Modeling

In college, I devoted my studies to the History of Art, with the odd goal of wearing tailored suits and sleek, smooth hair held neatly in a bun.  Through the course of my education, I was required to take several figure drawing classes.  I enjoyed them immensely.  I learned anatomy — how the skeleton supports which muscles connected by what tendons covered by variations of flesh.  We were always encouraged to dissect the naked form into still-life shapes, finding their relationship to the next shape, noticing textures and how the light and shadow highlight bits and hides others.  I’d leave these classes, exhilarated, covered in charcoal, on to the next class, but thinking back to our models.  

A model, voluntarily naked on display, vulnerable in front of horny and confused students sketching for good marks, hoping to check things off the rubric while developing an artistic style … or something.  Though I seemed to do ok with the perspective and proportions, I often had trouble separating the still-life before me from their nakedness.   (Those rower’s shoulders were not going to massage themselves.)  I was both mesmerized and jealous. 

Intensely scrutinizing male or female body features and proportions.  How well does this human represent the “ideal” — the golden ratio of Vitruvian Man.  Compare and contrast, taking artistic liberties on the newsprint … and in my mind.  

Picturing my fingers tracing lines.  Examining textures:  smooth, soft, curves, firm, warm, long, girthy, erect, hard…

Since that time, some things have changed:  my goal of looking put-together in professional work attire with respectable hair has flown right out the window with any hope of a well-paying career.   

But what remains is the hungry jealousy which comes from my evolution of becoming both exhibitionist and insatiable voyeur.

As it has happened, I find myself sharing select, very controlled images of my body to a curated audience.  In this community are those who appreciate art and the artists who create pieces depicting the nude form.  I consider my photos artistic (composed by light and shadow and composition, creating a benign landscape or still-life of myself), but also a vulnerable naked display in front of horny and confused students.  Is this “modeling?”  I have been asked about my perspective. 

Imagining myself in their place, I wonder how the models in studio felt and what their thoughts were — how they passed the time, holding a pose, observing each of us while we scribbled and shaded, fingers rubbing the curve of her breast or perfect connection where his glutes met the back of his thighs.  

Do any of my models allow themselves the indulgence of a wandering mind as I do?  In the “gesture drawing” part of the class, a model is instructed to take different shapes — performing stretches, twists, bending, kneeling, reclining; a warm up for the class —  examples of what they might present for a longer pose.   Lights are adjusted to give each artist the benefit (in my case a crutch) of drama to enhance shape.  

As I exhibit myself, I imagine what you think. Are you similarly hungry with desire as I am when I divide into pieces (tear apart) a model with my eyes?  I imagine your gaze sweeping very slowly down my neck as if touching, searching for a reaction — visual evidence of my arousal.  My nipples erect with the attention given by your laser focus.  A warmth … a quickening of pulse, a slight perspiration under the light, an intense needfulness.  Moisture between my legs as I am made alive, stimulated by my audience.  

I am reminded that I am supposed to remain still, while the urge to splay my legs and arch my back is intense.  My fingers finding wet folds, exposing and opening to the shock of everyone in the room.  Sinking two middle fingers deep … withdrawing … glistening, reflecting the light, writhing, wanting to be joined on this pedestal by those in the studio with charcoal covered hands, scribbling and shading, rubbing with fingers, damp, dark gray black smudges on my neck and face and tits and thighs, stomach and ass.  Use me as the medium and canvas. 

Intensely comprehend.   Study.  Cram.   Forcefully turn me over to study me from every angle.  Repeat for memory.  

Use your sensitive instruments — fingers, tongue, cocks —- to probe and yield to the desire we are creating together, surrendering to the trancelike pull of our creative expression.  Frenzied disregard of art studio etiquette.  Normally, only the model is nude, not everyone.  “Form follows function,” taken to the extreme as I am the form and each student performing a function to get. us. off.  Every erect protuberance answered with a warm wet place to stick it, again and again.  We have become abstracted in undulating lines and textures in the dramatic lighting. 

Time is noted, and everyone begins hurriedly working their final details as my expanded universe is brought into focus with the self consciousness of losing myself in thought.  Is my flushed chest or swollen wetness noticeable?   Did anyone feel a shift my aura, moving from passive gray to red as I melted in frantic fantasy?  

I love to observe the various styles and expressions of model and artist, imagining thoughts and narratives in the infinite relationships between.  

 

The Spice of Life

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A Sort of Meditation

Allow me, please, to touch you.  The tips of my fingers want to read the lines and scars and heal your heavy mind with a sort of meditation.  

Lie on your stomach against the bed and rest your face in your crossed forearms.  Close your eyes and breathe, letting go of every thought except right here and right now.  I am naked and warm kneeling beside you, my voice is quiet and soothing as if it’s telepathically what you crave.  

Gently, along your shoulders, I will begin tracing the shape of your scapula, enough for you to know they are there, but gently allowing the nerve endings at the ends of each digit to consume any worry.   I will move along your skin registering the different textures between  places with body hair, or creases or a raised freckle.  I like It when your body involuntarily reacts with chilly bumps if I scratch with fingernails. 

Gaining more deliberate pressure, I begin a rubbing massage, I want you to feel good, shedding any ache.  My erect nipples touch the back of your thigh as I reach down your legs.   Do you notice the differences between intensional touch and an accidental graze?  Do you notice that I am enjoying these sensations as much as you?  

Furthering the experiment of what you may note, I gather the growing wetness from between my thighs and return again to your shoulders.   Perhaps, I finger paint a little heart.   At first matching warmth but cooling in the quiet air to make the imprint more vivid.  

And now licking to discover how I taste combined with your skin.  

You are aroused, too.  You push your pelvis into the mattress.  A little weighted pressing attention to your penis.  A flex of your glutes.  I like this.   My hands return to your butt and caress your cheeks and finger between.  Unspoken, but I know you like to be touched there.  You’re gently moving your hips, unhindered by the shame we all are forced to carry when we’re learning what pleasure is.  “Let your mind go and your body will follow.”

Roll over and allow me to kneel between your legs, my eager hands continuing to touch every inch of you.  My arousal becoming more evident as I get hungrier. Kissing your belly, touching your nipples, licking the tip of your dick — the drop of precum a delightful compliment.  

Again, I want you to feel every sensation separately, noting the differences between my tongue when it’s moving along the shaft or while deep inside my mouth.  I want you to notice my teeth.  I want you to feel my breath enjoy my hair as it softly falls over my face.   While you are prone here, my fingers are exploring, perhaps sharing wetness from my cunt with the edge of your asshole and circling gently while the end of your cock sinks rhythmically deeper until I gag a little.   Keep going meet me with your thrusts. 

Remember:  right here and right now.  Reverent focus.   Nothing else matters except this altered worship and release.  And when you do, I will share it as I raise from my position of prayer to kiss your mouth.   An offering which is bountiful and binds us in this attainment of bliss.  

As I sit here imagining just how inappropriately a Thursday could go, I’m reminded of our meeting with HR and the company lawyers — invited to answer questions as we learned about sexual harassment and how not to do it.  The rules are far more extensive and restrictive than “good touch / bad touch” and “please refrain from molesting your subordinates.”  The hardest for me to define is: “If a co-worker sees someone doing something and is offended by it thusly, they may sue for being sexually harassed.”    

This particular meeting can be simplified to what I consider “liability panties.”  (Must be performed to cover the company’s ass).  But let’s wonder together, shall we, about what offends?  Should HR, under the guidance of our corporate lawyers hand out a questionnaire with boxes to check listing potentially offensive acts?  How many votes equal “offensive?”  One?  Over 50%? 

Sample scenario 1:  “You see a manager slap the buttocks of their immediate subordinate.” with a gradient scale of 1 - 10, one being not offended at all and 10 being really, really super offended.  Is 5 “indifferent?”  Or is 5 “don’t know?”

Would you want more details?  Is the hiney smacking a reward for a job well done?  Or a "Go get 'em!" act of confidence instillation? 

Sample scenario 2:  “You witness two employees enter a broom closet together.  Giggling ensues.”  Gradient scale again.  Would you want more details?   

What’s an HR exercise without a role playing exercise?  Volunteers?  We’re all going to sit on our hands, right?  Except, because we worked through 500 different bland, but slightly titillating compounding scenarios leaving us a little uncomfortable in our seats, maybe we’ve already played through this mentally.  Maybe we’ve already fully imagined what it would feel like to be fucking on the conference table while our colleagues look on with their identical clipboards and identical pens.    My legs as wide as they’ll go, a foot in front of Lawyer # 1, the other braced on the chest of our boss my ass to the edge of the middle of the fine mahogany while you slowly thrust in and out, as we make squishy wet noises in the jaw dropped silence of this particular role playing exercise. 

Questions as I smooth my hair and you re-tuck your button down: 

1.  Were you offended by that?  1 - 10. 

2.  If so, why?  Please be as detailed and specific as possible in your answer.  In a rectangular box one inch by seven and a half inches to accommodate the margins on the questionnaire, will those in the room list the act of being forced to watch their colleagues fuck?  You can’t un-see that. Or would it be in the details:  I’m a bit fleshy and you have gray chest hair?  Or that we are both married to other people?  Or the wet squishy noises?  Or that we identify as straight and white and don’t represent the diversity that the next HR with lawyers meeting will address.  How will anyone know specifics of what is exactly offensive? 

Or, should we just play it safe and legal and just assume everything is offensive to someone.  

Except on Thursdays. 

I Scratch Your Back, You Scratch Mine

I finish rinsing and turn off the faucet, the bathroom steamy from my shower, my skin pink from the hot water and scrubbing.  I dry off with the towel from the floor and head upstairs to get ready for the day. You're busy, ironing a shirt, finding socks...until I stop and stand in front of the dresser, naked.  I put both hands on the antique deep walnut top and lean over a little, sticking out my butt, stretching the muscles in the back of my thighs, my body glowing in the light of the lamp that's there.

You notice.  You know what I want.  You come to me and I smile.

You begin right between my shoulder blades your fingernails are trimmed nicely, so you have to really mean it to do damage -- I want some damage.  Scratch my back.  Work in slow circles symmetrically midway down where my bra strap would be, a simultaneous wax on wax off in reverse, and then lower, down the middle of my spine.  Dig a little harder returning to my shoulders, the red now raising to the surface as my itch is temporarily satisfied.  My skin is especially sensitive.  I understand what scratching an itch is simply a distraction to those nerve endings, confusing a needy irritation for a little pain.  

My back is a war wound remembering too much time spent lying on my stomach digging holes in the sand.  Those burns so deeply layered.  My freckles are fond battle scars; homage to the memory of sun worship.  I miss Vitamin D.

Kiss the back of my neck. 

My hands find you behind me...cupping...teasing.

I turn to face you and hold your gaze as I kneel at your feet.   Dirty reverence and adoration given in gratitude at this altar lit in dim morning light. Favor for favor.  

What's Your Plan?

True story:

I'm at a friend couple's going away party at a local pub -- a place I like, but haven't been to that often.  There are a lot of work colleagues and acquaintances there, all drinking and being merry, wishing our friends the very best for the next chapter of their lives as they leave town.  The place is well lit, but not fluorescent or garish -- warm.  It's a nice place; comfortable with fun, mannerly clientele, but not schwanky or snooty.  

I duck out of the party room to get another cider at the bar.  I like cider.  

While I'm standing there, waiting my turn, the guy next to me gives me the once over (psst. we know what you're doing).  Up and down, and stares for a moment.  Long enough for me to give him a look back, expecting some sort of comment or question.   "Do I know you from somewhere?"  Yes, really:  This line.  "No, no, no.   Really!"  He notices my tattoo.  "You have more tattoos, right?  Like all over!"  He swears he knows me, and starts to guess places.  Neighboring suburbs are named.  Places of work.    He seems to have known the person he thinks I am intimately, all be it hazily, as if there was some bumbling, sloppy, drunken sex had on a stairwell somewhere, sometime in the past.  He seems a little embarrassed.

 
At this time, my husband appears next to me to refresh his drink.

 
"Joe,"  He'd introduced himself as "Joe."  "Joe, this is my husband, Tim.  Nice chatting."

  
With my new cider, I make my exit down the bar back toward the party.   Several steps away, a woman tumbles from her seat gently knocking into me as I am passing.  We both apologize; she: for the knocking, me: for being there.   We are good both natured.  I continue on my way and she follows me into the next room.

 
She engages me in conversation.  Her name is "Ingrid" and she wants know what I do for a living.  I explain my job as a Props Master for theatre.   She doesn't seem to understand, exactly, but she thinks she gets it: custom built furniture and puppets and fake food, but NOT for the movies. 

"How do you know Bert and Maggie?" I ask.  Bert and Maggie work in the same business as I do.  Their names are changed to protect the witnesses.

"It's a long story." 

"Oh, ok."  I wonder what that long story is.  Bert and Maggie are not sinister.    Neither is sordid.  A nicer two people have never walked the earth.  How long and seedy could the story be if it couldn't be synopsized into a sentence or two.  Even, "We met when they held me captive for a weekend one summer and I  enjoyed it so much that we keep in touch.  I sure will miss them when they move to Philly." is pretty succinct.  Inquiring minds want to know!!  But I let it go.

 
She told me that I remind her of a friend of hers.  Her friend is married to a tattoo artist -- she has tattoos all over.   I told her that she should go talk to Joe, that he's looking for her friend.  
Again, my husband arrives by my side.  Introductions and a topic of conversation.  I am a butterfly and see another coworker that I need to say hi to. 

A little while later, Maggie asks me who I was talking to.  Quizzical.  "She said it was a long story." 

I’ve been told that this is a scenario for picking up a third for sex.  I didn’t realize this at the time, while I was in the middle of it, but was it?  I’m flattered, but what’s supposed to happen next?  What was your plan Joe and Ingrid?  

Ingrid is chatting me up and I pretend that it’s ok that she’s followed me into the going away party for my friends — after a bit, she confesses that she doesn’t know them.  She was attracted to me.  She wanted to get to know me a little to make sure I wasn’t a serial killer before inviting me to further the conversation with Joe.  Will they confess their scheme with a little apologetic embarrassment and hope I will find it amusing?  Am I open to the adventure of a threesome with them. 

Do they live close by?  Within walking distance?  Am I brave enough to go with them?  Is it their desire to please him?  Ingrid fucking Joe while I straddle his face grinding my pussy into his mouth before turning around, my knees over his shoulders, my head turned to lick his cock when Ingrid rises from her riding. 

Or are we here to please Ingrid?

Or me?

Have I been invited into their bed to add a little spice to their routine?  The added element of my decisions and tastes to mix things up a bit, while they play safely together. Exciting.  Rules laid out between Ingrid and Joe prior to ever meeting me — previous to each one fumbling through the story of my doppelgänger with tattoos all over.  Maybe they work better as a team. 

 

 

I have played the part of a character in someone else’s story.   Thank you Ingrid and Joe.  It’s been fun.

What is it about you?

What is it about you that makes me want to sit on you backwards? Is it the way you look?  You are appealing.  Or the way you speak? You are funny and intelligent. Or that you listen?  You listen.  Or is it your irresistible eye crinkles?  I like those. 

I want to hold you in your seat with my whole body, the inside of my thighs on either side of the outside of yours.  My tits in your face.  My arms 'round your head.  We don't even have to be naked.  But that'd be fun, too.  

If we were naked, I'd want to do more than sit there.  No need for small talk, "Nice weather we're having."  "How about them Braves?" "What is the average air speed velocity of a laden swallow?" 

If we were naked and I were sitting on you backwards; warm, soft skin in full contact, I'd also like you to lick my right nipple -- take your tongue and circle it, then suck it.  Take each of my breasts in your hands and alternate your attention from the right to the left and back again.  Shove both together, no need to be gentle here.  Pull hard and release.  Use your teeth:  the sensation is salacious...titillating...  

While I'm deeply straddled across your legs, your dick wanting attention against my snatch, I'll grind my clit against it -- plowing up and down, giving it pressure as I rut.  Is that dirtier than actually fucking?  Humping my clit on your dick -- forgetting thoughts for a bit -- just the feeling of rude rubbing.  I'll want your cock after I've come.  It's right there.  It's a matter of convenience.  Slide forward a little.   

Maybe it isn't so much about you as it is me.  What is it about me that makes me want to sit on you backwards?