Artist's Model

This is a longer story (at 28k words). It's in four chapters. There is lots of sex, but it takes a while to get there - just like in real life. Please bear with me, or feel free to move on if you prefer a faster pace.

Note: although this is story falls into the 'Mature' category, it also contains scenes of voyeurism, lesbian sex and a threesome! And one scene of extreme violence. For American readers who may not be familiar with the term, GBH means Grievous Bodily Harm - an offence punishable by a long prison term.

Chapter 1 - Tom's story

Signing up for an art course has unexpected consequences for Tom

I was late. Traffic had been horrendous, with an unexpected road closure in the middle of town, and I wished I had walked instead of taking the car. Still, I got there just in time before the start of the session.

The art tutor, Sarah, flashed me a smile and said "You must be Tom! Here, take this label and stick it on your front so we all know who we are."

"Thanks, sorry I'm late."

"No problem, and no, you aren't late. There are a couple of empty places down the end of the table there, just sit down and here is your beginner's pack. Have you ever done art before?"

"Only at school, and that was many decades ago," I grinned. "Treat me as a complete beginner."

"Like everybody else," she said. "You'll be fine. Here is your pack." She turned to the woman coming in behind me. "And you are?"

"Oh, um, yes, I'm Tracey. I phoned yesterday. Thank you for fitting me in." She had a quiet voice, but already I was working my way past all the other wannabe artists down to the end. I sat down next to a guy. I looked at his name. "Hi, Pete, I'm Tom," I said, and shook his hand.

Then the next person came down the line, Tracey, and sat on the other side of me. She was young and seemed flustered. "Hi, Tracey" I said, "I'm Tom."

"Hi," she said and looked down at her beginner's pack. She was obviously very shy and not interested in talking to an oldie like me. I noted her wedding ring and looked around the room. I was one of four men and ten women. Two of the men were in their seventies, I was late fifties, OK sixty next birthday, and Pete next to me seemed to be early fifties I thought. Tracey seemed to be the odd one out, the youngest person by far, maybe in her mid thirties while the rest of the women ranged from fifties to seventies. We're all here to learn, I thought, what a mixed bunch. What am I doing here, really?

I looked at my pack. Pencils, eraser, different kinds of paper, a sketch book, ruler, a sharpener and then I got lost. There were charcoal blocks, smudgers (what the hell were they?) and an emery board. It all looked a bit complicated, I thought, for drawing. Oh well, if Sarah was any good as a teacher she would soon make it all clear to us.

Sarah came down the line and gave us each a photocopy of The Cockerel by Picasso, a dramatic black and white charcoal image. "OK," she announced, "for your first exercise, I want you to try and copy this in your sketchbook. Don't worry if you get it wrong, I just want you to do the best you can and get warmed up. This is all about observation."

It was fiendishly difficult. I got the proportions all wrong and generally created a mess. I looked across at Pete's effort, and he seemed to be doing well. Tracey's effort was as bad as mine, I thought, so at least I wasn't alone in my incompetence.

Sarah came round again, speaking to each of us in turn, showing us how to improve our technique, giving us tips on measurements and relative positions of the outline, angles, and so on. I felt a lot better after understanding what I was trying to do, but my efforts didn't seem to get any better. There was a low murmur of conversation as people got to know their neighbours and got on with the various exercises that Sarah set us. It was interesting and absorbing.

Suddenly, I realised Sarah was talking to Tracey, saying "Why don't you take a look at Pete's image, and see how he did it?"

Tracey responded with, "Oh, yes, I've already seen Pete's cock... I mean... I mean his cockerel..." Everybody burst out laughing, and I think that broke the ice for the whole group. Poor Tracey: she went beetroot red and looked as though she wanted the earth to open and swallow her up.

I leaned across and whispered, "Don't worry, that could have been any of us."

"It's so embarrassing, she said," clearly distraught by the incident, "I hate being the centre of attention." She had a lovely Devon accent.

I looked at her properly while she was working. She was petite, about five feet two, good looking in an understated way, honey blonde with hair down to her shoulders, piercing blue eyes, her face was rather thin and drawn, looking tired, dark shadows under her eyes, no make up, but on the odd occasion that she smiled, it was devastating.

She seemed nervous in company, as if not sure how to behave. She was dressed in old jeans with a sweatshirt that hid her figure. At the end of the three hour session, she was the first one out of the room and disappeared before I could say anything to her.

Why was I here? Well, after my wife Rachel died I went to pieces for a while and became a recluse. I had already sold my share of the business to my partners so that I could be her carer for nearly two years, and of course the life assurance paid out when she died, so I was financially secure. Not wealthy, but I had paid off my mortgage and all my debts and didn't need to work again.

My first wife had remarried so she was no longer a burden on finances, and my two sons were grown up and independent. Rachel's death hit me hard. With the help of my friends, I gradually came out of the depression I had slipped into and started going to the Rotary Club as we opened up after lockdown, I went to the gym again, then I started swimming and got back into walking and birdwatching.

But it wasn't enough. There was something missing, a lot missing. Of course I missed Rachel, oh my god how I missed her, to the point of depression. I badly needed a hobby of some kind to get my teeth into and fill the yawning gap in my life. I didn't want to work - what was the point? But I needed a challenge. I had no interest in dating again, no-one could ever replace Rachel, so, when I saw the advertisement for the beginners' art class, I thought, why not? I could always ditch it if it wasn't for me. I nearly didn't go to the first session.

A few weeks passed on the course, and I really got into it, which surprised me. Because Tracey and I were sitting next to each other, we often exchanged the odd word of encouragement and compared notes on how we were getting on. She never talked about her home life, but nor did I. We worked out one point perspectives together, vanishing points, horizon lines, then two and even three point perspectives. We compared notes on figurative drawing and together discovered how to shade our drawings better and create shadows, how to use negative spaces and a hundred and one other techniques. I even found put what the smudger was for!

I noticed that she drove a white Audi TT. Very flash, I thought. Definitely not my thing.

One day Sarah announced we would be doing some life work. She explained that the school couldn't afford a model, but she wanted us all to experience drawing a portrait from life. "Would someone like to volunteer to sit for everybody else?" She asked.

After a silence, I said, "OK, I'll do it, but I want to make it clear you will be drawing my face. I am not taking my kit off for anyone!"

All the ladies said "Aww..." in chorus, while all the gentlemen shouted "Thank god for that!" in unison. Everybody laughed. It was that kind of a group.

I tell you what, sitting for a portrait is hard. I have every respect for people who do this for a living. Holding a pose and making it look natural is so difficult. It was also the most boring thing I have ever done and itches sprang up all over my body and I couldn't even scratch my nose! There were breaks, of course, but by the end of the session my neck was stiff and I was not a little fed up.

"Tom, that was brilliant, you were amazing!" Sarah gushed afterwards. "I'm sorry you missed the opportunity to work on your own portrait, but when you see how the others have tackled the subject, you'll be very surprised. Try and get someone else, maybe a family member, to sit for you this week."

I smiled and said something daft like "It's OK, it was a pleasure." Fuck that, I thought, I live on my own and I'm pissed off. There's no way I can get a family member to sit for me - one son's in Canada and the other's in New Zealand.

As I went out, someone touched my arm. It was Tracey. "Thank you for doing that," she said in her soft Devon accent. "It's unfair that you couldn't draw anyone yourself. Would you like me to sit for you one day?"

I was touched by her offer. She wasn't my type - I preferred dark hair to blonde and a bit more meat on the bones, to be honest. I looked at her and thought, yes, I would like to do her portrait. Nothing else. I didn't want to get involved with her, she simply wasn't my type. What the hell was going on in my head? She'd made a simple, very kind, offer, and I was reading a whole lot of nonsense into it.

"That would be great," I replied. I thought for a moment. "You know what? We could do it at Phil's Cafe. They are quiet in the mornings and I could treat you to a coffee and some cake, we could sit in a corner and I could draw you there. Yes, I'd like that, if that's OK with you."

She agreed, with some enthusiasm, and we made a date. I gave her my card with my address and mobile on it in case she couldn't make it and had to let me know.

Drawing a portrait is much harder than it looks. Getting the proportions right, getting the expression right, the eyes, the ears, the shading, the list just goes on. My first effort was, I have to admit, sheer crap. The second was better, but still nowhere near right. I started on a third attempt.

At last she said "I have to go now," so I reluctantly put down my pencil and took a couple of photos of her with my ancient smart phone so that I could finish the work off at home.

She laughed, saying "Haven't you got anything more up to date than that?" and showed me her latest iPhone 14. Mine was a 6, but keeping up to date with the latest gadgets is not my thing.

"It does the job," I shrugged. She looked at me, uncomprehending, and left.

I worked on the portrait for hours at home over the next few days, using my existing sketches and the photos. A lot of attempts, I mean a hell of a lot of attempts, went into the bin. At last, I felt I had it right. I used pastels and slowly got the form, shading and colours to work. I didn't trust myself with acrylics or water colours with my lack of knowledge and skill, so I stuck to the basics. At last, I was satisfied, pleased even. Well, for now, anyway. I knew I could do better with practice.

I arrived early at the next session of the group. Tracey came in late and had a bruise on her cheek.

"What happened to you?" I whispered as she sat down.

"I slipped in the shower, OK? It's none of your business and I don't want to talk about it." She sullenly ignored me for the rest of the session while we got on with the various exercises set for us by Sarah.

At the end of the session we were both slow to leave, until there were were just the two of us.

"I want to show you something," I said and got the portrait out and put it on the table.

She stared at it for ages. A tear ran down her cheek and suddenly she exploded.

"You bastard," she shouted at me. "You fucking bastard. Don't do this to me. I thought I could trust you, but you're messing with my head."

I was bewildered. "What's the matter?"

"Fuck off, I don't want to talk to you. I was trying to help you by letting you draw me, but you made me look beautiful. You made me out to be fucking beautiful and intelligent and I'm fucking not, I'm fucking ugly and stupid. Everyone says so. Everybody knows it. Leave me alone and stop playing with me. I'm ugly and you know it, so stop trying to get into my knickers by making me out to be like that." She was sobbing, breaking her heart.

I really was confused now. She picked up her things, elbowed me out of her way, and stormed out.

Sarah came back in. "Is everything alright? I heard shouting. What's up with Tracey?"

"I don't know," I said. "I showed her my portrait and she went berserk."

"This portrait?" Sarah looked at it.

She moved around, looking from different angles. I felt nervous. Tracey's reaction had been unexpected, so I was fearing the worst from Sarah.

At last she spoke. "Tom, this is amazing. You have captured her very well. There are some technical mistakes, sure, look, the eyes are slightly too far apart and you've made the left eye very slightly bigger then her right, can you see that? But you've caught her vulnerability and you've shown her potential. Well done. Considering you say you only took up art a couple of months ago, this is good. Good effort."

"Thank you," I said. "That means a lot to me." I packed up my things and left for home.

A couple of days passed. Then my life changed forever.

It was about ten o'clock in the evening, as I was watching the news on TV, that I got a text from an unknown number.

<<Tom, it's Tracey. Can you help, please?>>

What was going on?

<<Of course, what's up?>>

<<I've left home. Can you pick me up. Please>>

Shit! I didn't sign up to this. There was no way I wanted to be involved in a big domestic argument. I thought for a moment. She should be talking to social services or the police. Definitely not me. Then she texted again.

<<Please, I'm scared>>

<<OK. Where are you?>> Against my better judgement. But this seemed like an emergency.

She gave me her location, at an intersection of two roads. I described my car, an old silver Ford Fiesta, then got in and drove straight there. I pulled up where she had said and looked around for a trap. Several cars came past, including a dark high end BMW that roared past, travelling well over the speed limit. I was starting to feel really nervous now. She suddenly appeared from the shadows and ran over to the car. She jumped in and said "Go, please go!"

I looked across at her and saw she had a black eye as well as her other bruise, but said nothing. I took an unusual route to see if I was being followed and eventually we arrived at my home: a trick my neighbour Mike told me once. I was so nervous, I thought I could see threats everywhere. We got home and I took her inside and locked the front door. I sat her down at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Her phone buzzed, but she didn't look at it.

"OK," I said, "what the fuck's going on?" I was furious. Why had this woman I scarcely knew involved me in her life?

She started sobbing. I made us both a cup of tea, as I figured we needed clear heads to deal with this.

"He hit me. Again."

"Who? Who hit you? You're not making sense. Tell me from the beginning."

She told me her story. She was 32 and she and Kelvin had been married for about eight years. He was in his forties. Everything had been fine at the start, but then Kelvin started to become more demanding and jealous. She wasn't allowed to go out to work, his meals had to be just so, the house had to be cleaned just right, she was not allowed to speak to other men, and he didn't like her going out on her own, he wouldn't allow her to wear make up if he wasn't with her, and so on.

Because she couldn't work, she was reliant on him for everything, but he was generous and she had good clothes, an expensive car and the latest gadgets, but if she stepped out of line as he saw it, he would punish her by taking away any freedom she had, or, more recently, by hitting her. At first he would hit her on the body, but now he would hit her in the face when he was drunk.

It was classic control freakery, as far as I could see, and I was way out of my depth here. After he blacked her eye this morning, she went and sat in a room as far away from him as possible. He was drinking all day then came looking for her. She hid in the downstairs bathroom. When he tried to kick the door down, she climbed out of the window and ran out of the house to escape. She had nothing but the clothes she stood up in and her phone, not even her handbag.

"You will have to go to the police," I said.

"I did, last time" she replied. WTF? The last time?

"What happened?"

"They wanted me to press charges. But Kelvin promised he would change. At first he did, but this last month it's been really bad."

"You could press charges now."

"But he can't help it. It's my fault he gets cross. It's not fair to charge him and give him a criminal record when it's my fault, really."

"Jesus, Tracey, just listen to yourself."

Her phone buzzed again. "What's he saying?" I asked. "Let me see."

Reluctantly, she showed me the phone.

<<If you don't come home now im going to fuckin kill you>>

"How is that your fault, what did you do to make him want to kill you?" I couldn't help myself.

"Please don't shout at me. He found out about us. He doesn't like it when I talk to other men."

"What do you mean, 'us'? There is no 'us'. All we did was meet for a coffee and I made some sketches of you. There is no 'us'."

"I mean, he found out we met. A friend of his saw us at the cafe. He's been going on about it ever since. It's my fault. I shouldn't have met you at the cafe. I knew I shouldn't, but I did it anyway, because I like you and I wanted to help you with your drawing. I thought it was unfair that you sat for everyone else, but no-one offered to do the same for you." She was crying.

I made up my mind. It was past midnight. I put my arms around her. She was a complete nutcase, but she needed help. "OK, OK, OK, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have shouted. Of course you can stay here tonight. But you must go to the police and press charges. You are not moving in here. It's not safe. He'll find you eventually, because it's a small town and everybody knows everybody. You need to move elsewhere, hundreds of miles away, maybe to a women's shelter. While that man is around he is a real danger to you. Does he know where you are?"

"No, definitely not. I deleted his tracking app from my phone."

What? Tracking apps? This was madness.

"OK. The bed's made up in the spare room, you can sleep there. There's a lock on the door. There's a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. I'm going to check the house is secure and then I'm off to bed. Good night."

Harsh, too brusque? Well, yes. But no matter how much I liked her - and to be fair I did like her although I hardly knew her - I did not want to be entangled with this. But I couldn't just throw her out, could I? She was frightened and needed a friend. Didn't she have any other friends? Why me?

I went to bed, but sleep wouldn't come. I kept thinking about Tracey. Tonight she was wearing a T-shirt and skinny jeans. Her breasts were tight against the fabric of the T. Alone in my bed now, I kept thinking about her breasts and wondering what she would look like naked, in the room next to mine. I wondered what her boobs would feel like, soft and squashed up against my chest. What would her pussy look like? Was her pubic hair trimmed or would she shave it, to please her husband?

It had been so long since I had had sex. I got an erection and started stroking myself. WTF? I needed to put that right out of my mind. I turned over and drifted off to sleep, eventually...

I was painting her, in the nude. She had gorgeous pert breasts and I just could not get them right in the painting. She turned to me and smiled. I could see her bare vulva. I asked if she wanted a break and she said yes. She came to me, saying, "Come on Tom, do it to me..." I drew her body to me and we kissed, I could feel my erection growing, then I felt that exquisite feeling in the end of my cock...