Here’s an art fantasy with an unexpected twist from sexy reader lake, posted this week in the site’s Your Fantasies Group. Please let her know your thoughts in the comments section, and enjoy!
I make sure I’m in early for this week’s sketch class since it’s the end of the month and we’ll have a live model tonight. On these nights, I like to pick a seat near the front, but one where I can still watch the door well enough to see the models when they arrive. Something about waiting to see them, and then catching them in their street clothes before class begins and they become stone-faced and all business makes these nights more interesting for me. I can feel the difference now, a twinge of anticipation buzzing along the edge of my focus, anchoring me very squarely in the moment.
When the model does arrive, I feel a quick shot of adrenaline start to course through my system, and there is brightness behind my eyes as I lean to get a clearer view. I have to do a bit of a double take before I am sure she is indeed a ‘she’. She’s tiny, which is the giveaway, but her head is shorn (just a jet black shadow and a hairline around her scalp) and she is dressed all ‘tough girl’, including a thick leather belt and slotted leather wrist cuff. She’s greeted by our teacher, and they laugh about something before she heads into the dressing room.
The rest of the class is filing in, but now that I am poised to begin, the rest of the room just feels like a distraction to me. When our teacher finally kicks off tonight’s class, I’ve already got my pencil in my hand and am standing off the edge of my stool. Our model walks back into the room behind the teacher as she finishes talking. She looks efficient and comfortable, when she slips out of her robe, but remains as stoned-faced as I expected when she takes the first pose. She’ll hold each pose in the first round for just two minutes each. I am excited to finally be drawing, able to channel the energy that’s been building since I arrived. By the middle of the third pose, my mind has clicked off and I’m working from instinct and muscle memory alone. It feels natural and loose as my wrist and arm move quickly and effortlessly over the pad. I can sense I am capturing the form of each pose with clean elegant lines, the way I want to. When there are pauses while she changes position, I glance back and admire the progression of what I’ve sketched so far. I feel really good about what I see and how easily it’s coming. I know it’s the hours of practice these last months that I’m being rewarded for. I inhale deeply as I start the next sketch; I am enjoying the feelings of satisfaction and competency and am ready and eager for more drawing.
We continue to progress through additional rounds. With each new round the poses are held longer. I start putting more technique, composition, and detail into the sketches. After about 95 minutes we are on 20-minute poses. With the extra time, my mind starts to re-engage and I start to see the model as a person again, not just forms and shapes and lines. Questions float past like, ‘Who is she?’ and ‘Why has she left her hand hanging so carelessly by her hip?’ But all thoughts remain a remote backdrop, as my pencil continues furiously working to give the composition shape and poise. As I go back and work in more detail, I start studying her more deliberately. I can see subtle aspects of each trait, and I work to tease them out through the lead at the tip of my pencil, desirous of capturing her piece by piece onto my drawing board, feeling as if every inch of her is accessible to me there.
I pull back for a moment to look at her on the stage, and on my sketch pad, to assess where I am with the drawing, and I’m struck by how delicate and feminine she looks nude, without the tough outfitting. Even the ultra-butch haircut is softened by the fact that her pubic hair is shorn in the same way. To me her nipples look like the most delectable things I’ve ever seen. I can’t stop likening them to small pink roses painstakingly sculpted on the top of a wedding cake. Then I realize I’m not drawing anymore. I’m staring and salivating and overworking the same spot. My eyes start to shamelessly take in her body, and I’m suddenly too aware of my own arousal. I look around the room as if expecting someone else to have noticed me doing this. Nobody has.
But it is time for her to take a new pose, and I decide to take a quick break and walk out into the hall. I start heading down toward the bathroom, not really sure where I’m going. Then I notice a door to the stairwell and my thoughts start shifting from how to shut down what I’m feeling to how to take advantage of it. I can tell I’m becoming more committed to the idea when I start telling myself I’ll probably end up back in the classroom faster this way anyhow. When my tongue starts licking my lips (because I’m feeling my mouth closing down over the sweet pert, exquisitely pink nipples of the little dyke whom I just walked out on), I can’t get to the stairwell fast enough.
When I push the door open, I hear scrambling noises from behind it. When it closes, I see Kevin standing there, sweaty and flush. Obviously flustered at the moment, he is a twenty-something from my class, and he’s turned his back to me to try and conceal the fact that his hand is holding an erection full to bursting. I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s tall and thin, with fun curls in that unkempt style all the guys under thirty have now. His skin is pale and clear, the kind that when blood rushes to his skin, it shows through almost transparently. I love this trait and it makes me want to see more of him. But I move away from him, to the opposite wall. I lean against it and smile, even though he’s looking at me very aggressively.
“What are you doing?” he says, confused and frustrated by my intrusion. “Same thing you are,” I reply, sliding my hand under the bottom of the button-down shirt dress I’m wearing. His face goes slack, and I can tell he is struggling to process this new development. He stays like that for a while, half turned, half packed back into his pants, but hand still on his cock. My head is tilted back now, and my eyelids are at half-mast – not noticing whether he’s started working his fingers or his hand again, not even noticing if he has freed himself again. I’m just so happy to be fully committed to finding my own relief, to have my hand between my legs and bearing down under my panties.
“You’re serious!?” he gasps.
“Why not. There’s room enough. You stay on your wall, I’ll stay on mine,” I reply without looking up, working into a rhythm now. But his breathing has changed, as have the sounds in the small hall between flights, and I know nonetheless that he has started working himself again. Several minutes pass, before he blurts the words, “Unbutton your shirt” into the space between us, a space that is slowly filling up with musty, intermingled smells.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I retort quietly.
“I’m thinking I want you to unbutton your shirt so I can see your tits” – impatience in his voice, urgency building in his body. I laugh, but I unbutton the top of my dress to the belt anyway. It feels good – sexy – and I start to actually look at him. I notice his unfocused eyes, red cheeks, then look further down his body, to where he’s exposed. He sees this and feels emboldened to say, “Unbutton the rest.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking now. Are you picturing our luscious little class model?” I say.
“Not now. Now I’m picturing my cum shooting all the way across this hallway to coat the front of your naked body… we just need it naked now, don’t we?” I’m half laughing as I unbutton my dress the rest of the way down, leaving the belt cinched to create two separate windows, one above the belt showing the insides of my breasts the other below framing my hand buried under my twisted, soaked panties.
His hand is moving faster now, up and down his shaft. He’s panting with the low rumblings of a groan building behind it. I hear myself saying, “Take your shirt off,” and I throw the command at him, half to see more of him, half to slow down his approaching orgasm. While he’s doing it I slip off my panties, and by the time he looks back at me I’m fully exposed and closing in on a very raucous orgasm of my own. As he starts back up on his own organ, I let myself slowly slide down the wall into a deep squat, knees out wide, pussy split open. It has the desired effect of driving both of us deeper into our bodies and the moment – the sensations, sounds, sights and smells connecting us, although we’ve never touched – the experience of each very much enhanced by the parallel journey of the other, pulling us both forward, building, building, and then over the top we go together. Starting with his sharp inhale, then half-doubled-over expulsion of air and sound, answered by my half whimper, half moan while my hips twist and grind my ass back into the wall. Nerve endings fire up and down our spines, and the involuntary movements continue until we are both smiling and trying to catch our breaths. My hands and knees are actually down on the floor now. When we look at each other, we start to laugh, heady with our physical state. Then we dress, both sweatier and still a bit disheveled.
“After you,” he says sweetly, gesturing with one arm as we step toward the door.
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2 thoughts on “Friday Fantasy: Live Nude Girl, Shy Nude Boy”
Since this story has now attained “headliner” status on the site, and I enjoyed it so much the first time, I felt it deserved the “two comment” treatment! This is a really great story, and the setting situation described is sooo ripe with possibilities. In previous comments, others (and myself) expressed an appreciation for the unexpected twists and turns, and those are all very true aspects of what makes your “fantasy” a real turn on, but as I thought about it more reading it this second time (I have actually have read it four or five times, but I consider this as my first reading in its “second” location), what strikes me is how there are so many different ways that this story “could” have turned and all of them would have been really hot as well.
A quick recounting of “alternatives” based on things others expressed in their comments as well as my own thoughts as to where/how the story could have evolved are as follows: The model was a man not a woman, you got there early with the hopes of meeting/interacting with the model, you found/made some connection (eye contact, gestures, etc.) with the model, you became physically sexual with yourself while drawing the model, you noticed another student becoming sexually physical with themselves while drawing the model (a voyeur), you found/made some connection with the teacher or another student while drawing the model, you found/made some connection with the teacher or another student while drawing the model in the classroom (playing with yourself became a discrete exhibitionist opportunity which you embraced, or your voyeuristic observations morphed into an acknowledged private “performance”), you met the model afterwards, you met your private performer/audience afterwards…I could go on and on and on, here, but I think you get the point!
It was the setting which proved to be so brilliant!!! Where else but an “art class” can something so personal and intimate be put out there so comfortably and naturally with the intention being nothing but objectification? A woman’s (or man’s) body displayed so unselfconsciously with the intent of being studied and observed and scrutinized! Where else is there an audience which uses the opportunity so purposefully and to create such a broad range of perfectly acceptable artistic expressions? It is not possible to imagine how there is not SOME personal physical reaction from being in that situation (some personal arousal at seeing a model live and in the flesh with all the naughtyness of the indiscretions that affords) even if there is “work” to be done and not much time to dwell on such things.
Keep going to think about the variety of artwork which is produced. Some students will work on developing the technical skills required to draft the human form precisely as possible, while others may focus less on the form or shape and more on expressing some feeling or emotion. Some will be soft and natural…focused on the shapes and forms overall, while others will be explicitly detailed and infused with raw sexual energy…
First a comment/question(s) for Ms. lake, and then a challenge for everyone…
Ms. lake, I would love to know how would you describe YOUR approach when drawing the model…what would you be looking to accomplish? Seeking to develop/refine your technical proficiency or working on rendering the “essence” of the model? Capturing forms and shapes or focused on reproducing every last detail? Soft and natural or graphically explicit? Emphasis on the beauty of the whole or infused and rendered with exaggerated sexuality?
A challenge for all…
Since a number of commenters mentioned unexpected “twists and turns”, it made me realize that they must have been thinking it was headed somewhere else! Dear readers/aspiring writers, what were you thinking about and expecting to happen when the story took one of those unexpected twists or turns?
Why don’t you use this story as the setting, and make the fantasy (or experience) all your own by sharing with us where your mind would go. Tell us what you would like to see happen if you were to be a student studying fully nude model standing 10 feet in front of you in a variety of poses over several hours and what kind of naughty-ness might it inspire in you?
I cant think of a better way to get to know everyone a little better and (hopefully) come up with some seriously hot “alternative” versions of this story! Any takers?
I can’t remember precisely, but it was a point at which I had been out of practice for awhile, and was taking the class to help me start drawing regularly again. So I was working back to being able to draw from instinct. I’d compare it to the difference between counting steps in your head while you dance a salsa vs just being able to dance salsa, where you think something and your body is already executing it – no conscious effort required. To get there, I needed to re-establish my discipline and technical skills to the point that I could ignore them, able to rely on the fact that they would just be there. That is the point at which you can really just ‘feel’ your way through the drawing (do something like just focus on the ‘essence of the model’ or what emotion you want to evoke to the point that when you stop and look down you are surprised by what you see). If you can’t layout the compostion correctly or make your proportions work, it feels very effortful and slow and frustrating and there is no flow. When you can do those things without thinking, it is the opposite, it feels lyrical, effortless, exhiliarating, powerful, expressive. It’s not about it being right or wrong, it’s about it being what you intend it to be. This is true whether your style is loose and impressionistic or tight and realistic, both leverage different underlying technical profciencies, which take work to develop. You practice and you practice your mechanics, so that when the moment that a subject inspires you, you can do with your pencil what it is that you want to do, create in the real world what otherwise is only a thought. Not just feel it, but capture it, express it, put it into a format consumable by others, a format that creates something in those it touches. It is a part of you that you share in a very tangible way… or maybe choose not to share at all. Of course, as you can see from the story, the mechanics may have been starting to return, but the discipline still had a long way to go!
Now I’m probably just rambling, but… I’ve enjoyed drawing since i was a child, so naturally there have been periods where my interests have pulled more one way or another, as well as times, when I was more playful than serious or more focused than experimental. I think you know where I’m headed with this. At different times my approach has been any and all of the approaches you described… plus many others. Sometimes two or three of those layered in the same drawing, other times focusing solely on one (particularly if I am working on developing that skill). There have been times when I’ve been very public about it, other times when it has been very personal and I have not shared a drawing with anyone for years. Times that I have been stiffled and insecure or frustrated with my level, and times when it has been pure joy, and times when I think it is the only thing I should ever spend my time doing.