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.
Need to catch up? Read the Sex Experiment from the beginning: Table of Contents
Or read it on your Kindle complete with stunning nude photos of the elusive Mrs. X!