Moments

Memories drift in and out, as I look, as I watch him, as I reach over: I am back in Paris, studying, living my naive version of the bohemian life. Painting, drawing, drinking, smoking. Running out of money, always, running short, running out, scrabbling around for bar work, waitressing.

Meeting men, having affairs. Long afternoons making love. Sketching him, painting, then lying naked on my small single bed, making the one bottle of wine and single packet of cigarettes last. Standing up, walking, walking naked to the toilet, walking back, looking at him looking, standing, watching, looking at his bare body, his soft penis, watching him getting hard, feeling myself moisten. And reaching again, reaching for the first times, for him, holding his thick stiff male organ, sitting over him, opening myself and guiding his beautiful hard cock inside myself, hovering over his smooth thick tip, sliding my wet vagina over his rigid stem.

And I remember signing up for my first life drawing class. Knowing I had left this late, at least a semester. For no good reason. That morning, that winter, arriving with fifteen minutes to spare, making coffee, finding a spot, setting up an easel, clipping up paper, deciding some quick charcoal sketches would be the thing to warm me up.

Sitting, sipping coffee, and waiting, looking around the room. Letting my shoes slip off and scratching my feet on the old, cold, darkened, paint spattered wooden floor boards. Looking through the large windows. It was up a flight of stairs, but opposite another building. I wondered if the model would worry about someone looking over, they took the care to block off the square of clear glass set into the door. Anyone strolling opposite would surely be able to look straight in. The idea wasn't unappealing, I realised, as I sat, being in that building, looking in, seeing a class, seeing a nude model, being that model. My mind took a small wander, and I imagined posing. Stripping, walking out into the room, opening and dropping my robe, standing nude before a group of young artists. Then being looked at by a strange pair of eyes outside the room. Male eyes. Non-artistic eyes, a less than professional gaze. Being seen. Being reacted to. I imagined this man's penis stiffening in his trousers, I imagined someone young, then someone old, in his sixties, feeling his cock swell with unusual speed. And giving in to the sort of temptation he thought he had long outgrown.

I sat, I waited, I killed the minutes by picturing myself posing, by imagining myself nude, in that cold studio, being looked at by this old handsome man in the building opposite, thinking of him fumbling with his buttons, his flies, reaching and releasing his aching hard penis, feeling himself stiffen some more, until his thick cock is as hard as he can remember. Holding himself, rubbing his rigid stem, exposing his slippery damp tip. Masturbating to a quick and powerful climax, looking at me, his knees weakening, spurting thick plumes of semen as he studies my naked body.

I enter, I enter the moment again.

People start to sit next to me, old friends, classmates, strangers, faces I can barely recall now start to form an informal circle around the large white sheet in the middle of the room, marked with dark lines and splodges of emulsion. And I can sense a pleasing dampness in my vagina. I cross my legs, I feel the soft lips of my pussy glide together.

The tutor pulls the sheet outwards, glancing back to look at a waist high wooden platform. I stare absently at him, forties, I guess, black hair, still mostly black. Tall. Bearded. Wearing a blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the top couple of buttons undone. I look at the thick dark hair covering his thick looking forearms, bushing out from his chest. My mind is heading in his direction when I hear the door open, when I glance back. A younger guy is walking in, looking over, looking around the room with obvious apprehension, catching the eye of the tutor. Walking directly over to him, shaking hands. Our model? I affect professional disinterest. Musculature was musculature. Male, female, old, young. My body reacts though, as I knew it would, and it always did. With curiosity. With eagerness. If he was the model he looked like he hadn't done this before, or not often, he looked like a student after some casual work. About my age, about my height, blond brown hair, slim. My quick look is enough to appreciate his handsome, strong, manly features.

My body reacts.

The tutor returns and after a couple of minute the young guy is walking to the centre of the room, out from behind the screen he has stripped behind. Bare footed, onto the large floor sheet, bare legged, covered only by a thin white robe. One thin layer. This was enough, knowing he was naked underneath, knowing he would remove this thin layer, knowing his soft cock would be wobbling freely underneath.

This was why I had avoided this class so far. I couldn't help it, I knew my mind, I knew my body, I loved to draw, I loved to paint, but I want to see him naked more than I want to get better at either. I watch, I wait as he stands, waiting for the teacher, just standing, teasing me with the prospect of dropping that thin shield and exposing his nude body.

"Okay, class, everyone, this is Laurent, he is our model this morning. He will do a few short poses, five minutes each, for all of us to warm up, to get our eyes working, then a longer pose, perhaps fifteen minutes, then we break. After a few more medium poses, again, fifteen, twenty minutes, and we end with one longer pose, about an hour."

I look, I wait. I think of being there myself, ready to strip, ready to pose. I anticipate seeing him, Laurent, him, relishing this strange intimacy, this young handsome guy about to strip in front of people he has never met before, showing us his bare body, his naked ass, his soft cock. Our model. And my body. I don't feel like an artist, I feel like a horny young woman who is between lovers, who has been between lovers for far too long now. I feel a shameful and delicious moistness between my legs. I shouldn't be reacting this way. I should be a serious student. I don't care. I press my thighs together.

"Laurent? If you are ready, you can remove your robe."

And he does. I am directly in front of him. I watch as he undoes the knot holding each half of his robe together, as he pulls it open, oh god, I can suddenly see his body, quickly, I can see his chest, his belly, the dark flash of pubic hair, the shaking length of his penis, it is like I am thirteen, as if this is the first time I've seen a man naked. He turns to hold his robe, shrug himself out of it, tossing it behind himself, and standing in front of us, nude. I watch him place his feet, stretch his arms up, I look, I stare. I look at his tight, firm, strong body, smooth, hairless apart from his legs, his thick dark pubic bush, I gaze at his long toned legs, his flat stomach, his slim waist, he turns, finds his pose, I glance at his smooth round naked ass, he faces me again, oh god I am so wet, this is so silly, I feel my sex pulse with small tremors of arousal.

He straightens up and poses, something fairly simple, one foot in front of the other, his arms above his head, his hands touching. I force myself to draw. The teacher walks around the room, behind us. I look. I stare. Oh god. I look at his face, his broad shoulders, his smooth pale skin. His bare hips. I follow his legs down, then up, teasing myself, rising to his exposed genitals. The context should make this fine, my creative intent should neutralise any other physical one, somehow this is not working. The openness of the room accentuates his nudity, the circle of clothed people around him enhances his nakedness, the bare floor, the large windows, the bright day light, the art-clutter surrounding him, the walls covered in drawings, shelves, books, paint-spatters, paint pots, brushes, boxes of pencils, charcoal. The grey brown red yellow white background, and his soft smooth pale creamy pale brown body, his utterly unclothed body. Made to seem more naked by his relative hairlessness, the absence of any sign of sun on his skin, the darkness, the shocking thickness and darkness of his pubic hair.

My eyes finally raise up. His cock. Oh fuck, I am not sure I can stand three hours of this. I stare at his small soft cock. I had the mental image of him being large, of him dropping his robe to reveal a large thick fleshy penis. I assumed that for a man to pose nude he'd have a reason to be confident. He'd know his cock was fairly sizeable.

This model surely couldn't think that. I like him all the more. He stands with admirable stillness, the minutes passed, I face him from the front, drawing, making myself fill at least one sheet with something resembling a naked man, staring his bare body, staring at his soft little cock, the tight round small pouch of his testicles, high, drawn in to his body, pushed out by the closeness of his thighs, pushing out the slim length of his penis. Slightly darker than the rest of his skin, protruding from the dense thicket of his pubic hair. He stands, looking at a clear space in the middle distance, unselfconscious, comfortably nude in front of all of the class, the tutor, all eyes upon him, upon his slim tight body, upon his smooth small tapering little cock, his stem as slim as my little finger, shorter, I am convinced, his tip, even the shape of his tip hidden by the soft crinkle of his foreskin, extending out over the end of his penis in a small point.

Our teacher calls five minutes, our model relaxes, I watch him move, step, stretch, still naked, his cock wobbles in a straight, stiff looking bobbling circle. I want to slip to the toilet, I want to pull my trousers down, peel my underwear away from my damp genitals and stroke myself quickly. I don't. I don't move. I look. Aware I am probably trying to catch his eye.

"Okay, if you could pose again, something different, another short one, so anyway you like."

He has been murmuring throughout, encouraging, advising, pushing us one way or another. The model twists himself at his hips, one leg, one foot behind the other, one knee pushed forward, his hands linked, pulling his shoulders back. His chest and head still face me, his torso, his midriff are in profile. I look down. At the lines of his leg muscles, the dark cuts in his belly, the bulging tuft of his pubic hair, the shape of his cock from the side. The full curving shape of his firm ass.

I have thoughts. As I draw. As my pencil lingers I think of undressing him, having him strip in my little room, drawing him in private, touching his bare ass, kissing him there, sliding my fingers along his tight cleft, touching his smooth tight male anus. Reaching, watching, looking at his small soft cock stiffening. Kissing him, pushing his foreskin back over his large damp tip, pulling his hard penis into my mouth.

I draw. I fill my page with a dark shadowy image of his body, his soft penis in the centre of the sheet, his body long, strong, his cock small looking, surprisingly so, a tiny soft slim point in the middle of his naked form. His scrotum just showing, the tight bulge of his bush, the raised prong of his little dick.

Tasting his small stiff cock, watching it grow, watching his soft little cock swell and stiffen. Standing up, feeling his hands on me, undressing me, reaching between my legs, sliding a finger over the swollen wet mound of my hairy cunt.

I draw. I tell myself to draw. I tell myself I am an artist, a painter, I am here to improve my technique. I question whether my erotic interest will interfere with this? I haven't concentrated on a subject so fiercely before.

As much as I want the class to go on, for the time to pass slowly, as much as three hours sounded like a wonderfully long amount of time to be able to sit and look at Laurent's beautiful nude body, with absolute freedom, with obvious encouragement, it feels like only minutes pass when we stop and start to pack up, when our model steps behind his screen and dresses himself.

My mind finds those minutes, those hours, my body re-lives its own pulsing response.

I am sure that was the first time. The class went on for a few months, once a week, we had different models, three in total, two female, only one male. The women were older, not old, but not students, late twenties, early thirties. One bigger than the other, she dropped her robe and revealed her large pendulous breasts, her full ass, strong looking legs, a wide and dark expanse of thick pubic hair. I hadn't seen another woman naked since earlier holidays, since long wonderful days on the beach. She turned and posed, with an ease and confidence the younger male model, I realised, had not quite had. I became more convinced that our first class had also been his.

I sketched her from behind, her long back, her narrow waist, her round womanly butt. Then from the front, she was quite pretty, striking green eyes, full plump lips, and her superb big tits. Her belly, unashamedly round, smooth, flowing gently into the wide stretch of hair above her sex, growing in a thick extended triangle, thinning to a point between her legs. Her long pose was laying down, more or less facing me, one leg raised, her knees apart, her sex in full view. Was this brave? I admired her for being able to do this. Found myself more than a little aroused at being able to see her vulva so clearly, so blatantly. My arousal thrummed with the thought of her exposure, to everyone there, able to look between her legs at her dark full pussy, the fringes of straighter hair visible on the rippled surface of her large, thick, protruding labia. My drawing stopped at a dark smudge of curling thatch covering her genitals. My eyes were drawn like fidgeting fingers to clips and buttons, by the crinkled folds of her exposed cunt.

The soft hood obscuring her clitoris, the slim tender fronds of her smaller barely showing inner lips.

We had at least four weeks of female models, both alternating. I wondered if we'd seen the last of our male model. Whether once was enough for him. His longer pose was sitting down, his legs extended out in front of him, one arm on his knee, the other resting on the back of the chair. His cock was pushed upwards, his small tight scrotum perched above his slim thighs. He looked so beautiful. Young, male, firm, his cock so small, so soft, held up in a vertical position, bobbling slightly, gently, as he breathed.

When the class ended he stood, he stretched again, remaining naked for a tantalising second longer than he had to, moving, movement making him seem more naked, more exposed. He faced me, not looking, not catching my eye, but he faced me. I looked down at his crotch, as I packed up my things. I looked at his still soft, still small little cock. I was sure, was I? I was sure I saw the faintest glimmer of moisture reflecting at the enclosed tip of his penis. He picked up his robe and covered himself. No. Yes. Had he? Whilst sitting, being drawn, being studied so intently, by so many, had he let himself become aroused? Had he started to secrete the first few slivers and pearls of his sweet male liquid? Seeping from his tiny opening, escaping over the slim smooth spongy soft tip of his cock, coating the inner clasp of his tapering foreskin.

He walked softly behind his screen, I tried to make out the silhouette of his body as he dressed, as he stripped again, briefly, quickly, standing naked, aware of his simmering pleasure, reaching down, touching, gently, pinching the soft tender end of his soft cock between two fingers, feeling his aroused tip, feeling the slippery friction of his foreskin sliding over his moist bulb.

Had he been aroused? So gently as to avoid an erection, but enough, that when he got home, he undressed, he looked at himself as we just had, and held his soft cock, and got himself hard, and masturbated, quickly, vigorously, satisfyingly, coming with jolting force over his naked chest, covering his smooth belly, spurting his thick warm seed over himself?

The following week I was eager to look at him again. By week three I registered some intense disappointment when our model again turned out to be a woman. She stood, drank coffee, smoked out of a window, looked at us with barely disguised amusement, even contempt, our enthusiasm, our vigour, our hope, our youth. I liked her a lot. She was tall, slim, dark, older than the other women, as old, perhaps, as our teacher. She waited until we were all ready before walking behind the screen and undressing. After less than a minute she walked back out. She was already completely nude. I mean, she hadn't bothered to wrap a robe around herself. She stepped with casual and naked ease onto the sheet, her small breasts swinging freely, slightly, as she moved, her small dark nipples stiff points, she turned around, stretched, I looked at her full smooth firm naked ass. She stepped into her first pose, facing me, her stomach flat and slim, her waist, her vivid thick black-brown patch of pubic hair shielding her mons, sprouting thickly between her legs, over her exposed vulval mound, deep, covering her long lips, her thick dark mature cunt.

She didn't cover herself up once for the duration of the class, she stood nude between poses. She walked naked when we took a break, sometimes wandering behind the screen, sometimes walking to the counter to fill and drink a glass of water, standing amongst us, not talking, not ignoring, glancing at our drawings, thrillingly exposed. Our clothing a reminding pulse of contrasting pleasure when looking at her tall naked body.

When she posed again, she stood on the platform, in a pose that pushed her legs apart, that spread her thighs and exposed her genitals to us. I stared and drew, a study, as best I could, her thick long labia, protruding from the cleft of her sex, hanging like thick fleshy petals of female sexual skin, rising to meet around the large hood over her clitoris. My mind took me to places I didn't normally venture. I imagined being with this handsome older woman, being undressed by her, being touched, her expert fingers pushing through the thick damp folds of my own genitals, frozen with sapphic desire, pulling my face to hers, my mouth, my open lips, feeling her kissing me, touching, oh god, I thought of touching her bare ass, her naked skin, dropping between her legs, feeling her hands on my head, pulling me to her, demanding I pleasure her, pushing her legs apart and holding my mouth onto her swollen hot cunt, my mouth touching those thick swollen lips, pulling them apart, kissing her wet sex, sliding my tongue along her sweet seeping vagina, licking her, god, what was I thinking of? I sat and drew and thought of making love with her, with her, kissing and licking and tasting her, opening the engorged leaves of her thick wet female sex.

Rolling, opening myself to her, spreading myself, feeling her mouth on me, god, feeling her kiss and lick my tight young cunt.

She sat for her long pose, her legs apart, her arms resting on her knees, one foot extended out in front of her. I imagined lovers, men, women, older, younger, I imagined her insisting, pushing men onto their backs and gripping their erect penises with her slippery tight pussy, pulling their mouths onto her, spreading herself for them, holding their heads between her legs, against her trembling wet cunt, against her tight hairy anus. I thought of pulling her panties away from her smooth firm ass, stroking her back, kissing her, fuck, oh god, kissing her long back, holding her ass apart, opening my greedy little mouth over her soft hairy asshole.

By the time I finished and got back home, every week, I was in a state of delicious arousal. I couldn't wait to strip, in front of my mirror, as if I was the model, looking at my own tall naked body, my own small firm breasts, my own thick vivid bush, pushing my legs apart, my own aching dark ravenous cunt. I fell to the floor, pulling the mirror between my legs, watching my hand spread over my wet sex, watching myself masturbate, my fingers sliding inside my hot thickly moist vagina, spreading and slathering over my swollen lips, up, oh god, up to my throbbing little clitoris.