing? If so, how much?
I strained my ears. The spotlight was buzzing and humming softly from the side. The heel of her shoe clicked as she set it down -- crossing or re-crossing her legs, maybe? There was the soft scrape of pencil or charcoal against the paper of a sketch-pad, and the occasional swish of fingertips as they smudged and blurred the lines to add shade or depth.
But there was also something else. I could swear I heard a wet sort of sound, like soapy hands rubbing together, or like a sloppy, slick little---
"Oh, my God," I murmured and felt my head tilt to the sky in baffled disbelief as the reality of the situation sank in. "Alice-"
"Shhh," she admonished. The sound trembled - because she was so agitated, because she was moving her hand so fast, jostling her own body, making her own abdominal muscles twitch with the sensation, because she was breathing too hard to speak evenly. Her puffs of air were so obvious now although she tried to keep silent. She was panting softly. How long had her fingers been busy already?
I pictured her, not even five feet away from me, her eyes fixed on me unwaveringly, one hand sketching me, the other in her panties between her spread legs, working the wetness around there until it bled through and showed as a darkening, round little patch on her white cotton panties, the skin of her face and her throat and neck covered in sweat from the spotlight and from the exertion of keeping quiet for so long, her lower lip clamped so between her teeth it would be plump and red as a cherry once she let it go.
Was she playing with her clit? Which finger was she using? Was she circling it or stroking it directly? Or did she shove her finger into her wet hole? One finger? Two? Three? How far? How hard?
