A Painted Lady

Professor Andersen was a short, stout man who's salt and pepper hair had fled from the top of his head. His cheeks were round and slightly pink and his nose rather too large for his face. In his tweed jacket, anyone who looked at him might have guessed he was a professor. No one would have ever guessed he was an artist.

"Now, if you'll turn to page three of the course outline, you'll see the year's projects. I want four original works, one still life, one portrait, one scenery, and one nude. I'm not a stickler for when you hand them in, but they must all be in before the final marks due date April."

Most of the students thumbed through the outline, reading the marks guide intently. Mark distractedly doodled on his outline, tracing what might have been a sun, then sketching the outline of a face in the center of it, listening to the Professor elaborating on the system he'd be using for grading Fine Arts - Painting 404.

Mark had slightly wild black hair that he'd worn in a number of different styles over his six years in University. In his torn and faded jeans and black t-shirt, it wouldn't have been a stretch for anyone to see him as an artist, though he was more athletic than most of the class. Mark had worked as a bouncer at the campus club for the last two years to help pay for his books and expenses.

Mark had struggled in his first two years at the University, struggling with Economics and then bouncing to Geography. He hadn't been able to be passionate about either. Finally, at the end of his third year, he'd gathered up his courage and submitted a few samples of his paintings to the Fine Arts Facility. They were impressed enough to allow him to switch his major a third time, practically beginning all over again.

"Umm, professor..." a nervous voice said from behind Mark. He looked over his shoulder. A thin girl named Carol, with mousy brown hair back in a bun and thick black rimmed glasses, had raised her hand. "I have a question about the outline?"

"What is it Carol?" Professor Andersen replied calmly. In a faculty as small as Fine Arts, people tended to know each other.

"What if we can't find someone for the nude?" Carol began with a blush. She was shy. Mark had tried to get her to come out of her shell at a faculty party. It hadn't worked.

Andersen chuckled. "Well, Carol, there's a bunch of students in this class who need a model too. You can help each other out. You're not shy are you?"

A low rumble of chuckles was the answer. Mark smirked to himself, tapping the ends of his pencil on the outline sheet, drumming away distractedly.

"In all seriousness, I usually hire a model to sit for the class on three occasions. If you want to work independently, or if you miss those sittings, you're on your own, but we'll compare schedules and it shouldn't be a problem."

There was a general murmur of assent, and then Andersen clapped his hands together. "Well, that's all I wanted to cover. Dismissed for the day. We'll reconvene next Thursday for the seminar conversation on the Surrealists. Remember, participation does count."

With the professor's dismissal, there was the hum of motion as people began to gather their belongings and leave for the day. Mark stuffed his own outline into his bag and hopped up. He always sat near the back and with a quick step he was out for the day.

-----

The Underground, the student pub, was quiet that Friday. Mark leaned back against post, surveying the line idly as his friend Tony checked the driver's licenses of two Frat Boys to make sure that they were legal to enter. Mark looked down the line, which was remarkably sedate.

"What event is this again?" Mark asked Tony idly.

"Drama club," Tony grunted in reply as he nodded the two frat boys through. "They're celebrating the launch of their annual play."

"Oh," Mark said, looking down the line. Things were shaping up to be a dull night. "Lot of frat boys though," he remarked.

"Yeah," Tony affirmed. "I think one of the sororities has some girls in the cast, so..."

Mark shrugged. He turned slightly to peer into the club, looking over the main room. The dance floor was lifeless, except for a circle of kids in baggy clothing who were talking amongst themselves. Mark figured them for crew. A few more people were hanging around the bar.

"Hey, who's that?" Mark asked suddenly, his eyes caught on a tall blonde at the pool tables.

Tony leaned back, poking his head in the door. "Dunno," he answered. "Nice ass though."

Mark couldn't help but agree. The tall blonde did have a remarkably nice posterior. She wasn't quite thin enough to be called slender, but she was well toned with shapely legs and a narrow waist. Mark could tell she was into fitness. Her curves, on the other hand, were just short of buxom, with a chest that showed even through a loose blazer and a round rump. Her hair was pale as platinum and up in a French twist at the back of her head. She had a pert nose and full mouth, with high cheek bones illustrating piercing arctic blue eyes.

What really caught Mark's attention, though, was her style. Most of the girls around The Underground either dressed in miniskirts and knee high leather boots that screamed "Fuck me!" or else baggy sweaters and jeans or pajama pants that screamed "I just got out of bed." The platinum haired girl, on the other hand, wore nicely fitted black slacks that showed off her generous length of leg and gorgeous behind. Her white blouse was low cut enough to allow for a peek of cleavage whenever she bent over the pool table, but she had tossed on a stylish black blazer jacket that added respectability. She looked classy and sleek without being preppy.

After a moment of staring, Mark tapped Tony's shoulder. "Hey, I'm going to go over and introduce myself," Mark told his partner.

"Good hunting, bro," Tony replied. "I got your back."

Mark began to cross over to the pool table. Suddenly, a sharp smash of glass came from behind him. He turned and saw Evan, another bouncer, motioning for him to come to the side room.

A couple of the frat boys had been in a drinking competition and had smashed their beer bottles on the floor. Evan and Mark hustled them out of the pub, and then cleaned up the mess.

By the time Mark got back to the main room, the girl was gone.

-----

Mark dashed up the stairs to the Fine Arts building. He ran through the halls towards the gallery room. A couple of his classmates were coming out and leaving. Mark ducked inside, breathing heavily.

A massive man was in the center of the room. He would have towered over Mark and he was heavy with muscle. He was only wearing his jeans, but he was tugging a t-shirt on as well.

"Well, well," a voice joked to Mark. "I'm beginning to think you don't want to paint Mr. Santos."

"Professor Andersen!" Mark exclaimed. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I got caught up in a study group."

Andersen nodded sympathetically. "Well, I think you've missed this sitting as well."

Mark groaned. Between two late shifts at work and his study group, he'd missed all three sittings for the nude. "Is there any chance I can get him to stay a couple minutes more?" Mark said, jerking his thumb at Santos.

Santos hiked his gym bag over his shoulder and was striding up the aisle towards the exit. "Sorry, dude," he rumbled at Mark. "But I got to get to my practice." With that, the huge man lumbered out.

Mark groaned again. "Is there any chance I can get another sitting?" he asked Andersen desperately.

"Now, you know Mark, I've only got a limited budget for these things," Professor Andersen replied dourly. "I can hardly get enough for a fourth sitting for one student."

Mark sighed. The chronic shortage of funds suffered by the Fine Arts program was a topic that every professor had discussed as long as he'd been there. "So what am I going to do?"

"Well, if you'd like, I can pass you Mr. Santos' phone number and you can arrange something independently," Professor Andersen suggested, "Or you can try putting an ad in the school paper."

Mark winced. He really didn't want to paint Santos naked. "I'll try the paper."

-----

Getting an ad in the school paper had proved impossible. The editor had refused because of the paper's strict no adult content policy. He had only allowed Mark's ad to go in as a tiny box on the second to last page, without mentioning nudity. The few applicants he had gotten had refused the second he told them he'd need them to take off their clothes.

Mark had thought about putting up hand bills around the campus, but those needed to be approved by the Student Council. The Student Council was just as adamant about refusing adult content. It wasn't until they received a personal call from both Professor Andersen and the Dean of the Faculty of Fine Arts that they had finally grudgingly agreed to allow Mark to put up one ad sheet in the student lounge in the Fine Arts Building.

After a week, Mark's only response had been a joke e-mail from Tony and Evan. Mark was beginning to get desperate as the deadline loomed closer. He was beginning to seriously consider calling Santos.

Then, finally, he got a little note in his e-mail that read, "Hey, if you're still looking for someone, I'd be willing to help. Sam."

Mark sighed with relief as he shot back a quick response. "Sam, I'm still looking for someone. Let's meet up to talk about it. Mark."

After a brief exchange of e-mails, Sam had agreed to come over to Mark's apartment to meet him in person, and if the terms were right, sit for the painting.

-----

Mark paced about his apartment, rearranging his things and cleaning up the clutter. His apartment was a bachelor's loft. A freight elevator was the main access, aside from the locked door to the stair well. In one corner, he had set up his couch, love seat, and a small television. Near there, he had his bed. His kitchen was a small aside separated by an island. The rest of his apartment was barren except for a few of his paintings that he'd hung.

Fortunately, his loft's west wall was comprised of floor to ceiling windows. In the winter they made the place absurdly chilly. But they let in tons of light and gave Mark a view of some amazing sunsets.

Mark moved to the island, setting up a bottle of wine and two glasses. Suddenly, the intercom buzzed. He paced over to it, pressing the button. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's Sam," a tinny voice replied from the small speaker. Mark pressed the door button.

A few minutes later, the elevator rattled up to his apartment. Mark went and unlatched the wooden slats, helping Sam lift them.

"Hello," Sam replied in a low, throaty voice that was soft as velvet.

Mark blinked, almost gasping. It was her, the blonde from the Underground. Today she wore a beige sweat of soft cashmere that hugged her curves and an ankle length black skirt. In her black high heels, she was actually taller than Mark, though he thought she'd be an inch or two shorter than him barefoot.

"Hello," Mark stammered back.

A slow smile curved Sam's full lips upwards. She extended her hand to him. "I'm Samara. A pleasure to meet you in person."

Mark blinked, taking her hand and squeezing it lightly in greetings. Her skin was soft and warm. "Mark. Please come in."

She slipped past him, her heels clicking on his hardwood floor as she stepped over to the loveseat, turning and sweeping her skirt underneath her as she sat. The swaying of her hips was almost hypnotic. Mark followed after her, taking the seat across from her on the couch.

Mark reached down and pulled out his course outline, setting it on the coffee table between them. Samara raised her eyebrow quizzically. Mark felt almost like blushing. "The project list, just so you know this is on the level," he told her.

Samara gave him another slow, mysterious smile, and then looked down at the outline, reading it. Mark continued, a bit apologetically, "I can only pay one hundred dollars for the sitting..." he began.

Samara gave a low laugh, light and musical. "How long will the sitting take?" she murmured. Her voice was soft as feathers, so he had to lean in slightly to hear her.

"Just today, I'm hoping," Mark replied, and then grinned slightly. "I don't want to lose the light."

Samara nodded and then smiled. "That sounds fine..." she began.

Mark bounded to his feet. "Would you like a glass of wine?" he asked, striding over to the island to pour two glasses.

Samara laughed softly and shrugged. "Alright," she said, then took the glass that he offered her, sipping it. "So what's involved in this?"

"Well," Mark began slowly. "Basically, if you're comfortable, you'll move around the loft, try to find something that feels right. I'll take a quick picture of it for reference, and then sketch it. Once we have a sketch that works, I'll paint that sketch."

"I see," Samara said, sipping her wine again. "And I have to be... nude?"

"Yes," Mark said, bracing himself. He felt sure that this would be wear she'd walk out. He considered for a moment telling her to keep her clothes on until they were past the sketch stage, but hesitate for a minute, feeling tongue tied.

"Alright," Samara murmured, finishing her glass of wine in a gulp and slowly standing up.

Mark blinked. "Alright?" he said, a bit surprised.

Samara nodded, beginning to tug up her sweater, showing a flash of her firm tummy. "Oh, but I get to keep the painting and what not."

Mark shook his head. "Well, I've got to keep submit the painting for marking."

"That's fine," Samara preempted him. "But when you get it back." She grinned suddenly, which surprised him a bit. She looked surprisingly mischievous, which was at odds with her refined image. "I don't want any compromising pictures of myself floating around later in life."

Mark chuckled and then nodded. "That's cool. I can give you the pictures and I'll give you the painting once it's marked. But I keep the sketches. I don't want my sketches floating around either."

Samara paused thoughtfully, and then gave him a radiant smile. "Okay, I can accept that."

With that, she began to slide up her sweat, pulling it off over her head. A small golden stud piercing shone in her navel. Her bra was thin black lace that bounced with the sway of her breasts as she folded the sweater and laid it over the arm of the loveseat.

Mark blinked, watching her form. "You're ready?" he asked a bit numbly.

Samara nodded as reached down to fiddle with her skirt, slowly rolling it down her round hips and slender thighs. It fluttered down her legs and pooled at her feet. She stood, reaching behind her to the clasp of her bra.

Mark felt his pulse starting to race as she undressed. He stared at her bare hips and licked his lips. "No panties?"

Samara paused briefly and shrugged. "No, I never wear them." Then she shrugged again, pushing her bra forward down her slender arms and dropping it over the arm of the love seat. Her breasts were full and round, but surprisingly firm. She stepped out of the puddle of her skirt, her heels clicking, and then paused. "Shoes too?"

Mark smiled and nodded a bit sheepishly. "Yes, please."

Samara quickly slipped her feet out of her heels. She was about 5'10" in bare feet, two inches shorter then Mark, just as he'd guessed. She picked up her glass and padded over to the island. Her behind was surprisingly firm, but bounced with her steps in a way that Mark found incredibly sexy. "May I have another glass of wine?" she asked softly.

Mark nodded swiftly. "Of course." She poured herself a glass and began to sip it. Realizing he hadn't touched his own yet, Mark downed his wine and picked up his camera, pressing the on button as he watched her.

"Digital?" she asked him, nodding to his camera. Mark nodded. "Odd," Samara remarked, padding about the loft, curious as a kitten, sipping her wine periodically.

Mark snapped a shot of her as she looked over his kitchen. "Why odd?"

"I would have thought you for a Polaroid kind of guy," she replied with an impish smile that made her cheeks dimple. She padded back towards the center of his apartment.

Mark grinned, and then snapped another shot of her, catching the sway of her breasts as she lifted her wine glass. "Well, I was, but I found Digital's a lot simpler and neater."

"Aaah..." Samara said, setting the wine glass down on the coffee table. She padded along the length of his loft.

Mark watched her for a minute. "Could you let your hair down?" he requested.

"Of course," Samara replied, running her hand through her platinum hair, freeing it. It fell around her face like a soft frame, spilled across her shoulders and down her back, to just above her buttocks. She ran her fingers through her hair, shifting the silky mass of it as she straightened it. Mark snapped another shot, looked at his camera and then barked, "Wait, there!"

Samara paused briefly, eyes widening at his sudden tone.

Mark nodded. "Can you hold that pose?"

Samara blinked, and then tossed her head again, twining her slender fingers in her hair. "Like this?"

"Yes..." Mark said, pulling out his sketch pad. "That's one I want to sketch." He padded over to sit on the floor, settling the pad on his lap and tapping it with his graphite pencil. He looked over her pose critically, comparing it with the one he had captured on the digital camera.

"Could you bend your knee a bit, just like you were about to take a step?" She did, her foot whispering across the hard wood as she changed her stance.

Now, a small half turn towards me. Perfect. Could you move your elbow out wide?" Samara complied, slipping her elbow away to uncover her body, leaving her breasts and navel exposed.

"Beautiful," Mark murmured, staring at the camera frame, than looking up at the platinum woman before him. "Arch your back a bit... now, tilt your chin up and your head back a bit..."

Samara obediently followed his instructions, arching her back so her full breasts were even more prominent, then tossing her head back, showing the length of a swan's neck. Mark paused, then feeling a bit adventurous, he whispered, "Now slide your foot just a touch forward..."

Samara did, still balancing on her back foot. As she slid her forward foot out a bit, her thighs parted, ever so slightly, to reveal her bare shaven sex and the slight flash of pink skin.

"Good," Mark said, feeling flushed and hot as he began to sketch, his pencil whispering across the paper. He traced the curves of her long legs, then the roundness of his hips. He brushed her navel, penciling in her breasts. "Relax your face," he whispered, in a voice soft enough to avoid disturbing the intimacy of their moment. "Close your eyes slightly, and part your lips, just a touch."

And she did, her full lower lip trembling open a bit. Her expression was almost rapturous, like she had just risen from bed with a passionate lover. With the thin stick of graphite, Mark outlined the shape of her face, the delicate arch of her eyebrows and the sensuous expression.

Their moment stretched on, silently except for the scratch of his pencil. She was still as a statue, except for the slow rise and fall of her breasts. After an eternity, Mark murmured, almost worshipfully, "Got it."

Samara blinked slowly, relaxing her stance. "So now what?" she whispered back to him, voice no louder than his had been. She was breathing heavily, and her soft skin had been tickled by a faint blush.

Mark shrugged. "Try other poses?" he suggested encouragingly.

Samara nodded with a slight flush. She relaxed and padded over to the brick wall. She put her hands on it, tossing her head and looking over her shoulder at him. He picked up his camera and snapped the frame. After a moments pause, she padded towards the tall windows, looking out.

"Be careful," Mark warned her, playfully. "We're only on the second floor; people on the street might look up."