Chalk

"At the risk of sounding rude," I began meekly, fidgeting with the sleeves of my floor-length robe, "when exactly can I expect---"

"...Payment?" Mr. Clark, the college's drawing professor, finished. I nodded. He wore a kindly smile on his face, and it offered just enough comfort to keep me from running, screaming, from the building. I was all nerves and dread, bottled up like a vigorously-shaken soda and ready to pop at a moment's notice. "Not to worry," he continued. "It's all right here." He withdrew a thin envelope from the back pocket of his woebegone blue jeans, stained here and there from various pigments, and I pinched the edges to chance a peek inside after he pressed it into my hands. Once I spotted the mildew green of the six twenty-dollar bills, I placed the envelope gingerly into my purse.

"Thank you so much." I tried to keep the resigned sigh from creeping into my voice. "You don't know what a lifesaver you've been. I really needed this. If it hadn't been for your ad..."

"Really, I should be thanking you," he assured me. "Our other model dropped out so soon, I was sure I would have to reschedule the class. It would have made a mess out of the rest of the semester. You've done me a big favor by showing up at all. Maybe if it goes well, we can give you a call for the life-drawing class in spring," he added cheerfully, and I felt the color drain from my face.

"Oh, I don't know," I said.

"Well, are you about ready? Did you try those stretching exercises I sent you? I won't ask you to do handstands or anything, of course, but staying posed for so long can be straining..."

"I did, thanks." He inclined his greying head in a grateful nod, and I fell into step beside him as he began to trot towards the classroom door. I suddenly felt cold all over. Something like a scream was building up in the back of my head, and I could hear it just as clearly as if it was erupting out of my mouth. Self-consciously, I found myself touching my lips with my fingertips, making sure my lips were firmly shut. "And how long am I standing again?"

"Two hours. It would be shorter, but this is their midterm. We'll take a fifteen minute break after the first forty-five minutes." The door handle creaked with the rotation of his wrist, and a waft of cool air flitted over my skin from the next room. I caught the waxy, heady scent of paint and the warm smell of old wood. "Are you sure I can't get you some tea?" he asked suddenly, and when I looked back up at him, worry had tainted his features. I quickly tried to banish the dread from my expression.

"I'm fine," I lied. He gave me another warm smile, and I returned it as best as I could before he moved through the doorway and gestured for me to follow.

The room was enormous and furnished only with tall cupboards and a line of wide, white drawing tables, (tilted at varying degrees for the artists), that encircled a raised platform. Each table was inhabited by a student perched in a stool. I tried not to make eye contact with any of them, and I could tell that they were trying to do the same out of courtesy. The lighting was dim save for a few hanging lights that were angled at the platform, bathing it in a warm glow. I hoped that the glare of the lights would blot out their faces, like being on stage. That would make the whole experience go by much faster.

Feeling somewhat like a virgin ascending to a sacrificial pedestal, I wound my way dazedly around the ring of desks and into the middle of the circle. There was a chair on top of it, draped with swathes of orange fabric in a lovely, haphazard sort of way. Swallowing, I clambered onto the platform and stood awkwardly in the middle. First, Mr. Clark would introduce me to the class---something I found completely unnecessary but that he insisted would make all of us feel more comfortable.

And then, off went my robe. I wasn't wearing anything underneath it, and---right then, for the first time, at the most inconvenient moment---I wondered frantically how the class would react to my full-Brazillian wax job. The term "nude model" conjured an image of ludicrously stereotypical hipster women who were, doubtlessly, much hairier than I could ever dream of being comfortable with.

I was probably just being ridiculous. I hoped I was.

As if from far, far away, I heard Mr. Clark announce, "This is Lila, everyone. She's been gracious enough to pose for us today, and with very short notice."

"Thanks, Lila," the class intoned. The mesh of adult voices sounded eerie in its monotony. Very Children of the Corn. I could pick out a few that were trying their hardest to be reassuringly chipper, and I wondered how terrified I looked.

"No problem," I croaked out.

"We'll begin whenever you're ready," Mr. Clark said gently, and I gave him a little nod. "Class, if you haven't prepared your supplies, now's the time to do it. There's tape on my desk if you'd like to secure your paper." A soft scuffle of activity followed, brought upon by a handful of students rising from their desks and making their way towards the front of the classroom. To my dismay, I could still make out everyone's faces, but they did seem a little dimmer outside of the light.

After a few moments, when the rustling had died down slightly, I took a deep, deep breath that seemed deafening in the silence, and then I began to remove my robe.

I did it quickly, despite my trepidation. Taking it off slowly would feel too much like a striptease, and I was already uncomfortable enough. Once I had balled it up and tossed it to the side, I lowered myself shakily into the chair. Taking care to cross my legs, I reclined, and then trained my stare carefully on the rooftop window at the back of the classroom. There was a moment of hesitation from the class as I wiggled slowly to make myself comfortable, but when I finally let my limbs droop, I heard the rustle of paper and fingers and the clatter of chalk pastels.

The first fifteen minutes went by very slowly. Ignoring the dozens of eyes that were playing over my figure---pausing at my navel, my hip, the slow slant of my shoulders---was a daunting task at first, but to my surprise, I began to find that the feeling wasn't quite as invasive as I had imagined it would be. There weren't any whispers or giggles, and by the time the professor was announcing my shift into the second pose, I was nearly at ease.

But when I rose to my feet to change positions, I felt it.

It was gentle at first; soft, teasing, like a stray hair on the side of my neck. But when I reached up to scratch, it persisted. A buzz. Carefully, I let my eyes stray throughout the classroom, and through the sea of heads that were ducked down to prepare a new sheet of paper or pick out different colors, I saw him.

He was tall and lanky, all elbows and shoulders and lean muscle. A portrait of a starving artist if there ever was one. His skin was tan in a way that hinted at wild summer concerts and debauched evenings, and his slightly scruffy face was haloed by closely-cropped dark brown hair. It did a good job of framing his eyes. His eyes, green and stung with veins of golden brown. His eyes, trained right on my face. Shamelessly. Something inside of them seemed charged, and when they lowered to my mouth, I felt them tickle invasively across my lips like static.

Before he could drag those wicked eyes back up to meet mine, I wrenched my face back towards the other end of the classroom and swallowed. Then, trying my hardest to ignore the feather-soft touch of his gaze, I shifted my weight to my left hip and crossed my arms gently over my chest. My right hand rose to touch my cheek. After a moment, I willed my body to relax, and the room was filled again with soft scratching noises.

But, to my horror, I couldn't seem to shake the sensation of him watching me.

Maybe it was because I was so utterly aware of him, but I felt his stare skim my body like so many hungry tendrils. My heart leapt into my chest as his eyes dragged down my calf, scrutinized the plump curve of each of my toes. It paused there for what felt like an eternity, and then it ascended. From the many skritch-scratches of dozens of sticks of chalk, I thought that I could hear his loudest of all. Mapping out the curve of flesh just above my knee in a quick stroke, pausing, rising with excruciating slowness to the swell of my thigh. His stare lingered there, painstakingly diligent in capturing the dimple beneath my hip, and then I felt my breath catch as it dove between my legs.

My cheeks stung with a faint heat. I was being incredibly inappropriate, and I was positive that it was beginning to show. I let my eyelids flutter shut and tried to concentrate on the even rush of my breathing. That seemed to be working. But, even still, I could sense his eyes skittering over the sensitive flesh of my belly like an army of ants...

"...Lila?"

My eyes snapped open and I looked down at Mr. Clark in surprise. He lifted his eyebrows, a careful expression of inquiry.

"The next pose, please," he said. "Then we can take a short break."

Trying my damnedest to banish the flush from my cheeks and steady my breathing, I fidgeted in place and stretched my arms. I was very careful to keep my face from straying back towards the man with the green eyes. From the corner of my vision, I could see him bent over his box of supplies. Looking for new colors, maybe. New hues to invade new parts of me.

A slow heat unwound in my stomach, and I arched my spine and brought my arms high over my head. My fingers clasped together behind my neck, thrusting my bosom forward and putting the milky valleys of my torso on perfect display. I let out a shaky breath. And, like a persistent itch, the fingers of his scrutiny returned to explore my flesh.

God, I loved it.

I revelled in the hot graze of his eyes on my ribcage, rising slowly to taste the swell of my breasts. And then, (and I had to fight hard to resist the urge to bite my lip from sheer glee), it plucked curiously at the flushed peaks of my nipples. I finally let my gaze flit towards him. His lips, a full stain of pink in his face, were opened just slightly, and his arm seemed unsteady as it descended to cast a leisurely curve onto the paper in front of him. He had such long fingers. They curled delicately over the stick of chalk, worked it with lazy, broad strokes. His spine curved as he knelt a little closer to the paper, and the chalk paused, hovering at the tip of a gentle arc. The dip above my hip bones, maybe. Or the nape of my neck. Carefully, his face tilted up to observe me again, and a jolt of electricity crackled through my nerves as he met my stare.

Those green eyes were veiled by a wild, disoriented blur. Something hot writhed in their depths. And, when he caught me watching him, the right corner of his mouth lifted into a lopsided smile of delight.

I had to bite back a moan.

"And that concludes our last practice pose," Mr. Clark said, wrenching me out from my daze. Quick as a flash, I dipped down and snatched my robe back up. "We'll return in fifteen minutes for your final sketch." And, to my horror, "Let's all give Lila a hand---she's been just great."

I looked down at the floor as the classroom rewarded me with a smattering of applause, then forced a smile and descended from my perch, jerking the tie to my robe shut along the way.

By the time I made it into the adjacent room, he had vanished from behind me. Probably to go to the bathroom. I wished I could do the same, but I didn't want to wander the halls clad in only a bathrobe and I certainly didn't want to delay the class. Instead, I shut the door behind me and knotted my fingers into my ponytail, trying to compose myself. I needed to get a grip. I could still feel the dregs of lust teasing at my insides, warm and delicious and needle-sharp. When Mr. Clark came in, I quickly released my lower lip from the confines of my teeth and tried to chase the languor from my expression. Judging from the startled look on his face, I hadn't acted quite quickly enough.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said carefully, and I gave him a panicky smile.

"Just getting some water," I lied, glancing over at my water bottle, which was five feet away from me and propped up against my purse.

He cleared his throat. "Alright. And you're...comfortable, so far?"

Too comfortable. "Yeah," I said instead. And then, after a moment's pause, "Do I...get to see what they've drawn...?"

"If you're interested, I could send some pictures once I've documented and graded the work," he said, and then he chuckled. "You're not the first to ask, but I ought to warn you---you might find a some to be less than flattering."

"That's fine. I'm just curious." I finally crossed the room and plucked up my water bottle, then turned back to him after I had taken a swig. "So, uh, for the final pose..."

"Whatever's comfortable for you. You'll want to be sitting, of course---it's an hour long, after all---so I'd recommend that you stretch your legs a bit now, while you can. The rest of the building is nearly abandoned this time of the day, so if you'd like to go out into the halls, I'm sure---"

"I'll just stay in here," I said quickly, terrified of the prospect of running into my new acquaintance with the probing eyes. Thankfully, Mr. Clark only shrugged.

"I'll knock when we're ready for you," he said, and I drooped with relief as he made his way back out into the classroom.

Ten minutes later, after I had drowned myself in water, circled the room a dozen times and smothered the stubborn embers of desire that were still glowing deep in my stomach, I heard a gentle knock. Newly emboldened, I opened the door with my shoulders squared in determination. I was going to be the epitome of model-dom. I was going to be an focused, efficient, unfeeling machine. I was---

Oh, fuck.

As I strode into the classroom, I saw that the seating arrangement had been slightly...altered. Instead of perching himself safely out of my field of vision, Green Eyes had found a new spot. Directly in front of my chair. He was facing the table, hunched over his toolbox, but I could feel green irises tracking my movements from the corners of his eyes. I squinted down at him as I climbed back onto the platform, and while he didn't quite look at me, his eyebrows rose slightly in response.

"Everyone, take your seats," Mr. Clark announced. The rest of the class clambered back into their chairs, and my hands hovered over the ties of my robe. Dread was puddling like ice in the hollows of my bones, as well as something...else.

The class had gone patiently quiet, and, after some hesitation, I shrugged my way out from my robe. Swallowing, I lowered myself back into the chair, shifting this way and that as I struggled to find a position that I could imagine staying in for an hour. A pang of anxiety strummed my nerves as the man with the green eyes lifted his head to watch me squirm, and he seemed to lean forward ever so slightly with anticipation as my legs crossed. Something about his eagerness sent new waves of warmth unspooling into my bloodstream, thick and sweet and sluggish as molasses.

I met his eye challengingly, memorizing the fan of his lashes and peering deep into the void of his pupils. His lips quirked up into the faintest of smiles. Feeling completely lost, I sank down into the chair, stared weakly at the back wall, and let my muscles unwind. My head tilted gently to the side. I lifted my arms, exposing the panes of my torso, and let them rest just above my head. And then, with a dry, nervous swallow, I slowly parted my thighs, just a little. I think the professor might have coughed.

When I dared to glance back down at my new acquaintance---only for half a second---the look in his eye could have made even the most lascivious of ladies blush crimson.

I continued to stare hopelessly at the wall after that, listening to the scrawl of chalk and repressing shudders as he greedily drank in every nook and cranny of my flesh. From the corner of my eye, I saw him select a pale pink stick of chalk, and my eyelids felt drowsily heavy when his gaze raked over my chest.

I imagined his hands in place of his stare, crawling languidly over my stomach, pinching my thighs, lazily rolling my breasts in their palms. When his eyes delved in between my thighs, I imagined him filling me up, fucking me slowly with those long fingers. With every brush of his chalk, he jerked me, tugged me, urged me, never minding that I was unwinding in front of him. He drew me like he wanted to conjure me up in front of him, close enough to graze with his fingertips. He echoed the way he yearned to touch me with each slow, violent stroke; lazy and rough all at the same time.

God, I wanted those hands on me.

After one last flick of his wrist, he brought his thumb to the paper and blended a spot gently, scrutinizing the hollow of my collarbone as he did. Static fluttered over my throat like a hungry mouth. His other hand was gripping the edge of the tilted drawing table, and as I watched, his fingers constricted in a slow squeeze over the corner. It was secretive, something just for me, and the yearning in that gesture sent a surge of heat blossoming between my legs and rising into my body like ribbons of ink in water. I was hot, wet, throbbing in front of him, and every brush of his eyes tongued sweetly at the sensation and manipulated me further towards the edge. I hoped frantically that my arousal wasn't prominent to the students sitting in front of me. My breathing was becoming heavy, and my efforts to hide it were becoming more and more futile.

He lowered the stick of light pink chalk and paused with his hand hovering tantalizingly over his toolbox, and I watched him with breathless anticipation. After a minute, he selected two sticks: a creamy lavender and a darker pink. He let the stick of pink flit over a confined spot, and when his thumb came up to rub the pigment so gently into the paper, I knew where his fingers were. His eyes drank up the swell of my inner thigh, probed my lips, darted upwards to tease at my clit. The lavender came next, and his gaze lapped at the little crease between my thigh and my hip. It traveled up and up---rubbing the outline of my waist, fluttering briefly below my breasts---and suddenly, he stopped. The chalk went back into the toolbox, and he withdrew another color. Blue.

He seemed to hesitate, but then, he let his stare wander slowly towards my face. And then he was looking right into my eyes and I was looking back. His face was slack, his lips were parted, and his shoulders quivered with a delicious unsteadiness as he gazed unapologetically up at me through drunkenly heavy eyelids. His eyes were hopelessly bright and slitted with want. He inhaled richly when he caught me looking, and a pang stung my insides as he leaned just a bit closer. The tip of a pink tongue rasped briefly over the corner of his upper lip.

And for whatever reason, that was my undoing.

Hot, heady pulses bloomed and throbbed inside of me and squeezed the air from my lungs. The walls of my passage, wet and tortured from his indecency, constricted sweetly as I struggled to keep my thighs slightly parted and repressed the urge to writhe in my chair.

I coughed, trying to mask the heaves of my chest. It might not have worked as well as I'd hoped. Two women to the left of me looked mildly horrified. In front of me, the man with the green eyes let out a faint, shuddering exhale of appreciation. Somewhere beneath the glowing haze of my post-orgasmic bliss, I hated him for having a desk to hide under while my arousal was put up on display like a statue. It wasn't fair. But his fingers continued to manipulate the blue pigment in brief little strokes, and when he dipped down to pluck up a stick of teal, my stomach lurched with realization. He was drawing my eyes.