Most people love Friday because it signals the end of the working week and the beginning of the weekend. Two days of freedom, away from the grind of money-making.
I love Friday because it’s the day I get to bring home some cash by grinding my money-maker. OK, perhaps not actually ‘grinding’, but certainly by flashing it about. You see, I’m a model. A nude model. Not one of the nasty pay-per-view variety but the artistic life drawing type.
The Art Tutor at the local Community College is a close friend and when one of his regular models let him down, he asked me to fill in . Initially, I was a little nervous. Who wouldn’t be? Usually, the only time I’ll willingly strip is under the influence of too much bourbon and when the lights are turned down low. Real low.
But this tutor friend of mine, he has a silver tongue and way of convincing you even the worst ideas in the world are worth pursuing. He worked his verbal voodoo, telling me how empowering the experience would be—, how liberating— and just how much the students appreciated the work the models did. Yadda, yadda, yadda. And, he added, just how much he would appreciate it too.
So, on that first fateful Friday, I stood behind a screen in his studio, wearing nothing but a light cotton robe and a grimace of terror. An ice cold lump of fear lodged in my belly caused my knees to tremble and my hands to shake. But I was determined I to do this. I would do this. The power, the liberation and the kudos of students and teacher would be mine.
Schooling my face into a mask of calm and gritting my teeth together to stop the chattering, I slid from behind the security of the screen towards the chaise longue in the middle of the room. A circle of easels surrounded the chair, each with an attached artist. The wood of the floor felt rough beneath my bare feet. The warmth of the sunlight streaming into the studio had absolutely no melting effect on the cold lump of dread still wedged in my gut.
“Everyone, this is Amy,” the tutor said. He squeezed my shoulder in encouragement and then dropped his head close to my ear. “You’ll be fine.” Sitting me down on the edge of the chaise, he slid the robe from my shoulders. The material slithered onto the faded tapestry of the daybed, baring me to the waist. Open to the air and the view of all the room’s occupants, my nipples puckered. I hung my head, mortified.
Fixing my gaze steadfastly on the ground I now wished would swallow me, I vaguely heard the tutor telling me to lay back and make myself comfortable. Before I could make a grab for the robe, he whisked the garment away and strode off, leaving me stranded and stripped. Very, very stripped. I gulped, blinked and lay back. Like a virgin sacrifice or a lamb to the slaughter.
You know the hint everyone gives you when you’re as nervous as hell, standing in front of a crowd about to give a speech? The hint about imagining everyone in the audience naked? Well, while I lay there in all my glory in front of a room of faces, whose eyes were trained on me, me and nothing but me, that’s just what I did. I took a deep breath, softened my gaze and imagined them all totally, utterly and completely nude.
I’ll admit the technique was very distracting. Trying to work out how well endowed the males were and which of the women might not be surgically enhanced. After a while, I was relieved to realize I wasn’t freaked out or nervous any more. But an hour is a bloody long time to lie back and think of Old Mother England, so to speak. I had a crick in my neck and boredom started to creep in. My mind wandered…
I envisaged all of them unclothed, painting me. Not a picture of me on the canvas, you understand, but me on the chaise. My actual body.
One by one, they moved from behind their easels and approached me with brushes and palettes in hand. The men’s pendulous cocks hung heavy between their thighs. The women’s breasts, free and swinging. Each of them, stood over me, dipping sable brushes into dollops of thick paint and tracing delicate strokes across my skin. Daubing me with their designs. Some in long bold lines down my flanks. Others, dabbing delicately on my neck and my décolletage. The tickle of the bristles as they dragged over my skin was pure bliss and torture in equal measure; making me a masterpiece.
Desire hooded the artists’ eyes as they worked on me. The studio filled with the sound of squelching brushes plunging into paint and the swishing of bristles as they smeared color over my skin. Everywhere except where I wanted it. I needed to feel the drag and pull of their ministrations on my breasts. Circling the responsive duskiness of my nipples until they peaked and stood up, begging to be sucked. Or bitten. Or pinched.
Fuck, now I wasn’t worried about the crick in my neck, but about blowing serious cover in front of a room full of strangers! Keeping my face impassive and my breathing slow took a concerted effort. My engorged clit pulsed an aroused tattoo of its own and I yearned to squeeze my legs together to create some friction. Settling instead for clenching all of my internal muscles, my pussy throbbed and a rush of liquid slid down the crack of my ass. I smelt the musk of my own desire and my nipples tightened in response.
My gaze softening again, I contemplated what a brush would feel like, slick with viscous paint, as it slid from my sensitive hood to the cleft of my cheeks and back again. Over and over. Teasing my clit, stroking my labia, circling my pulsating pussy and tickling the rosebud of my ass…
“That’s all for today folks.” The tutor’s brisk voice broke the silence and sent my daydream scuttling back into the recesses of my mind. He slipped the robe back around my shoulders and I was surprised at the reluctance I felt to put it back on. “Stay right there,” he murmured. “Let me get rid of these guys. There’s something I need to do.”
My body was still taut with the lust I had unwittingly unleashed with my unfettered thoughts. Who’d have thought you could have so much fun starkers in a room full of strangers?
Did I say the tutor was an old friend of mine? Well, to tell the truth, he’s a little more than an old friend. He’s my boyfriend and that silver tongue of his is not only good at talking me into situations that make me squirm. It is also good at plunging into parts of me to make me squirm even more.
Which was what he did, as soon as the last of the students finally traipsed out. Turning the key in the lock, he stalked straight to the middle of the room. Pushing me backwards onto the chaise, he knelt between my thighs, pushing them wide. He snaked that talented tongue of his right up the swollen seam of my sex, the cream of my arousal blatantly obvious.
“I told you you’d be fine,” he said, before he pushed my legs even wider apart and dropped his mouth to feast upon the molten core of me. I ground my cunt hard up against his face, holding his hair, not letting him come up for air until all my pent up frustration exploded out into the studio in a stream of wanton moaning and trembling.
So, week after week, I come to class; I strip and I conjure up dirty little stories in my head. Sometimes, I picture the men in the class creatively filling each of my holes, while the women paint the scene. Sometimes, I am at the mercy of the women’s thrusting fingers and probing tongues, whilst the men jack off, splattering us with come. And sometimes, the tutor and I create a pornographic panorama or two of our own for them all to enjoy.
But the best part is that after an hour of sitting very still, with nothing but my overactive imagination keeping me warm, my favorite tutor helps to relieve any tension an hour of frantic fantasizing can create.
Funnily enough, now just a whiff of paint can push me to the point of orgasm. I don’t need the strength of bourbon to give me courage, or the cover of darkness to hide behind. I’m empowered and liberated. I’m respected by the students and well serviced by their tutor.
God, I love Fridays!
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Greta has just released Erotic Liaisons - an ebook of six sexy short stories to tempt, tease and titillate. Get your copy at Barnes & Nobel or Amazon
Copyright © 2011 Greta Goddard
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
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