Artist and Model

I met the artist in a gallery where she was sketching based on some works on display. She was tall, with dark hair that reached her shoulders and was dressed in black, with a short skirt, a turtleneck, tights, and boots.

Her work intrigued me, and I stopped for a moment to watch her draw. She did not seem distracted by my presence. By chance, we went out at the same time, and that previous, implied familiarity prompted me to invite her for coffee. I don't usually do this kind of thing, but in that case, I felt compelled to know more about her. I am always attracted to artists and creativity. Smiling, she said yes. "But I only have ten minutes," she added. I understood that she was setting a limit, but I had no problem accepting it.

In the end, she stayed longer than ten minutes. We talked about the exhibition, about her work. She was attending an art school in the city center. Half joking and half curious, I asked her if they also did nude studies. She answered yes, they used both women and men as models. It was her turn to joke, and she asked if I was interested in that kind of work.

The conversation was taking an unexpected turn. I replied that perhaps I could have been a model many years ago but was too old now. She replied that in drawing the human body an artist does not look for perfection, but for imperfections and variations. I told her that I wasn't sure I understood what she meant, that art was about beauty for me, but that if she wanted, I was ready to pose for her. I said it as if I wanted to continue the joke, but she looked at me with a serious and concentrated expression. For a moment I felt under scrutiny; then she smiled and said she had to go, we said goodbye, and I asked her to WhatsApp me in case she had any good exhibitions to suggest or to let me know when she would do one of her own.

Two weeks passed. Her message came one Wednesday evening, completely unexpected, when I had already completely forgotten about her.

She asked me if I would be willing to pose for her the following Saturday afternoon. The fee would be fifty euros.

"Should I pose nude?"

"Sure."

"I'm old and have a bit of a belly."

"That's the guy I'm looking for. "

Her proposal made me curious and excited me at the same time. It was something new, something I had never done before. I was a retired executive now working occasionally as a business consultant, certainly not a model. It was hard for me to imagine myself posing nude in an artist's studio, especially a young woman like her.

"Have you decided?" she insisted, after a few minutes in which I had not replied.

"Fine," I replied, " but you don't need to pay me."

"It's a job and I will pay you. Also to make sure you take it seriously."

Of course, for her this was no longer a joke, but part of her studies.

She sent me the address of her flat and I promised to be there the following Saturday at two in the afternoon.

The day arrived and I began to feel slightly nervous about undressing under the eyes of a young woman I had only met once.

I took a shower and looked at myself naked in the mirror. I thought I should exercise more, lose some fat, and have a more presentable body, but it was too late. I am not very hairy, but some of my body hair seemed a bit haphazardly distributed. I wondered if I should shave, maybe shave my pubis. In the end, I decided that this was not what she wanted.

I realized that choosing clothes to wear was even more delicate than when I went on a date. I opted for a style that was simple and classic at the same time: white underwear, a white shirt, and blue jeans, over a blazer. Easy to remove, I thought, smiling.

Her flat was in an aging building on the outskirts of town, not unlike other similar apartment blocks.

She let me in quickly and greeted me in her work suit, blue, paint-stained mechanic's overalls. When she saw me, she smiled.

"You came."

"It was a commitment, and the pay is good," I replied, trying to hide my anxiety.

The front door opened directly onto a rather large living room that she had converted into her studio. There were canvases, easels, pictures against the wall, and a long wooden table to the left. A door near the entrance opened onto the kitchen, and another on the opposite side probably led to the bathroom and bedroom. Natural light flooded the room through large windows.

A stool was already positioned in the middle of the room, with an easel right in front of it. I took a few steps into the room and looked around.

She suddenly became serious.

"Get undressed and sit on the stool. You can lay your clothes on the sofa." Only then I noticed a worn burgundy sofa pushed against one of the walls.

Suddenly I wished I could undress elsewhere, but I dared not ask. Feeling her eyes on me, I took off my clothes and, without daring to look at her, walked over to the stool and sat down.

"Aren't you a little old to be shy?"

"I...," I looked up at her but didn't know what to say.

"You don't need to talk. Just do as I say."

"Yes," I replied.

I could see she was looking at me slowly, assessing my body. I felt a strong desire for her to like me, and for her to acknowledge it, but she didn't say anything.

By putting myself in a position slightly inclined to her, and holding my thighs a little high, I managed to hide my penis from her view. She did not object.

She began to draw some sketches, without saying anything. After a while, she stood up and put her hand on my belly.

"You have a strange shape as if you were wearing a life jacket."

I blushed. "Is that a problem?"

"No, I'm just noticing," she commented, releasing her grip and returning to the easel.

I could see the sheets of paper piling up at her feet. She would sketch a part of my body, then remove the paper and drop it, then move on to the next. Sometimes she was immediately dissatisfied, other times she spent more time sketching.

From time to time she would give short orders, asking me to make certain movements with my hands, or with my head and legs. If, after a while, I felt the need to move on my own, she would get impatient and ask me to hold the position.

After about forty minutes she stood up, walked over to me, and spread my legs.

"You have a beautiful penis," she said professionally.

I felt obliged to thank her.

"It's neither too big nor too small. Your foreskin is a bit strange, though. It's so... abundant as if you were a grown child."

"When I was younger, I thought about circumcising myself, but I never did it."

"And why would you have wanted to do it?"

"I don't know, it was slightly painful to retract the skin".

The conversation ended there, and she continued drawing.

About fifteen minutes later, without looking up from the canvas, she turned to me again.

"I must see your erect penis."

"I should... mastur... bar...te?" I asked, uncertain and shocked.

"I didn't ask you to masturbate, only to have your penis erect," she replied, in a flat, emotionless tone.

"It is the only way I know how to make my penis erect."

"Then masturbate," she ordered.

I took it with my left hand but hesitated again.

"What is it?" she asked, a little irritated.

I looked at her, trying to intercept her gaze, but she was busy drawing and didn't let any emotion show.

What is it?" she insisted, annoyed.

"No problem," I finally replied and began to shake my cock.

I quickly achieved a good erection.

"Take your hand away, I didn't ask you to ejaculate."

"I didn't mean to..."

"Shut up. Touch your penis when you feel it going limp. You're here to model, not play. I need your hard cock, keep it that way and stay focused."

"Yes!" I replied. Suddenly the word 'cock' sounded brutal in her mouth.

For a while, I kept touching myself from time to time to satisfy her request while she drew.

The drawings kept piling up at her feet, in some, I could see the elongated outline of the shaft of my penis, perhaps next to an outline of my face.

"Stand still and turn sideways, I want to take your cock in profile."

I followed her orders. I was facing the window with no curtains. "Did you get distracted? The cock went limp soft."

"Sorry..."

Indeed, the idea that someone might be in the other building had distracted me, so quickly I began to masturbate to recover my erection.

Some more time passed in silence.

"OK, we can stop for now. Would you make me a tea? There's a kettle in the kitchen, boil some water, and take a tea bag from the tray on the table. The cup is above the sink."

I turned to her, but she was busy working on her drawings, not noticing me.

I silently moved to the kitchen and began to prepare her tea. As I waited for the water to boil, I began to think about the strange situation I was in. I was naked, in the kitchen of a girl I hardly knew and who paid little attention to me, at least to my feelings. My bare feet touched the cold tiles, expressing an even stronger feeling of nakedness.

I was not just a model; I was submitting as if she owned me.

I didn't think this was normal, I mean I didn't think this was what happened between the painter and the model. Or maybe it did happen, but usually, the model was a woman and the painter a man. I could imagine a situation where I was sitting in the living room, busy, and she was here, naked, making a drink for me.

She was beautiful and certainly had a slender, supple body beneath that shapeless jumpsuit. The thought excited me, but then the whistle of the kettle woke me from that reverie, and I found myself naked in the kitchen.

I picked up the cup, put the tea bag in it, and poured the hot water. I moved to the living room and served her. She accepted the cup, smiling.

I did not know if I should sit down. Maybe I should have asked for permission. The submission that had arisen from that situation was suddenly more ingrained than I had thought.

So I stood while she sipped her tea, absorbed in her thoughts.

"We'll continue in a moment," she said, looking up at me.

"Take your time," I replied.

"Is that what you were expecting?" she asked. I sensed a tinge of irony in her words.

"I'm not sure, I was just curious... I found you... attractive."

Suddenly this felt like guilt, which would not go unpunished.

"You thought you were going to fuck me?"

Her language had become more brutal.

"No!" I replied immediately.

"I believe you," she said.

"Why are you standing? You can also sit down and relax."

I sat down next to her, a naked middle-aged man next to a clothed young woman. The room suddenly seemed colder, and my nipples became harder. Her hand suddenly rested on my thigh. I felt that I was a kind of pet to her. I chased away all thoughts of the meaning of that gesture as if I were afraid of bringing bad luck. However, she withdrew her hand as quickly as she had laid it on me.

"It's time to start again. Back to the stool, turn with your back to me. Hands on the stool, bend your back, and offer me your ass."

I obeyed without question, feeling more vulnerable than ever.

I could feel the slight warmth of the sun on my back like it was the warmth of her gaze.

Her voice came from behind, slightly metallic.

"Open your asshole, will you?"

It sounded like an order, but at the same time, there was a gentleness, as if she would be very disappointed in me if I didn't obey.

I moved my hands to my back and slightly spread my buttocks.

"I think you can do better."

I spread wider, feeling the air playing on my anus, the same warmth of light reaching for it.

"That's better! Stay like that."

Minutes passed. I remained bent over, my hands holding you open for her to draw.

"You have a hairy anus. Next time you should shave it. Or maybe I'll shave you myself."

"I understand" was all I could reply.

The sun was slowly setting, and the room was getting colder and colder.

"Your asshole looks nice and wide... do you like getting fucked by other men?".

"I don't have... that inclination," I replied.

"So, have you been pegged by any woman?"

"No," I replied, disturbed by the questioning.

"Maybe you like to play with dildos," she insisted.

"A lover once put a finger inside me... she had heard that men feel more that way," I finally admitted.

"And you felt... a more intense sensation?"

"I think... yes," I confirmed.

"I think you've done it more than once."

"Only once!" I insisted.

"If you say so," her voice, doubtful, echoed in the room from the back.

Suddenly the doorbell rang.

"Go open the door," she ordered.

"Like this?"

"Like what?"

"Naked!"

The bell rang again.

"Don't keep my guest waiting!"

It was as if I had no will of my own. I went to the entrance, opened the door and another young woman entered, wearing a cap, a long scarf, and woolen clothes.

"Are you the model?" She said, looking at me, and assessing my body.

"I am," I confirmed.

"You have a better physique than I thought. Isn't that right, R*?"

So R* was the artist's name... all this time she had been, simply, the painter.

'With a little exercise I think his belly would be a little less flabby," suggested R*.

"Make tea for my friend," she ordered.

"He also serves as your servant!" commented the friend.

"That's what models are for, isn't it?" she replied with a smirk.

I moved to the kitchen. I could hear the friends talking, but I couldn't understand much of what they were saying.

When I returned, they were looking at the drawings. R*'s hand was precise and relentless, and she had put every part of my body on paper. The two were looking at the drawings and at my body, standing next to them, commenting excitedly.

"He has a nice cock, especially when erect," her friend finally commented.

"I told him, but I find his asshole particularly nice," R* replied.

"Show her. Stand and bend over like you did before," she asked.

I went to the stool and followed her orders. I opened my buttocks again so that the two friends could get a good look at my open anus.

"He says he's never been fucked," said R*.

"He's a natural!" her friend commented with a laugh.

"Come here."

I turned around and headed for the couch. The friend had taken a camera from her bag.

"Sit next to me."

I sat down next to R* and the friend started taking pictures of the two of us, the dressed painter and the naked model.

"Stroke your cock for the camera," the friend asked me.

I looked at R*, she nodded and I stroked my penis shaft with my hand.

"He is obedient," commented the photographer, approvingly.

"Now let it go," she said, as she took the pictures. My penis swung in the air. R* smiled and pinched my hard nipples. Then she stood up and walked over to the stool, holding my hand. She sat down and made me bend over, my head on her lap.

"Open your asshole for the camera and turn towards my friend."

It was a humiliating, but strangely satisfying request.

"A wonderful picture!" said the friend.

"Now we have an engagement," said the painter. "You must leave."

"Yes." I dressed quickly and approached the door.

"This is your price," she said, handing me the fifty euro note.

"Thank you."

"I'll let you know if I need you again. And don't masturbate when you get home."

"Yes, Mistress," I replied and left.