"Ah!" The woman who had opened the door beamed at me. "You must be the male model."
"I am," I said.
Maybe that should have tipped me off. The "male" model. But, you know, people do call me that. Most of the time it's not to distinguish me from someone else - it's their perception of what I do and who I am.
She beckoned me inside. "The class'll start soon," she said, closing the door behind me. "Can I get you anything? Water, tea?"
I shook my head. "I'm good, but thank you."
She nodded repeatedly, a small but excited smile on her face. It was a pretty face, too: she was in her early thirties, I thought, with neatly tied-up hair, black glasses with thick round rims that suited her slim face, and a floral... what's the word? Like a long semi-opaque bit of fabric, almost like a cross between a cape and a cardigan. Anyway, she had one of those over a simple black T-shirt and jeans. I thought she had a nice figure herself, from what I could tell, but I didn't look too closely. I was here to be looked at, not to do the looking. Flashing from between her smiling lips were neat teeth with slightly fox-like canines I could only think to describe as "cute".
Overall, her look was what you might call artistic, which... well, made sense.
"I'm Laura," she told me, leading me quickly through the entry hall over to a door that opened into a small, plain room with a dressing table against one wall and a white gown hanging in from a simple rail. "If you want to get ready in here, I'll call you in when we need you."
"Thanks." I gave her a quick smile as she closed the door.
Her footsteps faded quickly. Rapid footsteps, I thought, eager to go where they were going. I was used to this side of the job: people found it inherently exciting to have a real, live human naked before them. Even in less serious groups, though, I'd learned that there would usually be a few minutes of silliness before people started to find themselves getting absorbed in their drawings, finding the art in the human form. There'd be an occasional giggle or whisper, but something about seeing a naked body and treating it as an object of artistic beauty rather than something silly or even something sexual (and hey, it can be all of those things at once) seemed to unite people.
Usually, anyway. I'd had to walk out of a few, er, interesting gigs, but those are stories for another time.
I undressed, folded my clothes on the dressing table, and slipped into the robe. It was softer than some I'd had: you could tell some people just bought the cheapest ones as an afterthought. I mean, some people didn't provide robes at all, which was why I tended to bring my own, so anything was a bonus really.
I wondered idly what Laura did. She was the one who'd contacted me and made the booking. We'd had one brief conversation about what she needed, which was pretty much just the usual - stand in a room while a group of people drew me - and other than that I hadn't spoken to her until I arrived today. Her house was nice, though. Like, not just "a nice house" - it was Nice. Not quite a mansion, but certainly a lot closer to a mansion than most houses I'd been in, from what I'd seen of it.
Not the sort of place most normal art teachers could afford, but maybe she was renting it? I shrugged internally. Not important.
Laura's eager footsteps reappeared, followed closely by a quick, sharp knock on the door.
"Are you decent?" she asked, easing the door open. "I mean, not that you need to be, necessarily, but..."
"It's fine," I said, opening the door the rest of the way for her. Her cheeks were a little flushed - from the quick walking, perhaps, but I suspected not. "I'm used to people finding this a bit weird," I told her. "Don't worry - however awkward you think you might be, I've had worse."
She let out a nervous chuckle at that. "Yeah, I bet."
Laura walked me out of the little room, across a hall with an expensive-looking rug lining the middle, and up a wide staircase to an intricate set of double doors. "This is us," she said, flashing me a smile.
She pushed open the door.
Inside was a pretty normal setup: maybe a dozen people, all women around Laura's age or younger, sat at easels arranged in a circle. What was unusual was the beauty of the room itself: the space surrounding the circle was like a ballroom out of a Disney movie, complete with stained glass windows at the opposite side from the entrance.
"Please," said Laura, gesturing politely for me to enter the circle. I headed to the centre, where a plush, comfortable white rug had been placed so I wouldn't be standing barefoot on the lacquered wooden floor. The room was comfortably warm, which was something of a relief: bigger rooms, even if they felt alright at first, often started to feel chilly pretty quickly when you were standing still with no clothes on.
I untied my robe and moved to remove it, but Laura held up a hand.
"Before our model for today reveals himself," she said, "I think we all ought to thank him for coming."
There was a brief round of applause. This wasn't usual, but I had to admit I sort of liked it. Twelve women, all very beautiful, smiling and nodding at me was a pretty nice experience.
"Without him, none of us could be here to appreciate... what's beautiful in life. So thank you."
I nodded, then opened my robe and removed it from my body.
This part was often interesting. You could tell a lot about someone from their initial reaction to a naked body. Some people would break into nervous laughter. Others would blush. Some would become very fixated on certain parts; others would be visibly doing all they could not to look.
This group was professional, though. Or - not necessarily professional in the sense that art was what they did for a living, but this clearly wasn't anyone's first time. Every one of the women's faces was intent on studying my form in a way that I thought was passionately interested, but because they were absorbing as much detail as they could about precisely what everything looked like, how it was lit, how my anatomy connected and moved together. Not a single one looked remotely ashamed or amused. I had to admit, it was one of the better ways the job could go. And Laura was paying me pretty well, so no complaints.
I stood upright at first, muscles tensed just enough to bring out the enticing lines and shadows that came with definition. I was always aware of every part of my body when I was doing this. Not self-consciously, exactly - I'd had to get past that a long time ago - but from wanting to make myself look like the sort of thing that would be good to draw. I was keenly sure of how my shoulders connected to my arms, how each part of my chest and torso was placed in relation to every other and how a slight bend could shift them into a pleasing curve, the angles of my elbows and knees.
And, of course, how my penis hung. There was no way not to be aware of it. It was just one more part of the whole presentation like any other, but still. I didn't go around with it out everywhere I went, so I'd never quite managed to just forget about it entirely. It was thick and had what I'd been told was a good curve, protruding just far enough from my body when it was flaccid that the whole shaft could be drawn in exacting detail.
After a few minutes, Laura signalled to me; I turned on the spot, giving the same pose in a different direction.
I tended not to look at the artists if I could help it, but my attention was caught by one of the younger women - mid-twenties, perhaps - tapping her pencil rhythmically on her easel. She was gazing at me, biting her lip. I don't think she realised she was doing it. I couldn't help but glance at her: she was sitting upright on her stool, slim legs extending from beneath a knee-length skirt and crossed at the ankles. One foot rested on the bar of her stool; her shoes were off, tucked cleanly off to the side. She wore a simple necklace - just a slim silver chain with a plain circular pendant - and a matching bracelet, drawing my eyes to her neck and wrist. She had a white tank top, over which she was wearing a light cardigan in a soft shade of grey, but I could see her collarbone elegantly joining her neck to her shoulder. I could tell her forearms were strong in a graceful sort of way, that her long fingers were dextrous. And I could see the curves of her breasts pressing against the material of her top, and small, hard nipples standing deviantly to attention.
I swallowed and averted my eyes. I didn't think she'd noticed me looking, so absorbed was she in taking in every detail of me so she could replicate it in her art. I busied myself in finding some detail of the ceiling architecture and discussing it with myself in my head as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
I felt the twitch of excitement between my legs, but I got myself under control before anything showed. I think.
Laura signalled me again and I moved through more poses. I extended one leg out straight and curved one arm overhead; I interlaced my fingers and stood with both hands behind my back; I sat with my knees to my chest. There was no sound but the scratching of pencils or chalk or brushes on paper and canvas.
Then Laura's voice broke the silence. She spoke softly, as if trying to disturb the peaceful reverie that swaddled the room as little as possible.
"If we could have our second model now, please," she said.
I blinked and turned to look at her. Second model? Nobody told me anything about a second model. I didn't mind, but I liked to know what I was in for when I agreed to any session. I hadn't been warned, so I didn't know what was expected of me.
I opened my mouth to query the situation, but Laura glanced meaningfully over my shoulder in a way that shut me up.
I looked back and saw the young woman who had been so intently studying my body standing up from her stool. Smoothly, silently, she grasped the bottom of her tank top and lifted it over her head. Her breasts rose with it, dragged by the thin fabric, then fell as they were freed. They didn't fall far, though, dropping neatly into place high on her chest. Her nipples were almost the same colour as the surrounding skin, but they were clearly visible by the way the tight protrusions caught the light, casting tiny shadows. Then she stepped quietly out of her skirt, which dropped with a whispered rustle on her discarded top.
She met my gaze and smiled in a way that felt... comforting. Like everything would be fine, because she knew what was happening. Then she strode into the middle of the circle of easels. From a purely aesthetic perspective - I wasn't an artist myself, but you couldn't help but pick things up - I realised she was utterly beautiful. The muscles of her legs were visible, taut and strong as she walked with firm, controlled strides. Her stomach bore the gentlest of peach fuzz over flawless skin, toned but soft. Her head flowed in sophisticated curves to her shoulders, to her upper arms, to her forearms, to her fingers.
The place between her legs was neat. A thin, clean line of hair pointed the way.
