Chapter One
There’s a knock at the door. I throw an old shirt on, put my feet in my slippers, and go downstairs to answer it. I have an afternoon free, so it’s time to be productive.
I’m expecting the knock, I have cash on hand to pay you for your time.
“Come in, come in” I say, “can I get you some tea, a glass of water?”
You take off your light jacket, looking for a coat hook in the entrance hall as I gesture to the kitchen, “no, I’m alright - we only have a couple of hours, we might as well get to work.” “Hooks are just there, on your right. I’ll get you some water anyway, you’re bound to get thirsty at some point. Just in the next room - take your clothes off in there, I’ll be there in a sec.”
I pour two tall glasses of water, and you go on through.
You have your blouse off when I enter the room, it’s folded neatly over the back of a chair. You unhook your bra and slip it off as I put the glasses down, then I busy myself arranging the things I need while your jeans and panties come off.
“What’s it going to be today? Long and slow, or quick and dynamic? I’m just wondering whether it’s worth getting my book out of my bag”, you say.
“Don’t be cheeky,” I retort. “I’m going to give you half an hour of quick ones just for that!”
“Fine,” you reply, grinning. “I can take it!”
“We’ll try something slower later. Maybe take a whole hour at the end.”
I settle myself behind my easel, charcoal in hand. “Let’s do 10 30-second ones first. Do you mind timing them yourself? Just give me a heads up at 25.”
“No problem,” you say, and strike a pose.
You start counting, while half of your brain is focussed on your body’s position in space, feeling the muscles, static but working, aware of where your weight is resting; I’m thinking of the same things, but I’m in motion - capturing the tension of a thigh, the poise of your fingers, and the tilt of your jaw. I’m trying to imagine what you’re feeling, where the energy is flowing in you, through my fingers, working the geometry of my charcoal onto the page.
My wrist makes a quick curve around your buttock and down your thigh. “25” you say, and I quickly sketch in some shading under your chin and down your ribs before you break pose.
You find another position. “Is this okay for you?” you ask. “Perfect” I reply. “Energetic!” as I start on a fresh sheet of paper. By the 10th pose of the set, I see your nose is glistening slightly - you’re working hard; your thigh begins to shake a little. “That’s great, can you hold that pose a little longer?”
You you flick your eyes towards me in thought: “How long?”
“Another minute?”
“Maybe. Let’s see”
30-something seconds later, and I can see the strain on your face, it’s a tough pose. A drip of sweat falls from your armpit and runs around your breast. “Just a few more seconds”, I say, putting the finishing touches on the drawing, “...and thank you!”
You drop from your pose onto the sofa, feeling a little like jelly, reaching for the water. I think I misjudged that pose!” you say.
“Well, to be fair, you didn’t expect to hold it so long” I grin. “Now for something more relaxing.”
After you shake your arms and legs out, and stretch your tired muscles, I let you find a comfortable position, reclining, for a 15 minute pose, a total change of pace. “A little more twist in your torso would be cool, do you mind? It’ll give your back a nicer angle” You readjust slightly, bringing your hip around; your knee a little more towards me. “Beautiful” I say. “A quarter of an hour OK? I’ll set the timer.” You nod, and lie there as still as death except for the slow rise and fall of your chest.
My gaze jumps between your figure and the page, watching your toes curl and uncurl, a subtle scratch, trying to to move imperceptibly. As I begin to draw your face, I notice that you’re watching me, but my eyes move away from yours, as I trace the shape of your nose, lips, chin, and then the angle as your neck turns towards the one clavicle that is visible to me. I massage some charcoal into the hollow where your collarbone meets your shoulder, and I can feel you watching me work.
It’s time for a break, a few drawings later. Just fifteen minutes, but I make us some tea, and we chat for a little while. “Feel like something a bit longer for the last hour,” I ask, “or more quickies?” “I’m feeling a little masochistic” you reply. “I feel like I need something hard. I'm restless.”
“Yes, I thought so - you were starting to wriggle a little." I smile. "Feeling rested? I like a challenge, so show me something hard! Let’s get back to work, time to earn your money” You smile back, and look around the room. “Do you mind if I use your table?”
“By all means; wherever you like! I’ll just move the easel to suit” I say.
“I’m going to try something new, but an hour’s a long time - don’t hate me if I can’t make it all the way”
“Of course not - just tell me if you need a break, or if you can’t take it any more. I’m curious to know what you’re thinking!
You drop the robe you’ve been wearing for the break, climb onto the tabletop, and begin to arrange yourself into the pose, While I realign the easel for a good angle.
Chapter Two
“I’m a little worried, you know, that if I can’t hold the pose for the hour you’ll think I’m unprofessional” you say, kneeling on the wood. “By the way, can I get a blanket? This may hurt my knees after a while”
“No problem” I say, and fetch the blanket off the arm of the sofa. You fold it, and arrange it under your knees.
“The fact that you’re worried about that reassures me of your professionalism” I say. “Kneeling will be tough for that long, though!”
“Not quite kneeling - a little experimental: I want to try something I’m pretty sure no-one’s ever modelled for you before” and you flash me a look I can’t read.
You slide one foot off the edge of the table, and grip the wood with the toes of the other. You rest one elbow on the tabletop, then lower your head to rest on your forearm. Your hair partially drapes, modestly, over your face. “I told you this would be a difficult pose” you say, slightly muffled - “now I need something to help me concentrate”.
I’m looking at the soles of your feet, the foreshortened calves, the backs of your thighs, the downward curve of your back - and your pussy, lifted into the air.
“You’re right - this is a new one for me. How will you hold it?”
“Let me worry about that” you reply, and with a slight wiggle you twist your free arm downwards; I see a hand appear between your legs, and two fingers disappear inside you.
“Can you hold that?”
“Mmmmm hmmmmm”
“OK. Now don’t move.”
“I promise!”
I begin to draw, opening with some quick, light touches, soft sinuous strokes along the backs of your thighs, up, and over, and down your back - finding the longest lines of your body to draw the tip of my pencil over. Then a little wash, wetting the paper, softening the first pass and letting me see further into the structure of the pose. I’m building a map, using wrong turns to tell me where the right ones are, but just enjoying the journey as I go around and across your body. The curve of your breast, and the glimpse of a nipple, which fills out and reddens under the touch of my brush; the shadow defining your belly; the blush and whitening in the small movements of your knuckles - all guiding my eye and hand.
After about twenty minutes I can see you are beginning to feel the strain, so I ask if you need to stretch, or get a sip of water, but you decline. “I’ve just been listening to the rhythm of your breathing” you say, “and trying to guess what you’re drawing when your breath speeds up, or slows down.”
“I couldn’t tell you” I say. “I haven’t really been aware of my breathing. But I haven’t much been focusing on too many details yet, mostly broad strokes, and a little punctuation, so I know where I am.” You raise half a quizzical eyebrow at the metaphor, but close your eyes and focus on the pose again, moving your fingers gently, taking your attention away from the knots slowly forming in your back and thighs.
Of course I am focusing on the details - but I can’t let myself become distracted, I have a job to do.
Another twenty minutes passes, in relative silence, but I can see you’re feeling the strain. There’s the occasional involuntary twitch, and your breath is a little ragged; overall, though, you are a rock, and I’m starting to wonder at your strength.
“Are you OK there? Need a break?”
“It’s getting tough” you say. “I’m going to move a little, if that’s alright.”
“Whatever you need.”
“It will just be a little, but I need to focus” you reply, your eyes closed.
I don’t see your body move at all, but your fingers start to slide, gently, slowly, in your pussy. You inhale deeply, and I see a blush spread across your body. Your index finger slips out, and your hand moves gently up and down, massaging in and out, up around your labia, middle finger deep inside, then down, circling over your clit, then back again. A few minutes of this, some soft moans, and I see a drip run down your finger to the knuckle, across the smooth back of your hand to the wrist. “2 minutes left on the pose” I say. “You doing OK?”
“Mm-hm” you reply, “except…”
“Except what?”
“Except I think I can’t move, I can’t feel my legs!”
This worries me a little, but I know it’s self-inflicted, so I say “just one more minute, then, while I finish this”, and tidy the end of the drawing.
Dropping the charcoal, I step back to check my work - nothing to to be done anyway, I can’t ask you to hold longer - and cross the room to your side.
“Now, what’s the best way out of this?”
“Well”, you grin, “you can see I can still move my hand, but I think my shoulder’s frozen here”.
I take your wrist, and slide your finger from your pussy, then I take your elbow and gently move your arm into a more comfortable position. “Now we need to un-bend your legs. I’m going to have to lift your hips and slide you over the edge of the table.”
“Uh-huh, that sounds good” you say, still half muffled, face down on the tabletop.
Supporting your hips with one arm, I slide your foot off the table’s surface, then lift the weight off your knees and slide you down, the blanket easing the friction against the wood.
“I won’t be able to walk yet - I need the blood to come back to my legs” you say, lying like a broken doll on the table’s edge. “But I have an idea!”
Chapter Three
I think I can read your mind, but I’m struggling to remain professional - “I have some oil, I could massage your legs, that’s normally good for circulation”, I suggest.
“Oil is a nice idea, but I’m already lubricated” you say. “The timer finished before I did, and I’m still really wet. Just fuck me, and I swear the blood will begin to flow again!”
I don’t need a second invitation. I’ve been rock-hard for the last twenty minutes, watching you masturbate. I undo my belt, unbutton my trousers, and push my cock inside you. You gasp, and raise your hips to meet me, but your legs have no strength to push back as I press you onto the table. You haven’t moved your arms since I put your feet on the floor, so I kindly take them and place them in a more circulation-friendly position, elbows by your sides, and palms up in the small of your back. Holding them there with one hand, I reach forward and begin to stroke your clit, in time with my rhythm, sliding smoothly but forcefully in and out of you.
I keep this up, adjusting to the movements of your hips - you’re making small motions at first, but getting surer - until I feel your foot caress my calf muscle. Now I know your legs have their feeling back, and without pulling out of you, I release your hands and pull you, by the shoulders, up towards me. You put your fingertips on the table, and arch your neck back, exposing your throat, and offering me your mouth. Cupping your breasts in my hands, I taste your lips, and bend my head down to gently bite the delicate white skin below your ear. You reach back, and ease me out of your pussy, then turn to press your torso against mine. With my cock in your hand between us, you begin to stroke it, still wet and slippery with your juices. You push it between your legs, against your pussy lips, and grind your clit along the shaft. You’re dripping wet, and I can feel the head of my cock almost, but not quite, slipping inside you again as you slide back and forth. You move back against the table, and sit on the edge of it, the change in the angle of your hips letting the tip of my cock slip between your lips, and I feel the sudden warmth of the inside of you. You stop it there, however: “not yet”, you say, and I slip out, and up the length of your vulva and across your clit again. You moan slightly at the slick pressure, and pull my head down to kiss you again. Bringing your knees up, you keep pushing my head down, and I’m forced to kneel. You put your legs over my shoulders, and draw me in.
You taste sweet, and salty from sweat, and warmly musky from the fucking, as you press my face into your groin, and my tongue rhythmically explores your folds. Every crease of your pussy leads my tongue upwards to your clit, and I make certain to give my full attention to every centimetre of your aching, blushing flesh. From soft, broad strokes with the flat of my tongue, to fast light flicks with the tip, I read, and control, the arching, rolling, and bucking of your hips, breathing the heat of you, listening to your ragged breaths, feeling the clench of your fingers in my hair, your heels digging into my back. My fingers are in the flesh of your thighs, holding you tight. I expect tomorrow you’ll have ten small bruises, but right now I need to hold you as close as I can.
