PART ONE
I
Although I was eighteen my sexual experience hadn't amounted to much more than wrestling matches in the backseats of cars (resulting in two acts of sexual intercourse), a furtive handjob now and then, and a couple of occasions when she "let" my stick a finger in her pussy. Once, and once only, a girl agreed to suck my cock, but only for a minute; she wouldn't let me cum there, or even start to cum. And, mind you, all of this was in the dark, tits lighted by movie screens, downy sweet pussies barely visible in the dim rays cast by by a distant street light. (Of course, this was some years ago and I do believe things have changed - er - somewhat.) Thus I was due to start college in the fall, still, for all practical purposes, a virgin.
My folks were the typical, stodgy, middle-class types: bridge and the occasional movie with friends were about as exciting as they ever got. Among their friends was this one couple, really old, like in their forties and, on top of that, she was fat, not overweight - fat.
So, imagine my surprise when, one day, out of the blue, she called me up, told me that she belonged to an art class, and wondered if I would be interested in modeling for them - for money and not in the nude. I pictured a bunch of fat old women sitting before easels and splashing paint on canvas. I was completely turned off. But my dad had taken the call and seemed to know what was going on; I could see he wanted me to say yes. The woman's husband was a business associate of dad's and I knew it wouldn't hurt for me to be cooperative. I floundered around for a bit, embarrassed, and also feeling that I would be taking a giant step out of my element, but finally I said a hesitant "yes". The arrangements were made and we hung up.
I suppose anyone else would have been flattered to have received such an implied compliment to his masculinity. All I could think of was what if, standing there in just a bathing suit in front of all these women staring at me, I should get hard.
I almost backed out.
But the day came and she arrived to pick me up. When we got to her house, I was surprised to find that she was the oldest woman there, and that the youngest was in her late twenties. There were about eight of them altogether, and three were not at all bad-looking - for older women. In fact, that youngest one and another, somewhere in her thirties, were actually hot.
But I put them out of my mind and went into a bedroom to change. The bathing suit they gave me to wear was a pretty brief bikini, much like my own, leaving little doubt that I was a well-endowed young man. Fortunately I was used to wearing one in public, so I felt I could manage. Anyway, I was so nervous about the whole proceeding that John Henry didn't come up.
The easels were set up in the basement rec room and there was a small raised platform for me to stand on. In the process of getting everyone settled and deciding upon the pose they wanted me to assume, I became involved and lost some of my embarassment and awkwardness. And this group, as a group, was completely absorbed in its efforts; the ladies were deadly serious and got right down to business.
Altogether, over two hours, I adopted three different poses and held them while the women drew or painted industriously away. They were in earnest and the poses, with one exception, required me to look away from them. The one exception had me standing, hands on my hips, looking straight at the women. That one was tough. While most of the ladies concentrated on my face and chest, my arms and legs, the two I had noticed when I arrived seemed to be having trouble getting my crotch just right. All I could do was stare out over the group and think about my next math exam. I wasn't having any fun. (In that situation the last thing you want to think about is your dick. Talk about concentration!) But, finally, it was over.
Refreshments were announced and I thought I could slip into the bedroom and get dressed. No such luck. All the ladies crowded around me and began asking me how I had liked the session. In my relative inexperience, I knew something was happening, but I just didn't quite understand it, at least not in that setting. Now, looking back, I realize that these middle-class, uptight ladies were enjoying the experience of being fully-clothed in the presence of a nearly nude man. They were quite excited, I now realize, and chattered away like a flock of birds.
All except for the two I had noticed at the start, Sheila and Marilyn, the former a tall redhead with green eyes, the latter a shorter, dark-haired woman with blue eyes. Although they chatted with me a bit, for the most part they let the others do the talking and just hung back and watched. Every time I happened to catch the eye of one or the other, however, it was to bring that eye up to my face. Even in my near virginal innocence I knew that a recognition was taking place. . . .
Finally, the afternoon came to an end. I was allowed to dress and my hostess took me home. There was to be another session in two weeks and she asked if I would care to pose again. With twenty-five dollars now in my pocket and a successful session under my belt (so to speak), I said I would.
As it turned out, there was a second and a third session, both much like the first. By the time I arrived for the fourth one I was pretty well acquainted with them all - knew something about their husbands and families, their interests in addition to art, and what they hoped from the future.
By then, also, we were all so well- acquainted that I was greeted with touching and hugging, as is the style of ladies, a typically touchy-feely folk. And, somehow, again, it never quite worked out for me to get dressed between the posing and the refreshments, and I became aware of an increasing number of touchings and pettings during the serving of the food and the conversation. . . .
Also, and for the second time, Sheila followed me down the hall when I went to change before leaving. I practically had to close the door in her face. And, this time, she followed me out to my car when I was ready to leave, somehow bumping up against me twice as we moved down the steps and into the driveway. She was talking about how much she enjoyed "life drawing", as she called it, as opposed to still life.
As I opened the car door, she said, casually, "I was wondering, Paul, if you would consider posing sometime just for me. I can't seem to get enough done working only every two weeks."
It was summer and I all I was doing was a part-time job at the pizza place - nights and weekends, of course - so I was free during the week.
"It would be a big help, if you could. I know I'm no great shakes as an artist, but it's fun, and I'd like to see how much better at it I can get. . . . I'll pay you; I'll pay you what Eleanor does."
By now I was pretty used to the routine, and the way Sheila spoke made it sound like something between a business deal and a contribution to the work of a struggling artist. I didn't sense a sub-text this time, though she had often looked at me in a special way at other times. Remember, I was just eighteen and she was a good ten years older than me. I was not, and still am not, the most worldly of people.
Feeling pretty confident about myself in this setting by now and always ready to pocket additional money, I gave it some thought as I got into the car.
"Yeah, I guess I could. When should I come?"
"Let's see - this is Tuesday. How 'bout Thursday, say around two?"
"That'll work for me. Where do you live?"
II
The house was a large one, set on a rise above the driveway which already wound halfway up a hill. When I got up to the front door I turned for a look at the view over the neighboring houses across the street and to the hills in the far distance. Nice.
Before I could turn back to ring the bell, the door opened and Sheila was standing there in a white halter-top and short-shorts, barefooted. One hand, above her head, held the door edge, the other, balancing it, rested on the frame. Sheila had large breasts. She held the pose for a moment, but I dropped my eyes, feeling my face grow warm. When I managed to raise them a moment later to look on her face, she was smiling with that expression in her eyes which, later, I came to realize was typical of a woman who has just caught a man admiring her tits.
"Hi, Paul. Glad you could make it. This is going to be a big help to me."
She then stepped aside and I entered. The house, which had smallish windows across the front, opened out to the back, with large windows and a sliding glass door opening onto the terrace from the living room; as I discovered, the same arrangement prevailed, on a somewhat smaller scale, in the bedrooms. The terrace ran the whole length of the back of the house.
"Would you like something to drink or eat before we get started?" We were now seated in the living room, me on the couch and Sheila sitting cross-legged in her short-shorts on one of the over-stuffed chairs. I had trouble not looking at her. But she was totally cool; not in the slightest flirtatious.
"Yeah. Coke if you have it."
"Sure."
She brought it in, handed it to me, and went back to her chair, this time sitting with one foot on the floor and the other leg draped over one arm of the chair. I was now not-looking at the same thing, just from a somewhat different angle.
Sheila took no notice of my wandering eyes. She asked me questions about school, about my family, my plans for the future. I was kept so busy answering her questions that I managed to keep my cock at only half-mast and I thought I would be able to maintain control once we got started.
"Well, shall we get to work?" she asked at length. "I'll show you where you can change."
She led me down a hall to a bedroom and opened the door. "I think we'll work on the terrace so, when you're ready, you can just go out through thatdoor there," she said, pointing.
Out in the sun it was quite warm. Sheila was one of those redheads whose skin can take a tan. Hers took one very well, and those green eyes looking out from the sun-darkened skin glittered like ice - a startling contrast. She had rearranged the furniture on the terrace, set up a small riser for me to stand on, and had her easel ready to go. The exertion had produced a light sweat and her body just glistened. She saw me coming.
"Already?"
"Yup." I mounted the riser.
"I think what I want to try is you as a quarterback. One arm out forward, the other back, ready to throw. . . . Here, think fast!" and the football came flying toward me.
I caught it and assumed the indicated position.
"Here. . . . let's see" and she came over, took my left arm and lowered it some to show more of my face, in the process brushing it against one of her breasts; my heart thudded. She pulled my right arm back and positioned it to show more tension. Then she grasped my waist and turned my body to more of an acute angle. She casually back-handed my butt as she moved away toward the easel. Her touch there was electric, making me shiver. "Are you cold?" she inquired seriously.
"No, I'm fine."
She took up her charcoal. For the next half hour she silently drew and I silently sweated. Finally she spoke.
"So, do you have a girlfriend, Paul?"
Why is it that women always ask that question of any man they meet? It's like an obsession with them. And my experience so far had taught me that it wasn't about sex; it was about romance, or something. Whatever.
"Uh, not really."
"What kind of an answer is that? Do you or don't you?"
