The Artists Model 3

I try to shake off the cold as I stomp my feet into the art building. Small backpack slung over my shoulder, big, wet parka, and oversized winter boots... all soaked in the sticky, slushy snow of early December on campus. I'm trying to get to my job - it's an easy gig, just a couple of nights a week, and it pays better than anything else I could find, especially given my schedule.

It's a little weird, as I walk up this long stairway, knowing that as I pass people by, many of them have seen me naked. Even stranger, as I move toward the main drawing studio, and the hallway is peppered with charcoal drawings of nude men and women - some of them, drawings of me. Some are quick gesture drawings, five smudges of charcoal on newsprint, and some are more detailed, with a spark of recognition. That wasn't just a random woman's nose; it was mine. That wasn't a nondescript shape made between the character's hip and ribs - that was my waist.

Some of the pieces were truly beautiful, actually. This had little to do with me, specifically, I think. It would be false to say I don't think I'm attractive; I keep in good shape since I'm a dance major. I have smooth muscles, lush curves, and thoughtful eyes. No, it had much more to do with the artists in this freshman drawing class. So many of them came to this school with talent and drive, but skills were something that was developing over time.

You were the one helping these people develop their talents. You were their instructor, in the first few years of your teaching career, thirtyish and young enough to be enthusiastic yourself. My job was simply to stand there in a pose, an immovable statue for these students to draw. This left a lot of time for my mind to wander - and for my eyes to follow you around the room, as you bounced from student to student, correcting lines, opening the people to new ways of thinking about shapes and textures.

I've been working in this job for the entirety of the semester. I have the routine down pat. I come into the class, promptly at 6pm on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I go back to the little dressing area on the side of the studio, while you discuss the concepts for tonight's class, and I change out of my parka, snow boots, jeans, and three shirts. I strip down to nothing, and I tie my hair up in a knot at the top of my head. I've done it this way for the last few weeks, because I overheard you telling one of your students that it would be a shame to not correctly capture the elegance of my long neck. After I check myself in the full-length mirror, I slip on the black satin thigh-length robe that I have folded neatly in my backpack. I slide my feet into a pair of simple sandals and walk out, finding a corner of the studio to wait and watch, until you motion to me, asking me to step into the middle of the studio. You are polite and distant, same as always - though we have spent countless hours in the same room, you studying my body, me watching you teach, we haven't spoken any more than pleasantries.

It's arranged with drawing horses all around, so no matter where I am or how I position myself, there will be eyes on my every angle. There's no hiding, and these people are being taught to observe - everything about my form is bare to them. The students can all hide behind enormous drawing boards, though - they're nothing but a sea of heads and eyes, popping up over the boards like alligators out of a swamp.

Wordlessly, I look at you expectantly, knowing you'll give me some kind of instruction in the next moment or so. Sometimes, it's completely nude, sometimes it's the black robe draped around me interestingly. Sometimes, I'm sitting, sometimes standing or even lying down. Tonight, you simply ask me to start moving, and then inform me that you'll let me know when I hit a pose that you like. I ask if you want the robe on or off, and you ask me, politely, to remove it. This part never stops feeling strange - it's always a bit of a shock to the system to disrobe, let it fall over my shoulders, graze my hips, and slip down to my waiting hand behind me. I take a deep breath and quickly remove it, draping it over an empty drawing horse, not occupied by any students.

I start to move. I don't know what to do, and there's no music, so I can't go on my normal instincts. I start to walk myself through some of our warm-ups in my morning class - stretching my muscles, creating elongated forms with my body, running my hands along my sides, over my legs, arms, neck. I feel you watching me, but I do my best to just move, knowing you'll stop me when you like something. I do suspect, though, that you are watching me for just a tad longer than necessary. You quietly say "stop," with this kind of intensity that always shakes me a bit... you've decided that you'll have me on the stool, one leg extended to the ground and the other hooked into the rung of the stool, my arms outstretched in an arch over my body, my torso forming a smooth half-circle as my body bends sideways over my outstretched leg.

Of course, you've chosen a pose that will test my flexibility, stamina, and strength. I sigh, but I carefully force my face to remain impassive. This is going to be a rough evening, and I wonder how I'm going to hold the pose for three hours, perched lightly on the edge of this stool, my muscles extended JUST beyond where they are comfortable. No matter - it's a well-paying gig, and it'll probably produce some interesting drawings. All in the name of art... or something.

The students in the class take a moment to rearrange themselves, finding the best angles for their drawings. After a little shuffling around, students trying to stay out of each other's ways while still getting the perfect view of me, the energy of the room settles down to a nice, comfortable hum... I hear the scratching of charcoal on paper, fingers rubbing and smudging the surface, erasers... people shifting in their seats while they settle in for a comfortable few hours.

So long as I keep my body in the same position, I'm free to let my eyes wander around the room. I take in the students, all late teens to early twenties, mostly in the standard art-school uniform: beat-up jeans, boots, and sweatshirts or pullovers that have all seen better days. Their hands are already black with charcoal, and their faces are starting to get that way, too.

You pop around the room, ricocheting from student to student, making a few quick strokes on their pages, giving gentle reminders and enthusiastic encouragement where you can. Your eyes bounce from their drawing boards to my figure and back again, making small adjustments. After we've been in the room for about forty five minutes, you've made your way to all of the students once, and from habit, I know you'll check up on them again once more before the mid-class break.

For now, though, you're leaning against a cabinet in the back of the studio, your arms folded, one leg crossed casually over the other, and you are watching me. Looking intensely at me. And suddenly, I feel more naked than I have this entire semester. I'm not sure what it is, what is different tonight, but you aren't just studying the planes of my body, trying to pinpoint how to articulate the light and shadows on my skin... you are staring directly into my eyes. I gaze back, my defensive attempt to make you leave me alone with my thoughts - you have paid for the privilege to look at light as it plays on my body, but you seem to want more.

Normally, when I stare directly at someone, they look away. You don't. Your serious eyes squint a little, as though you are trying to solve a difficult puzzle in your head. Mine harden in response. I've noticed you all semester - I've gone a little breathless when you gently touch me, those calloused hands on my shoulders, guiding me to the correct position or helping me down from the perch during breaks. When you have spoken broadly about me to your class, I have gone pink in the cheeks, furious that your attention, although not place directly on me, per say, has made me physically react.

Even worse, I've gone home after the three hour class and slipped into the shower, the only private place in my overcrowded dorm building, and fingered myself to orgasm, thinking about those hands - strong, dexterous, and still gentle - all over my body. I hate that you take up any space in my head at all, since this is a job, and I'm not here to make attachments. A few more months, and I'll be graduated from my masters program, auditioning all over the country and planning on moving away, anyway.

All these things running through my head, and yet you keep staring. Don't you have some students to go teach or something? Quit looking at me.

I know this is a ridiculous thing to say while I'm naked on a makeshift stage in an art class, but seriously. It's like you're trying to get inside my head, and you haven't been invited there. I let my eyes flick over to the clock and back at you, and I pointedly raise an eyebrow. I'm going to need a break pretty soon, and you should go earn your teacher's salary. You raise an eyebrow back at me, and then you smirk - one corner of your mouth twitching upward just slightly, and you push yourself off of the cabinet, and with long, casual strides, you start your second round of student consultation.

Inwardly, I take a sigh of relief. Shell firmly back in place, I start counting down the minutes until the break. I've done such a great job of holding this pose for the past hour, but it's starting to wear on me. My leg is going numb, as are my toes on my other foot. The arm that is arched over my head is decidedly NOT numb; it's on fire. My torso is twisted uncomfortably at this point - one side stretched and strained, the other crunched in an uncomfortable knot. I can't wait until the room clears out and I can stretch my body, loosen some of the kinks that are starting to form, move around a little to get my blood flowing again.

You clap your hands and tell the class that we're taking a fifteen-minute break, and suddenly, the room is a clamor of coats and hats, as they shuffle out of the room to their breaks. Some of them sneak outside for a quick smoke break, some just go to the hallway so they can get a little change of scenery. Some run to their other studio labs to check on other projects - sculptures that might need a little more moisture, things like that. In a matter of moments, the room is cleared out, and my robe is secured safely around my body. Unselfconsciously, I sit on the floor and start to stretch, twisting my body, rolling my ankles, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of movement. My eyes are closed, I'm enjoying it so intensely...

...and then I hear you clear your throat. I look up, and there you are again, leaning against that same cabinet, shirtsleeves rolled up and arms crossed in front of you. You're staring at me again. I try to ignore the penetrating gaze and instead focus on the pleasantries. I continue to stretch and work my body back into shape, and while I do, I start to make chatter. I thank you for my position in the class - I know you have a lot of choices among the student body, and the main office in the art department tells me that you have requested me in specific from the pool of available models. I ask if you have any holiday plans, since we're close to the end of the semester. You say you're going to see your sister. Clumsily, shyly, I ask if you'll be taking your girlfriend with you back to your hometown.

You smirk, and tell me there is no girlfriend. You're single. And I blush again, harder, more intensely than before. Absentmindedly, I grimace as I try to work out a knot that has formed in my back, inside my right shoulder blade. You stroll over to where I'm sitting and you sit down onto your heels. Almost hesitantly, you ask what's hurting. I tell you, and you reach out your hands to me. "May I?" you ask. You tell me you have been complimented on your skills at giving a backrub. You seem almost bashful, like you know that if you touch me, there will be some kind of barrier crossed. I give you one long look, and I nod. I pull the robe down over my shoulders, leaving it wrapped chastely around my cleavage, and I duck my head to expose my back.

You take your charcoal-smudged fingers and expertly find the knot, doing slow, hard circles around it to relieve it. I can't help it - I let out a moan. Instantly I clap my hand over my mouth, apologize, and tell you it's been there for weeks. You laugh easily and tell me not to worry about it... and then you lean in to my ear, and your voice drops to a seductive purr. I can feel your hot breath against my neck, displacing a few tiny wisps of my red hair. You tell me you like it when I moan, and you intend to hear it again.

I can't believe I heard that right. I turn my head sharply to look at you, and all I see is your eyes looking back at me, a hint of a smile making them crinkle just a tiny bit at the corners. I bite my lip, unsure of what to say next. I must have heard correctly, because that half-challenging-half-promising smile you wear can only be produced after saying something so shockingly inappropriate for a classroom. My body responds. I can feel my nipples grow a little stiffer, and I can feel slickness start to work its way down from my pussy to the tops of my thighs.

I open my mouth and close it a couple of times, not sure of my next move, when a couple of the students start working their way back into the classroom. You stand upright, wipe your charcoal-smudged hands on your beat-up jeans, and you go to get me a glass of water.

I finish my stretching, preparing for another hour and a half of class, and as the students all arrive back, you look at the clock and start to conduct class again. I assume my previous pose, and you adjust my position with your hands, making sure I am exactly in the same spot as before. I can feel the roughness of your palms, hands that have made things of beauty, administered pleasure and relief to my tired back, and, no doubt, inflicted exacting pain where needed. It sends electricity up and down my body, and I spend the next 90 minutes trying to ignore the thoughts that are making me wet and uncomfortable, even while I sit here for all the students to examine. I feel so exposed.

The next hour and a half seems to take a year and a half, instead. My body has had enough of this pose, my pussy is getting distractingly wet, and my arms are just tired beyond belief. Also, the way you keep looking at me, I know that I wasn't wrong - something almost happened during that break. I want the class to end right away, but I can't decide if it's so I can leave quickly, avoiding the whole thing, or if it's because I want to stay here, see the students all gone, and find out what's behind that stare.

Eventually, I see the clock tick down to 8:45, and you announce that people can start wrapping up for the night. The students know the drill - they pull the masking tape off of their drawings, sign and date a corner, and then take them into the next room to spray fixative (or, if the students are frugal, hairspray) to set the charcoal so it won't smear as badly. Then, they pin the drawings onto the wall outside the studio. You will spend the next few days offering a grade and writing up critiques for the students to use on their next figure drawings. They arrange their gear and their coats, and slowly shuffle out of the room, to begin the long trek back to their dorms and late-night dinner in the dining hall.

I, however, move quite a bit more slowly. I'm waiting for you to take the lead, but in the meantime, I'm going through the process of stretching out my limbs, working life back into my feet and hands. Normally, I'd rush to go put my clothing back on, but tonight's pose was particularly brutal to hold, and I've decided I want you to be able to watch me. You start going around the room, arranging the horses in a neat circle again, wiping down the sink at the back of the studio, folding up the drapes and pushing the spotlights backward.

You leave them on. The room is lit only by them, so the light and shadow still cut my skin dramatically. I spend a few more minutes stretching until I've decided I'm as limber as I'm going to get tonight, and I pad over to the dressing area. I quietly pull my clothes out of my backpack and unfold them. I pull the band out of my hair and shake it out - it falls wildly around my shoulders. I unwrap the robe from my body, let it fall from my shoulders, and hang it on a nearby hook. I'm about to slip into my cute lacy boy shorts, when I feel your gaze on me.

I turn around, and there you are. I bite my lip, a little shy, and I smile. You answer with a grin, and say "I've noticed you watching me. Most nights, but tonight in particular. What's up with that?"

I raise an eyebrow and counter, "I've noticed YOU watching ME too. Most nights, but tonight in particular. Why?"

You shift a little closer to me, still not touching, and says "I like to study beauty. And you are beautiful. I'm an inherently curious person - I wanted to know more about the beautiful creature in front of me. Semester's almost over - and since I'm not teaching life drawing next session, I'm not sure when I'll have the chance to find out."

My grin gets just a little wider, and my eyes take on a little extra light. "I'm an open book, generally-speaking. What do you want to know?"

And then you surprise me. I shouldn't have been surprised, but I am. "I want to see what your face looks like when you cum for me. See the way your body changes shapes when you're not performing, not so carefully practiced."

My eyes widen for a fraction of a second. I consider, but then I decide - fuck it - and I let my body take over. "So find out. Like I said, open book." I set the clothes in my hands down, and I step toward you. I reach my hands up hesitantly, and start to undo the buttons on your collared shirt, starting at your neck and working all the way down to your belt. I untuck your t-shirt and run my hands underneath, my fingers exploring your stomach. You run your rough hands over my sides, tracing the hourglass shape of my ribs, waist, and hips... very gently. Almost reverently. I close my eyes and breath in and out, reveling in the sensation. You lean in to kiss me softly, your lips firm and delicious, and I melt into you. I pull your shirt the rest of the way over your shoulders, and you grip my waist and pull me closer.

Eventually, you break, and you take me by the hand and lead me back to the stage area. You spread out some of the spare fabric on the floor, giving us a soft place to land. You push me to the floor, and I sink down, looking up at you. You smile... what a picture I must be, my red hair falling around my shoulders, body bathed in light and darkness, my eyes big and expectant as they look up at you.

Your hands start to explore my body in earnest - fingers digging into my hair, soothing my scalp, the back of your hands over my neck, which sends shivers up and down my spine. Your palms cup and caress my breasts, lingering, gently pinching my nipples, tickling the heavy undersides, and then moving along my body, grazing my ribs. When I arch my back up into your waiting hands, you push me back down into the floor.

You continue your slow investigation of my body, wrapping your thick hands around the smallest part of my waist, letting them travel underneath my body, and you lean down to kiss my smooth stomach. You work your way down to my hips, over my freshly shaven mound, and you spread my legs apart. You kiss, tease, and lick me as you slowly draw closer and closer to my pussy, now soaking wet and aching. I don't want to wait any longer - I twine my fingers into your thick hair and I gently push your face downward, silently asking you to put your tongue inside me. You chuckle and nip at my thigh - not until you're ready, I guess. I'll have to be patient.