Disclaimer: This is a story of fiction. While the setting is real, the people and events are not. Everyone is of legal age or older (18+) and all sex is consensual.
-----------------------------
There are several live model sessions around the area where I live, one to two per week. I attend one of these sessions each week as an artist, capturing the various poses of the model in pencil and charcoal. But last night I modeled for a session. The studio is an old factory which has been converted into artist lofts and studios. There is a large community room for projects like the live model sessions. As it was an old factory, the walls are concrete painted white and adorned with art by various artists. The floor is wood, but nothing fancy. There are industrial hanging lights for general room lighting and then a few spot lights clamped onto the exposed pipes to highlight the model. Chairs, tables and easels are arranged in a semi-circle around the small 4'x6' platform where the model poses.
Normally, the room is cold. There are a couple of space heaters near the platform to warm up the area around the model. The artists tend to come dressed in sweaters and sweatshirts. However, the weather has been lovely for the last couple of weeks, so the room was very comfortable, for both model and artists, with no need to run the space heaters. As the artists took their places, I dropped my duffle next to the platform and pulled out my robe. There is no changing room, so I put on the robe and stripped off my t-shirt and sweat pants. For these sessions, it is customary for the model to only remain nude during the posing. All other times, they wear a robe.
Once naked (under the robe), I started stretching and warming up my muscles. At 6:30, the organizer said, "Ok, is every one ready? We will start with five 2-minute poses." I dropped my robe and stepped up onto the platform. I try to make these warm-up poses action related, so it looks like I'm running or getting ready to throw something. Because these kinds of poses end up putting most of the weight on one leg with arms extended, holding them for more than a couple of minutes is difficult. I had one last night where one leg was extended back with the foot off the floor, and more torso pushed slightly forward, arms back as if finishing a race. It was a great pose as far as the artists were concerned, but a minute in and it felt like my leg was on fire.
We then move to two 5-minute poses to round out the first twenty minutes. These poses are less athletic but still include contorting the body in some way. One pose was seated sideways in a wooden chair with arm rests. My back pressed against one of the arm rests, I tossed my head back, one leg over the arm rest with the foot dangling, the other with the calf over the back of the chair, foot raised. I had to use a towel to pad the arm rest for my back, as the pressure excruciating.
After a five-minute break, we moved into two 10-minute poses. This is where the session got interesting. For the shorter poses, I occupy my mind by counting--playing a game with myself to see if I can calculate when the timer is going to go off. I find my counting is close to 50 bpm. For 2-minute poses I count to 103 or 104 when the buzzer rings. However, for the 5-minute poses, my counting slows down, 240-245 is when the buzzer goes off.
For the ten-minute poses, counting is too monotonous, so my mind wanders. I try to focus on the feeling of my body to hold the pose and the position of my eyes--find a distant spot to stare at and hold--but after a couple of minutes my mind is off thinking about other things. During last night's first 10-minute pose, I started to think about one of the art pieces on the wall.
There were a variety of works, but my eyes ended up focusing on a series of nudes painted by Sarah, the organizer of the event. She was an older woman, perhaps in her late 50s, with short grey hair and an infectious smile. In typical artist style, she dressed in baggy, well-worn clothes. So, other than being short and slender, there was no way to tell her body type from her daily appearance. However, the nudes she painted were a collection of self-portraits. They were done over a series of years as her hair goes from brunette to grey as they progress along the wall. Her face was painted with a soft glow, the smile recognizable, but more pensive and reserved than she typically displays in real life. In person, she is animated; one could describe her as bubbly. In these paintings, she captured her inner thoughts, the artist within. She was standing or sitting in most of them, with an easel to one side, paintbrush in her hand. Her breasts sagged with age, but soft and round, with her nipples erect. She had slender hips and thighs. In the standing poses, her brown bush is full but non-descript. However, in the two sitting poses, the color of her pubic hair was the same, but the labia was more evident, the detail of her sex painted with greater care and attention.
In the first 10-minute pose, I was sitting on the floor, one leg bent and forward, the other leg back, my hands clasped on bench in front of me. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but one I could hold for ten minutes without getting a cramp. As I stared at Sarah's self-portraits, I noticed the detail in the seating poses. One was painted with acrylic, the other with oil. The oil painting had a sheen to it, glossy and fresh. My imagination started to run away with me. The glossy aspect to her pubic mound was less about the medium in which it was painted, and rather captured the arousal of the moment.
In contrast to what many of the erotic stories about live modeling will lead you to believe, it is hardly erotic. As an artist, I find I am more focused on the subject, trying to capture the proportions correctly, than I am about their state of dress. Yes, many of the female models are lovely, and in any other context, seeing them naked would be arousing, but in live model sessions, this isn't the case (not for me, anyway). Before I started modeling, I worried about the idea of getting an erection. I am an exhibitionist, so the idea of a dozen or so people staring at my naked body is a turn on. But again, in the live model sessions, as a model, I am so focused on the pose, I don't think about the arousal factor.
Last night's session was different. During the first 10-minute pose, I was staring at Sarah pictures, losing myself with thoughts of her pubic hair. Even though the paintings were twenty or so feet away, I focused on the details, as if my eyes had some magical zoom capability. While her labia was covered in hair, the slit was still evident, and as I said, the oil made it appear glossy, moist. My imagination added detail of her labia opening slightly, not enough to expose the clit, not with the hair and shadows, but it was there, just behind a layer of paint.
One hand held a brush, but the other was on her thigh. There was a sense of motion to the resting hand, not as if it was moving, but as if it wanted to move, that moment just before moment. Again, my imagination took hold, and I imagined Sarah sitting in her studio, painting her self-portrait. Then occasionally, giving into the urge and sliding her hand between her legs to toy with her clit, to feel the moistness between her lips, to bring the orgasm closer and closer. But as the consummate model, she would replace the hand to her thigh and return to capturing the moment.
I thought about being in the room, standing where the mirror obviously stood, watching her paint herself, watching her finger herself, wondering if she would bring herself to orgasm before the painting was complete, or if that would be her reward when the painting was done. As an artist, I understand the intensity as an orgasm grows, of the desire unfulfilled, which adds to the intensity of the image we're trying to capture. So, she sat there occasionally fingering her clit keeping the nerves at attention, but never bringing her orgasm over the edge, adding impending passion to the moment. I stood there watching all this, feeling the intensity, the passion, the urge.
Something broke my concentration. I don't know whether it was a sound or what, but my mind cut off the daydream and returned me to the room with the artists. My focus turned to my body. Were my legs cramping? No. My left butt cheek was stiff, but OK. The blood flow to my hands was struggling. I could feel the beginnings of the tingle of the fingers 'going to sleep', but again, nothing to worry about. A couple of quick squeezes of my hands together to encourage flow to the fingers should help. My neck was in a neutral position, so it was fine. The back was at a bit of an angle, but still no cramping. I would need to stretch it out good during the break, however. I was looking at the painting of seated Sarah. Yes, my eyes were still on target. There was her moist public mound. I inhaled, almost as if to imagine her aroma. Then it hit me. I had an erection.
I am not well endowed. Limp, my cock ranges from an inch to two in length and often hides amid my long red public hair. There are plenty of nude male models with much longer dicks. I am not one of them. However, I am also a grower not a shower. When fully hard, I can get close to seven inches long, with my purple head pointing and throbbing. I didn't look down, but I imagined this was one of those moments. My cock was hard and certainly throbbing.
Without moving my eyes, I did a mental scan of the room. The room was filled with mostly male artists, and most of them older, close to, if not in, retirement. Their heads bobbed up from their easels or tablets to look at them, capture some aspect of my pose, then dropped back to the image on the page. There were three women in the room, Sarah and two others. One woman--off to my right--was definitely in retirement age. Her shoulder-length hair was a soft grey, and she wore a burgundy t-shirt a couple sizes too big and spattered with paint. In this session, she worked with watercolor and so the images had less detail, but she did a good job of capturing the intent of the poses. To my left was a woman perhaps still in college, maybe recently graduated. I'm closing in on retirement, so I'm not good at judging the ages of women under the age of 50. The maybe-college-student was a brunette who works with pen and ink. Her sketches tried to capture details, but her proportions were all over the place. Sometimes there was a large head with an emaciated body with thick, long legs. Other times, a small head was attached to a torso that stretched on for miles.
Sarah was slightly to my left, just left of the center of the room. Since I was facing to stage left, the college student was almost directly below Sarah's painting. Sarah was almost directly facing the angle of my hips. My throbbing cock was pointing at her. Realizing this, connecting this thought to the thoughts of her painting only caused my cock to pulse. As if to say, "Hey there, Sarah. Look at me."
She was looking up when this happened. I was not looking directly at her, but my peripheral vision saw the expression on her face. Her eyes widened in response to my throbbing cock, and her head ever so subtly jerked back. Then, she licked her lips.
"Fuck!" I thought to myself. The male-lizard portion of my brain interpreted this as a come on. My cock, directly connected to the male-lizard-brain, decided to do a little dance for her, pulsing a couple of times. Without looking, I knew pre-cum was oozing out the tip and down the frenulum.
I wasn't counting, but it felt like this went on for another couple of minutes, my cock throbbing and Sarah staring. The more she stared, the more my cock pulsed. The more it pulsed, the bigger her smile. The rest of the artists were a blur. Finally, the buzzer rang. Sarah and I broke from our trance. I pulled my arms back, rotated my shoulders to ease the tension, and looked down. Yup, I was still hard and yes, pre-cum was drooling down my cock. It was best to act like nothing was amiss, so I rotated my hips to bring my knees up in front of me as I prepared for the next pose. I needed to do something where my cock wasn't visible, and my vocal point wasn't Sarah's paintings.
The various artists either finished a few details on the current image, or they adjusted their paper to prepare for the next pose. It wasn't silent, but there wasn't any talking. I nervous air hung about the room. No one seemed to be staring at me, but I felt everyone's attention. While this made my cheeks burn with embarrassment, my cock was loving it. Still, no one was saying anything. So, good. No big deal.
Then Sarah chimed in, "That was a great pose. Do you need to take a break?" She was giving me the opportunity to go to the bathroom and 'fix' the situation.
Embarrassed, without looking up, I replied, "Nah, I'm good. Next pose is ten minutes?"
"Yes, ten minutes, then definitely a break." She fumbled with her paper to prepare for the next pose, but her hands were nervous. Finally, she blurted out, "I'm going to get some tea." She stood up and left the room.
