The Best Erotic Stories.

Laura
by Simone LaFleur

I have never considered myself to be bisexual because by far, the majority of my relationships have been with men. And even though I have been intimate with several women, there has only been one who I truly desired. Even now I wonder if my feelings for her weren't simply the result of my newly awakening sexuality.

She was a nude model in my college drawing class. Other than fleeting glances at other girls in gym-class showers, I'd never really looked at a nude woman before, let alone looked at one for several hours at a time while drawing her. Drawing a person, forces you to look -- to really look -- to see the curves and the shadows, the texture of skin and hair, and the suppleness of muscle over bone. At first I was so unbearably uncomfortable with looking, so embarrassed by my own curiosity, that I would look furtively, quickly trying to imprint her image in my mind and drawing from that. I would look again only when the image began to fade beyond my grasp.

She would hold many different poses during the three-hour class -- some as directed by the teacher and others of her own choosing. Poses were held for a short time or for as long as half an hour. She would drape herself languidly on a chaise lounge, or she would straddle a chair backwards, her head cradled in her arms. Sometimes she would simply stand in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around herself, or raised and clasped behind her neck. There was nothing overt in her poses, she seemed totally at ease with her body and with the showing of it. I came to look forward to these different views. She was absolutely beautiful -- tall and lithe, with honey golden skin, curly mahogany hair, and deep brown eyes. She was much more womanly than I felt myself to be -- at 28 her body had a lushness that my much younger body lacked.

My desire for her didn't come upon me quickly, nor without resistance on my part, but surfaced slowly as the weeks passed. When I felt the first stirrings, I became unbearably self-conscious, thinking someone else in the room -- the professor, the other students, she -- somehow knew. I was absolutely mortified by this thought. But by then, I needed to capture her beauty on paper, so I kept looking and drawing. And I began to look more closely, more intently. I didn't know how to handle the feelings that arose within me from what I was seeing -- the way the shape of her breasts would change when her nipples hardened in the chill of the room; the dense thickness of her pubic hair, hiding her secret pink folds; the way her shoulder blades jutted out a bit on either side of her perfectly aligned back bone; the deep dimples at the top of her buttocks, whose only purpose seemed to be the visual pleasure of anyone who was drawing that view of her.

One had to look closely to see a glimpse of anything beneath the darkness at the juncture of her thighs, and I did begin to look closely, feeling the intimacy of my thoughts as I did so. When she changed positions I sometimes moved my easel for a better view, as did others. With each pose I anticipated seeing something new, something finally revealed. I wondered if she was aware of my thoughts, of our thoughts, as we looked at her -- the others, the professor, myself. Did she imagine that most of the men lusted after her body? I could see it in their eyes. Did they see it in mine? Did she?

We usually took a break midway through the class. She would put on a blue terry cloth robe, get a cup of coffee, and wander around the room looking at our drawings. Her reactions were somewhat guarded, though she would sometimes smile. Occasionally she would even compliment a student on a particular drawing. She seemed more comfortable interacting with the women in the class, though there were few of us. After a while, she began to look at my drawings during nearly every break and at the end of class, sometimes asking if she could flip through them. I stood beside her, acutely aware of her nearness, hoping she wouldn't notice my nervousness, yet wanting her to be pleased with my drawings, needing for her to see how I saw her.

About ten minutes before class ended her boyfriend would show up to give her a ride home. He would stand near the doorway of the studio and watch her in her last pose. There was an intensity about him that made me nervous. He made no secret of his possessiveness -- his look and body language made it clear to all the males in the room that she was his and his alone, in case there was any doubt. I sometimes saw what I thought was a look of desire reflected in his eyes, and when I did, it bothered me. That was a completely foreign emotion for me. It was as if I were a different person when I was in that room, looking at her, drawing her, and resenting his intrusion.

I heard that she also modeled several nights a week for the art professors. At 18, all the professors, ages 35 to 50, seemed nearly ancient. I remember thinking of them as voyeurs, who no doubt arranged her in all kinds of lewd positions that had nothing to do with art and everything to do with looking. I wondered if she felt that way. And if so, did she like it?

At the end of every week we pinned our drawings on the wall for a critique by the professor. I cringed at this exercise, as I felt certain that, if not obvious enough individually, when displayed together my drawings might reveal my most hidden secret. Wrapped in her robe, her boyfriend at her side, she would often stay and listen to the comments. After one of these critiques her boyfriend approached me as I was taking my sketches down and asked if I would consider selling him several of my drawing. I stammered and responded that I didn't know what I would sell them for, not thinking that my sketches could be of any real value to anyone other than myself, and suddenly realizing that I didn't want to part with a single one, and especially not to him. He told me to think about it and we would talk again.

As the semester continued, I had become much more comfortable with her near presence. As she looked over my drawings we began to talk. She asked me how long I'd been an artist and what my plans were after college? She commented how much she thought my drawings had become since the beginning of the semester. I'm sure I must have blushed at her compliment. She wanted to know if I had decided to sell some of them to her boyfriend? I said I wasn't sure, but wanted to say that I would give her several of the drawings if she wanted them.

I asked her how long she had been modeling? How had she started? Was it difficult to hold a pose? She smiled, saying three years, and yes, at times it was hard to hold the longer poses.

Then she asked if I'd like to have a cup of coffee together after class sometime. I said sure, I would like that very much. She said what about that evening? I nodded, my voice in my throat.

 

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