Artist in the Park

"Honestly, I don't see you as an exhibitionist," I said almost absently. "Just, um, possibly more comfortable in your own skin than even you realize. Was that your first time sunbathing like that? How did it make you feel? An exhibitionist would have been very..." I trailed off, finding myself in dangerous territory. I was not fishing for sexy talk, I was genuinely trying to read how she felt about that experience, and by extension, what we were doing currently.

"I wasn't terribly aroused, actually," Sophia said, almost surprised at the fact. "I find this to be much more... um... and I certainly was not intending to go topless on that beach, let me tell you! I'm too old for that sort of thing anyway, even if I was into it." I carefully concealed a snort at that. The breasts I was currently sketching were fucking made for topless beaches.

"So, why?" I asked, my brain refusing to let me disengage from this dicey discussion.

"I've never been sure why," she said, as if surprising herself. "Just... every woman around me, of all ages, was pretty much was doing it, and nobody seemed to care. There were some hot women on that beach, let me tell you, and it wasn't like the men were all standing around with their tongues hanging out or anything. It was just another day at the beach. And the sun felt so good." She shrugged. "I took a deep breath and took my top off. I wasn't instantly assaulted, and I began to relax. It was nice. I thought nothing of doing it again the next day. I even read my book a bit," she laughed.

"Well, there you go," I said brightly. "An exhibitionist would have been pissed she wasn't being ogled constantly, wouldn't she?"

She laughed again. I was wasting a lot of great smiles at a time when I wasn't working on her face yet... "I really wasn't being ogled all the time... but you do meet some interesting men when you lie out on a beach wearing an Aussie one-piece bikini." I saw a memory in her eye that told me that one of those interesting men must now have some good memories of his own.

The sketch of her tits was complete and amazing. I had both the skin tones and those amazing contours down already. Breasts. The sketch of her breasts, not her 'tits'. They were too lovely to be called tits.

But they were way too fucking sexy to be called 'breasts'.

Tits? Breasts? Magnificent mounds? I snorted inwardly. They were amazing distractions, was what they were.

I swiftly filled another two pages with small studies of her feet, but mostly her hands. The one that we had decided to drape upon the curve of her hip was easy, if pleasurable to capture. I had to make three tries of the other hand, which seemed to be supporting her head without in fact doing so. I almost welcomed a hiccup in my process, as everything had been going unnaturally easily thus far. I never expect everything to flow naturally, even with this, my apparent muse.

I closed the sketch pad and rose. "Are you ready for the main event?" I asked, moving to get the huge canvas I had acquired for the project. A spare was hidden in my studio, just in case.

As I set the expanse on my easel, uncomfortably aware it was the biggest workspace I had ever employed, Sophia asked, "So, can I have one or two of those sketches as well?" Her voice was eager, almost breathless.

I thought of the work I had just done. To be honest, several of them, in isolation, were damned near pornographic. I'd be mortified if she even saw them, much less kept them.

Besides, I wanted them for myself. Badly.

"Maybe one," I smiled, as if confident. I would give her the one of her hands and feet.

I could never sit while working on a canvas that big, so I settled in for hours of standing.

And I stared at the blank expanse.

It was fucking intimidating. It had been a long time since I had even tried to do a work of this scale, and I was suddenly regretting accepting the commission.

What business did I have taking on a major work at a scale I was not used to at all? Could I pull it off? Could I do justice to the living work of art I had as a subject? A work of art who thought my pieces were somehow fucking magical? I trembled.

Then I lifted the first pastel in my fingers and began.

In seconds, my doubts left me, and the free, inspired way I captured her image returned full-bore. I swept in long strokes, lay down the outlines of her form, setting the structure of the piece. I offset her slightly, with her head closer to the edge of the canvas than her feet, as was the classical mode. I wanted that timeless, conventional-for-a-reason composition, so that the portrait, even though executed in my own modern-yet-realistic style, would feel like an old master.

In minutes, I was smiling to myself as the plain black strokes of the wireframe that would never be seen in any way once the piece was complete, took form just the way I was envisioning. My fingers were sure as they ever were. I smudged out not a line, corrected not a position.

My eyes drank in her form, and my hands transferred it to the canvas with a surety that was amazing to me in the moment, even for me at my best. But I was hardly seeing her. I just sketched. I'm not sure how long that initial layout took. The sheer scale of what I was doing was unfamiliar, so it was quite a while, but I was mostly lost during it.

Suddenly, I stopped. I stepped back and took in what I had done.

Damn, I'm good.

It was just a wireframe, almost like you might see on page nine of How To Draw Comics, but I knew the layout was perfect, and I knew I had the ineffable shape of her body captured in just those lines.

I let my eyes go back to Sophia, and found myself letting them really focus on her for the first time in a while. Oh yeah. She was naked, wasn't she?

Damn...

I saw her staring at me intently. It was not the expression I wanted for the piece, but it was striking. I could coach her on it later. It didn't matter now. For now, it was just uncomfortable to be examined as closely as I was now examining her.

"Watching you work is... I don't know," she said softly, breaking the silence. "That first day we met in the park, it was exciting watching you do that picture of the girl and her kids. Then, it was actually kinda hot watching you do the portrait of me for my parents. I could feel your intensity." She paused. "Now. Here. With me lying here like this, your gaze is..." She trailed off again and did not restart. She just stared at me.

Her gaze was intense. It was almost unbearably attractive, sexy, erotic. I wanted to capture it instantly, but it was the wrong look for the portrait, much as it went into my eyeballs and travelled straight down to my cock, making it hard again in almost an instant. I needed a languid, smiling sensuality, not this... frank, hungry appraisal. I restrained myself from grabbing the sketch pad and doing a study in the delicious moment.

Instead, I turned to bend and rummage through my pastels, the movement helping to work my cock into an at least somewhat comfortable position. I didn't anticipate the erection going away any time soon. My predicted marathon of tumescence had begun.

I turned back, smiled, and began in earnest. The magic did not desert me, uncomfortable state of arousal or no. My hands moved surely, in far longer strokes than they were used, but my command of color did not abandon me, and that gave me confidence. Her outlines, her fabulous outlines took shape.

I paused in my focus on her to set up the outlines and some shadows of the cushions and the couch overall. I knew they would likely shift between now and the next sitting, so I wanted a reference before the day was done. The fact that the painstaking, inorganic work helped my cock get some relief was purely, purely incidental...

But there was only so much work there I could do, or wanted to do, at this point in the process. I went back to Sophia, capturing the contours of her calves, then thighs, then enjoying the process of capturing the little shadow I had placed where her legs met so elegantly.

My cock sprang back with a vengance, and I was hard pressed to conceal my discomfort in correcting its position. Hard pressed and unsuccessful.

"I'm sorry, Robert," Sophia said softly... huskily.

"You could hardly help it," I said softly, trying to lose myself in the initial layer of colors that formed her abdomen. "And if you could, neither of us, given the current project, would want you to." I tried to keep my eyes off of her and on my canvas as much as possible.

"Still," she said, in an even lower register, "you look so uncomfortable. Take a break at least, and talk to me for a moment."

Taking my mind off my work and just talking to Sophia as she looked at the moment hardly seemed a recipe for relief for my swollen state, but I complied, because it was true, my condition was beginning to add more intensity to my process than was probably good. I stepped back, stared at my work so far.

Already, I was confident it would be a spectacular finished product. I was handling the scale better than I had hoped, and the inspiration was flowing from her to me.

"Can I see it?" Sophia asked, watching me examine the piece.

"Not yet, I think," I said, stepping around the piece and walking over to her. "How about some wine?"

"Please," she said in a voice that seemed to be asking involuntarily for more than refreshment.

I smoothly extracted the cork, and poured us each a ruby glass of relaxation.

A good glass of wine had always relaxed me, but that day, with Sophia still lying there naked, siping on the glass I had offered her, I was anything but.

"I don't think you understood me before," Sophia grinned, after a good sip or two. "I asked if I could see it."

"You are the client," I said reluctantly, "but I really think you should wait until we are done tomorrow afternoon. It might affect how you sit if you see the portrait now."

She almost grimaced at me, and I worried I might have to relent. "You still misunderstand," she said, rolling forward a little on the couch, toward me. "I want to see it."

Oh.

"I... what? I... mean, I..." I stammered.

"This whole process is just agonizing for me," Sophia said earnestly, almost compassionately. "It must be hard for you too." She giggled slightly at her own words. "I mean, I can see that it is," she smiled. "It is getting hard for me to keep my eyes in the distance as you work, with the evidence of your discomfort there for me to see."

She could see my...? My shirttail should have covered my crotch, but I realized that I had been unconsciously scratching a chronic itch on my stomach, just above the waistband of my pants. At some point, the shirttail had tucked in a bit in front. I looked down, and realized the shirt no longer covered, but instead framed the painful bulge in my pants.

"I'm sorry," I said softly, panicking inside. "It's inappropriate, I know. But you are... inspirational."

"Thank you," my subject said sweetly. "But I think I'd only be insulted if you weren't being appreciative." She looked at me and took another small sip. "But you've been appreciative for so long, I'm sure it must almost hurt."

I just blushed a little, and refused to answer out loud.

"Let. Me. See. It," Sophia said almost needfully. "It's only fair."

I tried to babble about unprofessional behavior, but she just stared at me, her gaze a mix of authority and entreaty.

Almost against my will, but very much in line with my desires, my hands went to the fly of my pants, and opened it. With a small push, I slid my underwear down, and let out an involuntary gasp of relief as my erection popped free, the absence of constriction mixing in a hearty portion of comfortable freedom with my embarrassment.

A lot of what I was doing was genuinely involuntary. I might have run away in shame, had it not been somehow clear that Sophia was likewise not entirely in control of herself. What was this odd chemistry we had?

My cock was hard as a rock, its skin was red, and the head was an angry purple.

"Wow," Sophia said, upon seeing me. "It looks... painful! Are you all right?"

"It's not painful," I said quickly, "just uncomfortable--and distracting."

"You should, um, take care of it, before it starts to affect your work," she said, almost uncertainly.

Jesus. Here I was, having been displaying a huge bulge to my client for the last couple of hours, and now I had my erect cock in her face! No wonder she wanted me to get rid of it. I was torn between tucking it away, and denying the problem, and running to my bedroom and doing as she suggested.

Almost without consciously deciding, I turned and took a single step toward the door. Before I could take a second, faster, fleeing step, Sophia blurted, "Don't go! Do it here." She tried to look away and failed. "I can't believe I'm asking this of you, but I want to see it happen. Take care of it here. Now. Then you can have some relief, and I can go back to staring into the middle distance like I need to."

I stared at her, but her eyes betrayed only growing certainty.

My eyes were absolutely not filled with certainty. But at this point, my dick's demands were deafening. Without really meaning to, I found my hand on my cock. A single stroke, and I had no resistance left. Another stroke. And another. My eyes drank in her naked body. Idly, I almost wished I was back at the easel, to capture her expression. Or capture the dangling parabolas adorning her chest.

Sophia's eyes were riveted to my dick as I worked to give it what it wanted. She was silent at first, but as my pace quickened, she looked up at me briefly. "That's it. You need this," she said softly. After another pause, she added, "I need this. It is like a physical manifestation of how you see me, whatever magic you see that makes me so beautiful. I hope this feels good. Please, make it feel good," she encouraged.

Was it good? Yes. But my jacking hand was more satisfying a hunger than delivering pleasure. The pleasure was incidental. And God help me, that pleasure was mostly from her gaze.

She trembled slightly, and those breasts trembled in harmonic vibration. My pace quickened.

"Paint me, Robert," she demanded softly.

"What?" I gasped, feeling my orgasm building swiftly.

"When you come, paint me. Paint my breasts with your release," Sophia demanded, her voice suddenly without doubt. "Do it," she hissed.

Without thinking, I stepped forward two steps, looming over her as she lay back again before me.

And I came. Boy howdy, did I come. I grunted in a powerful explosion of breath, and I clenched my cock even harder as a surge of pleasure, somehow simultaneously collapsing into my core and exploding outward from it, took me. My shaft throbbed in my pumping fist and first one, then another gout of jizz burst out and cascaded down across those magnificent tits. Another stream shot out, bridging both again.

Sophia gasped a high-pitched cry as my cum painted her chest, exactly as she had asked. She twisted, her hips writhing, mirroring the sensation as my cock produced another, final spurt. It was smaller, but landed right in the delectable valley between her breasts.

I gave a near sob of release, my hand slowing to a stop, cradling my spent and softening cock. Relief was at last, um, at hand.

Suddenly, we were both utterly awkward, neither looking right at the other, but unable to keep our opposite out of the corner of our eye. I stood there like an idiot with my cock in my grasp for severals seconds, then almost desperately moved to pull up my pants, and zip up, almost hoping, but mostly fearing that if I didn't do so quickly, Sophia would demand I go back to work like that, exposed.

But she didn't, only shifting slowly back to her posed position and staring down in bemusement at her bespattered chest, her own breathing shallow.

Zipped up, I cast my eye about for a clean towel. A small stack of them, for cleaning up stray pigments, was near the door to my studio. I dashed over to grab one, and returned, shamefacedly offering it to Sophia to clean up my filthy, sticky spooge.

She only shook her head. "Let's get back to it, Robert. You have your distraction gone, and I..." She shut up, but made no move to clear my glistening, not yet drying semen from her torso.

I stepped back slowly to my easel, and lifted a pastel, my inspiration taking me before I was ready for it.

I had not meant to work much on her breasts that first day, only making small efforts here and there. I had subconsciously been saving them for Sunday, as a treat, perhaps. Now I was fully engaged with them. My strokes were sure and swift. Every time my hand went to the tray, I always grabbed exactly the right color. The subject was glorious, and I was capturing it in a way that had me already satisfied.

And I captured the decorations I had left all over them as well. It was not obvious, of course. I didn't want that. To the uninformed observer, there was just a whorl of lightness atop her cleavage, where the puddle of my last spurt still nestled. There were streaks of lighter pigment here and there over the exquisite expanse of her curves. A drop here and there around the nipples of her upper breast, and so on. All just apparent texture and light. But to me, the cum was obvious. It would be obvious to Sophia. And it would be to obvious to anyone else that she might choose to point it out to. I incorporate details such as that in my work often--the item that is obvious only when pointed out, the patch of dirt on a face, the cat invisible in the background.

But this was the best I had ever done. Sophia's reclining nude would have cum-spattered breasts, and even those few she chose to share it with would likely never know.

But, again, she would.

And she never moved to clean herself. I watched as the afternoon approached evening, and my spume dried on her skin. It was an interesting thing I'd never seen before. My dick's exhaustion, my suddenly inspired burst of even higher productivity, and the intellectual curiosity of what semen looked like as it dried on skin kept me from any more... much more, discomfort.

The light in the room flared as the sun lowered to the point where its rays hit where Sophia reclined directly.

I stopped. We had to be done for the day, as I had suddenly lost control of light and shadow. "That's it for today," I said, suddenly once more appalled at myself for what I had done. "Uh... ten-thirty tomorrow?" I asked, suddenly worried that she wouldn't come back at all.

Sophia sat up, and stretched. "You are... you were right, Robert. This is hard work," she said, not looking at me. She looked at the towel she had refused earlier, then shook her head slightly. Instead, she rose, picked up her dress, and slipped it around her body, still coated as it was with my crusty cum.

"I'll... I'll see you at ten-thirty," she agreed hastily, then almost dashed for the door. "Thank you," she said awkwardly as she slipped out. The dollop of dried cum in her cleavage had still been fully visible in the neckline of her dress.

"Thank you," I whispered after her, through the closed door. Then I began slamming the palm of my hand into my forehead in an attempt to either knock the stupid loose, or just induce amnesia.

I ate a swift dinner from the microwave, perhaps optimistically reset things for the next day, and sat down to examine my work. It was good. Very good, if I did say so myself. And I had gotten a lot more done than I had expected, considering it was such a large piece.

If Sophia came to her senses and refused to return to the scene of my awful behavior, there was a chance that I could still finish it... if she still wanted the thing in the first place.

I sat there, staring at her breasts in the painting, the subtle cum on her torso as plain as day to me... and jacked off again.