The Artist’s Model

10 min read

photo: MetArtX

She kisses me again and traces a finger down her stomach, leaving a trail of sweat and cum. How could I possibly mind?

I’m walking quickly across the quad with my girlfriend, Sam. We’re on our way to a talk, some famous journalist invited up by one of the societies, and Sam wants to go and see her and I want to spend time with Sam, so… But midway between the chapel and the lecture hall, we bump into her friend, Fleur, who’s reading Fine Art and always has paint on her face or in her hair.

“I need your help,” she says, grabbing Sam by the arm and leaning into her as though what she’s saying is some great conspiracy. But then Fleur always seems to be driven by the dramatic; she makes everything a matter of life and death.

“What?” Sam says. “How can I help? Anything, Fleur. You know you just have to ask.”

“My model left town,” she says. “A family emergency. As if anything’s as important as my final artwork.”

“So how can I help?” Sam asks.

“I need to borrow your boyfriend.”

“You need to borrow… what for?”

“I need to paint him.”

At this point, I interrupt: “Paint me? What do you mean? Like pose for you?”

“Exactly,” says Fleur. “Will you?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Sit in a chair for an hour… Maybe more than an hour…”

I look at Sam. I don’t care. I’d be happy to help out. Fleur’s cool and cute. Sam shrugs. “Sure,” she says, “when do you want him?”

“Now,” she replies. “I need to start tonight.”

The blue and gold clock in the church tower above the quad strikes four. Sam’s late for the talk. “Take him,” she says. “I have to go.” And the two kiss and Sam walks off, looking back at me once with an expression that says be careful.

Fleur kicks off her shoes the moment we get into the studio, says that she always paints in bare feet, before telling me to get undressed, that she is going to paint me naked.

“What? Naked?” I say.

“Yes naked. I have to paint a male nude.”


“Yes, really. It’s not going to be a problem is it?”

She doesn’t bother to let me reply, just gestures to the screen and tells me that I can go behind it to take my clothes off. There’s a robe hanging on an iron hook hammered into the white wall and a wicker table on which to place my clothes. I undress slowly and fold them neatly onto the table and then put on the robe and walk over to the chair in the middle of the room feeling a little self-conscious. Fleur walks up to me and tells me that she’ll take the robe now and could I just sit down normally, like I would sit if I were in my own home. I slide the robe from my shoulders and hand it to her, our fingers brushing across each other as she takes it, carrying it over to the screen and hanging it back on the hook.

She walks back over to the easel and looks at me, paint brush in her hand, eyes squinting. “Not like that,” she says eventually. “I want you to lean back a bit, yes, like that, now turn to face me slightly, can you push that leg back, no, the other one, yes, just like that, and the other extend it so… perfect, and can you open your legs just a little more. Hands on your thighs. Great. Just let me know if you need a break.”

She busies herself with her palette, squeezing oils from creased silver tubes, mixing the colors she needs, and begins to paint. Minutes pass slowly and my mind begins to wander. I stare at her, face pinched in concentration, button nose wrinkled, pink tongue just visible between red lips. It’s hot in her studio, purposefully so because I have to sit naked for however long it is, and her skin is glowing; she has on only a sports bra and her overalls, canvas dungarees covered in old paint; her fine hair is carelessly tied back and she has to keep pushing stray strands off her face. I wonder what she looks like naked and think for a moment about what I would do to her. I wonder if she shaves her pussy like Sam, or just keeps it natural. I don’t care either which way… My right hand slides unconsciously up my thigh, just brushing the tip of my cock which stirs, a slight pulse of blood flushing through it, filling it out. Fleur is painting, focus turned onto the canvas, and hasn’t seen what’s going on with my dick. I try to relax, to stop my cock from swelling, but it’s too late; trying to relax it just makes me focus on it more which makes me feel it more which makes it…

She looks up from painting and her eyes widen.

“Oh,” she says. “Hello.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “It just… I’ll go and get it to calm down.”

My cock is now as hard as it gets; harder, huge.

She purses her lips, staring at me, a slight flush of red at her throat and her cheeks. “I’ve never painted a hard cock before,” she says. “Can you keep it like that?”

“I… I… well, yes,” I say, stumbling over the words. “I might need to… help it every now and again…”

“Try not to move too much,” is all she says, and returns to her canvas.

I look at Fleur, I look down at my cock — a raging hard on — huge and solid, rising from my groin, and she keeps painting, glancing up at my cock with artist’s eyes. I notice that she is studious in avoiding eye contact, never raising her eyes from my cock, which I haven’t had to touch once, almost painfully hard, throbbing under Fleur’s gaze. I know then that there is nothing I want more than to fuck her here in her studio and I start to stroke my cock as I think about it. She sees what I’m doing and this time she raises her eyes to mine and puts down her brush.

“I thought I said not to move too much,” she says, voice a half octave lower than it was.

“I couldn’t help it,” I reply.

She steps out from behind the easel and walks slowly towards me — now her eyes are locked on mine — and as she pads silently across the floor, she unclips the shoulder straps of her paint-strewn dungarees and they slide down her slim body. She steps out of them and continues to walk towards me and her small briefs are dotted with the unmistakable stain of her wetness. She turns around and peels them down her long legs, bending over as she does, inviting me to explore her ass and pussy.

I can’t help myself: “Jesus, Fleur, you are so fucking wet,” I breathe, having traced the tips of my fingers between her pussy lips, now putting them in my mouth to taste her juices.

“I’ve been staring at your cock for half an hour,” she says. “It’s been quite a turn on.” And she reaches around to grab the shaft, sitting herself back on me, guiding the fat head of my cock between her labia and into the heat and tightness of her soaking pussy.

“Oh, god,” I groan, shaking as she slides down on my cock, her sugar walls caressing its bulging length until her ass is pressed against me and my cock is in her to the hilt. I kiss into her shoulder blades while she reaches around her back to pull her bra up over her head, and I kiss at the side of her neck, my hands now at her breasts—pulling and squeezing at her nipples until they harden and she squirms under my touch—before sliding them down her stomach, between her thighs to her clit, rubbing and rolling it, while she leans back into me gripping my dick with her glorious vagina. She sits forwards off me and begins to bob up and down on my cock, while I spread my legs and grip the edges of the chair, delirious at the sight of Fleur’s ass, the muscles in her back and shoulders, the deep curve of her spine, and she begins to moan; each time she sinks down onto my dick she lets out a little whimper of pleasure, which gets louder and louder as I feel her pussy tightening around my cock. She lies back into me — her skin now slick with sweat in the heat of the room and our fucking — and I reach down again for her clit, slippery and engorged, frigging it with fast fingers while she grinds her ass into me. Her moans are becoming cries, and her pussy contracts around my dick, which I push up into her as she cums, trembling and shaking, her back pushed into me, twisting her head and seeking my mouth with hers.

I have one hand running across her breasts, nipples now shiveringly sensitive under my fingers, while my other continues to torment her clit, teasing her pussy still clamped around my cock. I can feel her building to another climax, reaching down to my hand to try and stop my from playing with her clit which only makes me want to do it more.

“Oh, please,” she says. “Oh, oh, oh.” Another wave of orgasm crashes over her and she arches her back into my chest, juices flooding my cock and soaking the seat. I hold her close, both of us breathing heavily, until she peels herself off me and slowly stands, sliding my cock from her. She turns around, places one slender palm flat against my chest and the other tight around my cock, and she bends in to kiss me, her tongue like a spear tip, flashing into my mouth in time to her hand sliding up and down the length of my dick until I’m the one who’s moaning and gasping and begging her to stop.

She relents just as I’m about to pop, stepping back from me, my chest rising and falling, breathing ragged, my lips wet from her kisses and my dick wet from her juices and my own sticky precum now beading at the tip. She smiles down at me, a look of satisfaction at the state she’s got me in — ridiculously hot and horny — before bending at the hips and tracing her tongue across the tip of my cock, wild, laughing eyes locked on mine, sliding me between her lips. I groan and shift on the seat as she starts sucking and slurping at my cock, her hands playing under my balls, her tongue writhing against the bulging underside of my cock, head bobbing back and forth, lips tight around my shaft. She grips my dick with both hands and begins to focus on sucking just the head, her tongue teasing the slit and sensitive underside of the glans, her hands running up and down its length, faster and faster, all the muscles in my body tightening as my orgasm builds and she can feel it, and hear it in my shallow breathing and increasingly desperate moans. My balls contract and I feel cum start to boil up my cock, suddenly spurting into Fleur’s mouth, falling from her lips and dripping down my dick, her hands still sliding up and down the now cum-soaked shaft.

“Oh, fuck,” I gasp, “Fleur… Oh, fuck.” As her mouth leaves my cock, my cum and her saliva string from bee-stung lips, running down her chin. She wipes it into the palm of one hand and runs it up and down my dick, the last pulses of cum oozing from the tip as she does, and she leans in to kiss me again, pushing her tongue past my lips. I force myself to stand on unsteady legs, pulling her to me — her fist still squeezing the last drops of cum from me — before turning her around and sitting her down on the chair, all the while our lips locked together, our tongues wrestling in each other’s mouth, the taste of my cum driving us both wild. I start to kiss down her body, reclined on the chair, down to her nipples, kissing and teasing and biting them to painful hardness while one hand plays at her pussy, dipping a finger or two into her, relishing the slippery wetness and the moans escaping her mouth.

I kiss down her stomach, quivering and tightening as my tongue traces across it, past her belly button, down towards her pussy, and I place my hands on her inner thighs and spread her legs. But I don’t touch her pussy — though I can feel its heat and smell her arousal, the deep base notes of her musk bringing my dick back to life like an elixir. Instead I kiss and bite at her thighs and hip bones, at the soft flesh around her pussy, tormenting both of us, her breathing becoming shallower and faster until I can’t bear it any longer and I begin to kiss at her pussy, my lips clamped around her clit, sucking on it while my tongue traces mysterious lines and patterns across its delicate, swollen tip. As I hear her moans quickening and getting louder I stop sucking on her clit and now run my tongue against her pussy, a long slow licking, bottom to top, top to bottom, over and over while my fingers trace across the skin of her inner thighs, and play across her stomach.

My cock is now hard again, swinging between my legs, and I have to fight the urge to stand up and drive it into her, keeping up the tongue lashing that I can feel and hear is driving Fleur crazy. I push a finger into her, her sopping pussy squeezing around it, then a second, returning to sucking on her clit as I finger fuck her faster and faster and her cries build louder and louder until she starts to cum, a long, powerful orgasm that possesses every fibre of her, her body bow-tight, her cries feral, hips bucking upwards as she grips my hair and pulls me into her.

She calms eventually, finally, and her fingers release me but now it’s time to fuck her and I stand, bend to kiss her and at the same time as my mouth meets hers, I push my cock into her, sliding its length slowly between those velvet walls, both of us shivering at the sensation. I am hunched over her as she sits on the chair, her legs now wrapped around me as I bury my cock in her, fucking her with long slow strokes, her face inches from mine, our eyes locked together. I can feel her pussy creaming around my cock as I push into her, feel her building to another climax and I quicken my strokes, leaning back off her and holding her ankles tightly, spreading her legs wide, my dick now slamming into her, the slap of our bodies and our rhythmic, desperate breathing the only sounds in the studio.

She starts to cum, screaming and bucking, her hands gripping the sides of the chair as I pound her pussy until with a ragged cry, I pull myself from her and cum across her stomach, and she grabs the shaft and squeezes as I buck my hips, watching as my cum splashes across her body and runs through her fingers. I fall to my knees exhausted and she sits forward in the chair and we kiss as though we are drowning, me looking up at her while she combs wild fingers through my soaking hair.

“Best model ever,” she says finally, when we are both able to talk once more.

“Thanks,” I say. “It was more fun than I thought it would be.”

“Can you sit for me tomorrow? I didn’t get everything I wanted on the canvas.”

“I bet you didn’t,” I laugh. “And yes, I can sit for you again.”

“I have a couple of girlfriends who I know need to do a nude before the end of the semester. I’ll invite them, too.”


“If you don’t mind?”

She kisses me again and traces a finger down her stomach, leaving a trail of sweat and cum. How could I possibly mind?

Read more stories here:

Leave a Reply