Molly's Story Ch. 07: Model

Molly's Stories 7. The Model

Molly and Stephen and their story-telling were introduced in "The Professor series," but they continued to write stories and share them with one another. Molly's stories will appear in the BDSM category, while Stephen's better fit under Romance.

The Model

Polly was restless. Her classes were going OK, but she had a hard time getting interested in Asian Postcolonial Political History, Political Philosophy of the Revolutions, French Literature, and Economic History. As a poli science major, she should be into these, but she was distracted. She had just broken up with her boyfriend, but that was more of a relief than a stress. She had pushed him away because the relationship seemed stale.

The wild card in her schedule was her drawing class. She hated it at first because she knew she was bad at it, but it fulfilled a liberal arts requirement. Yes, students were graded on improvement and effort, but she felt like a failure every time she started a new assignment. They started off with an apple. She had sat staring at an apple in her kitchen for a half hour before she saw more than a circle with a stem on it. She was finally beginning to understand light and shadow, but it was a month too late.

There were two students in the class who unnerved her. The first was Melissa Zimmer, her nemesis. Melissa had plagued her life since elementary school. She was one of those bossy flirty girls who delighted in putting every other girl down. She took delight in ridiculing Polly in public until Polly wanted to crawl into a hole. In high school she flirted with Polly's only boyfriend until she seduced him into bed, at which point she promptly dumped him. Polly thought she was free of Melissa after graduation, but they ended up in the same university. When a boy asked her out after the freshman mixer Melissa poached him again. At least they had not taken the same classes and Polly had mostly avoided her - until now. Melissa had shown up in her art class. At the end of the first day, as Polly was finishing up the cube they were assigned to draw, Melissa had come up behind her and said, in a voice loud enough for all to hear, "Isn't that the picture you drew in kindergarten?" Polly turned, wishing she had a comeback, but Melissa was already heading out of the room with one of the guys.

The other student who irritated her was Wallace. (Who names their son Wallace?) He was older, in his thirties. He didn't interact with the other students or participate in the endless drama and meaningless chatter of undergraduates. He worked by himself with an amazing focus and intensity. Polly was jealous and wished that she cared as much as he. But every once and a while she caught him looking at her. Never at any other of the other girls in the room - just her.

Today's assignment was to draw a building on campus. She packed her lunch and went out onto the campus laws to select a view to draw. Just as she was picking a place to sit down, she noticed Wallace intently sketching the administration building. She silently walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder. Her jaw dropped. His picture was light years ahead of anything else she had seen in the class. "My God, I can't believe you just drew that!"

He looked up, unfazed. "Hi, Polly. Care to join me?" He patted the ground beside him.

Polly set her bag down and eased onto the grass. "You know my name?"

Wallace smiled. "I've noticed you."

She changed the subject before her blush became too obvious. "How'd you learn to draw like that?"

"I've been painting and drawing since I was six. If I were good enough, I would have quit my job and do this full time."

"What's your job?"

"I'm a desk jockey for Data Ink. Boring as hell, but the hours are regular and leave me free for my hobby."

"Let me see." Polly took the green-covered sketch book out of his hand. The current year, 2012, was written on the cover. She opened it randomly to a picture of a girl. He reached to take it back, but she turned away from him so she could get a better look. It was a portrait from the back, showing mostly hair and bare shoulders. She looked more closely. "Is that me?"

It was Wallace's turn to blush. "Yeah." He took the pad back. "I think you're pretty. I like the way you put your hair up sometimes to expose the nape of your neck."

"But I was wearing clothes."

"Of course. I was more interested in the curve of your neck. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Can I see it again?"

Reluctantly he surrendered the book. She leafed through it until she found her picture, but the other pages impressed her as well. She recognized class assignments, but he had a lot other pictures of stone walls and trees. There was a faceless girl where he focused on the folds of her shirt.

"This is really good. I mean, I don't know much about art, but this is really good."

"Thanks."

She turned another page. This time there was quick sketch of her face.

She looked at him questioningly. He shrugged.

"You never even sit near me."

"I can see you better from across the room."

She flipped through a couple more pages. Another image stopped her cold. It was a sketch of a woman wearing a blindfold.

Her stomach clenched and her heart pounded. She wanted to stare at it but felt embarrassed. Like a guilty pleasure. She quickly closed the book. "I don't see anyone else from the class in here."

"No."

"I'm the only person you've drawn?"

"Recently. I haven't worked from live models. I have a lot to learn about drawing people."

No, you don't, Polly thought, but she admired his modesty.

"Let's take a look at your pad." He reached across her lap to where she had laid hers on the ground.

"No, I'm terrible!" But she let him pick it up.

He turned to the most recent page, an outline of the engineering building that was half finished. It looked like a stack of boxes.

"Hmm. Maybe if you would darken these lines, here and here and here."

She took it back and touched it up with her pencil as he had suggested. The profile of the building seemed to jump out at her. "That's amazing."

"See? You do have an eye for the detail. Now you need to learn how to pull out the most important features." He took the tablet back and flipped through earlier pages - her various attempts at the apple and then other solid shapes the teacher had assigned. "Anyone can see you are making progress."

"You are very kind. Do you think you could give me some more pointers?"

"Sure." He turned back to the current project. For the next twenty minutes he described how the architect had envisioned the profile of the building and the placement of the windows and how the colored aluminum panels highlighted the dark limestone blocks.

"I never saw it that way. It was just a big rectangle." Now that she understood the building better, it was easier to see what details needed to show up in her picture. "Why did you sign up for this beginning class?"

"It's always helpful for me to review basics. I'm not really taking it ­just sitting in. The teacher knows me and is willing to give me feedback on whatever I choose to draw." Wallace looked at his watch. "Sorry. Gotta run. Let's continue this later. Thursday, maybe? After class?"

"That would be wonderful. Thanks."

"Here. I have pretensions." He handed her a business card that said "Wallace Feary, Studio Art. "See you then," and he ran off too quickly for her to reply.

Her eyes followed him as he headed off. Then she noticed Melissa watching her.

Thursday, she got to class late. All the seats near Wallace were taken so she sat on the other side of the room. Melissa had claimed a chair next to him. Although she was practically leaning over his desk, he gave her only a glance and a cursory nod in greeting. They handed in their building assignments and were told to work with flowers. When the class ended, Melissa tried to engage him in conversation. Polly thought she was standing way too close, her boobs almost touching him. She overheard parts of the conversation. It was one-sided.

". . . so beautiful. I wish I could draw that way. Do you give lessons, Wallace?"

"Uh, thanks. No, I'm still learning." He looked around the room for an escape.

"My father owns a bank. Maybe he could put up some of your artwork in the lobby You know, like a gallery?"

"Maybe. Sorry, I have to go."

"OK, Wallace. See you Tuesday."

"Sure, uh . . ."

"Melissa." She held out her hand. He ignored it and turned away.

He doesn't even know her name, Polly thought triumphantly, and maneuvered to intercept him as he came through the door.

They ate lunch together. Frustratingly for Polly, he was seriously trying to tutor her in drawing. She appreciated it, but wanted to turn the conversation to more personal things, like what it meant that he wasn't wearing a ring. Just when he began to ask about her interests, Melissa plopped herself down at the table. She started an incessant babble at Wallace, pointedly ignoring Polly. Wallace glanced back and forth between them and gave Polly an eye-rolling look that said, We'll continue this another time (at least that's what Polly hoped he meant), and then he excused himself to get to work. Melissa left immediately after, without having spoken a word to Polly. Polly kicked herself for not having given Wallace her phone number.

Over the weekend Wallace was on her mind nonstop. For the first time this semester, she was genuinely eager for her art class. She worked really hard on her assignment, trying guess how Wallace might have looked at a flower.

Tuesday Wallace wasn't in class.

Thursday Wallace wasn't in class. She approached the teacher and asked if he knew anything about Wallace.

"He emailed that a cousin had died. I think the funeral was yesterday."

"Thanks."

Saturday, Polly tracked down the address of his studio. It was just a house. She rang the bell. After a moment Wallace answered the door. "Polly!"

Polly shyly held up his card. "I wanted to see your studio if it is open."

"Come on in. My true confession is that I don't have a studio. This is where I live."

"Oh, sorry. I should have called. And I'm sorry for your loss. I was worried when you missed classes."

"That's OK. Thanks, it was not a surprise. It was his time. Come this way. I can show you where I paint."

"You paint?" she asked, as she followed him upstairs.

"That's why I am working on my drawing. The Renaissance painters said every artist needs to learn how to draw before paint ever touches canvas. I'm not sure I have followed that rule, but it all works together." He opened the roof to a large sunny room. Paintings lined the floor leaning against the wall. A set of shelves held his supplies. There was an easel in one corner of the room with a canvass that faced away from her. He quickly removed the canvass and placed it facing the wall.

She moved slowly among the paintings, looking at a few still lifes, the view from his window, some street scenes. "No portraits?"

"I'm not ready."

"I don't believe that." The last canvass was the one he had removed from the easel. Before he could object, she picked it up and turned it around. She gasped. It was a portrait of her in charcoal.

"I'm speechless. This is so beautiful. How did you do it?"

"I hope you aren't offended." He pulled out his cell phone and showed her a photo he had taken when she wasn't aware.

"Offended? I'm honored. And your painting looks so much better than I do. Is there any way you could make a copy of it?"

"Let me finish it. It's almost done, then I will give it to you, on one condition."

"What's that?"

"You will let me make another one. Of you, for me."

"You want me to sit for it?" she asked.

"I've worked from pictures before but never made a portrait from a live model. Perhaps we can start with a photo and then have you sit for the final stages."

"When? Now?"

"You look beautiful now."

She had wanted to look her best for this visit and had been careful with her make-up. "Let me touch up a bit. Where is your bathroom?"

He indicated the way and she disappeared for a few minutes while he prepared the camera. For the next hour he took pictures of her from various angles, catching the sunlight on different sides of her face.

"I will see what I can do with these as a start. Maybe next Saturday you can sit for me while I work on it, but I need to go to work now."

"Next Saturday?"

"About ten. The morning light is good then."

"What should I wear?"

"How do you want to look in the picture?"

Polly's restlessness disappeared. When she wasn't thinking of Wallace, she was able to concentrate on her schoolwork. And she was excited about drawing class, but not because of her art. She didn't even think about Melissa anymore.

Over the next week Polly thought about Wallace's last question. How did she want to present herself in a portrait that he would keep for himself? She decided she liked the previous pictures with the bare shoulders, and he said he liked her neck. So, she selected a red blouse that could be worn off-the-shoulders.

Polly arrived a little early the next weekend. Wallace was on the phone with a business call and waved her up to his studio. While she waited, she looked around. On the shelves by his paints were a number of sketch books. She selected one with a blue cover dated 2007 and began to look through it. These were smaller, rougher pictures. It seemed to be a book to jot down ideas rather than finished works. She discovered several pages of minimalist sketches of women. They were graceful curves, and he seemed to be experimenting with how much he could convey with the fewest lines. She understood from his few sure lines that the curve of the waist conveyed much more feminine sexuality than breasts. The set of the hips showed life and action and sensuality. The hint of a shadow between the thighs was more subtly enticing than graphic sex organs.

When she turned the page she had another jolt. It another the face of a girl with a blindfold. And maybe that was a leather collar? Her expression was relaxed. Or possibly resigned. Polly read all sorts of scenarios into that ambiguous sketch. That feeling in her gut returned. She snapped the book shut. Then she opened it and found the picture again. Why was it so disturbing and fascinating? She heard Wallace's footsteps and quickly turned back to the other pictures.

Polly was astounded at what he was able to do with what appeared to be a few hasty lines. She held up the book open to him. "No live models?"

"Those were for a previous art class. The instructor brought in a model a couple of times, but we were concentrating on the form and outline of the body rather than the character of the face or other details."

"Could you teach me? Just get me started?"

"Wallace picked up a different tablet and turned to a blank page. "You need to train yourself to see the most important features." He made a quick sketch and a girl emerged in a sitting position.

"Wow. How about standing?"

He did two more in a few seconds. "See how I have left out the harder details like the hands and face? Don't get bogged down initially. Here, you try it."

Polly took the pad and pencil and tried to follow his lead. Her figure was lopsided with oversized breasts. "That looks like it was drawn by a junior high kid on hormones," she admitted.

Wallace laughed. "It's a start. You got some important details. Which details are important depends on the audience, I guess."

"Which ones are important to you?"

He made two more quick figures and showed her. Now her eyes were drawn to the long slender legs. Again the figures ended at the neck. "The truth is," he added, "faces are very important. I just haven't learned to make them quickly. So, are you going to sit for me?"

She sat for three hours, studying the artist as intently as he studied his model. She sensed a challenge, to break through his all-business façade. Wallace said he had put aside all his other projects except his job to concentrate on Polly's portrait. He thought one more session would be enough to complete a rough picture and maybe a third for finishing touches.

By the time she came for her third sitting he was willing to show it to her.

She stared at it and began to cry.

"What's wrong?"

"It's just so . . . beautiful. No one has ever seen me that way."

Wallace put his arms around her. "You are beautiful. If no one else has seen it, it is because they are blind." She let him kiss her. "Have you been practicing the figure sketches?"

"I tried." She pulled out her own sketch book and let him look.

"That's me in a mirror. And that's my roommate."

He regarded them for a moment. "It's a start. Keep working on it. If a line doesn't look right, don't be afraid to redo it." He put in a couple of corrections the pictures improved dramatically. "At this stage don't bother erasing."

Now here is your reward." He handed her a canvas on a stretcher wrapped in paper. "This is the portrait you asked for. I have sprayed the charcoal so it won't smear."

She gave him a kiss in return. "I would like to come back next week."

"To sit again?"

"I want to give you something in return."

She did come back the next week. "Ready for your present?"

"Sure."

"Give me a 30-second head start. And bring your camera." She went upstairs to the studio. When Wallace entered she was sitting in the sunlight entirely nude. "You deserve a live model. Take full advantage of me." Something in her smile suggested she was not only talking about art. She let him photograph her as long as he wanted.

Over the next several weeks she delighted in posing for him, clothed or nude. Sometimes she wore sexy lingerie, and that made it more fun.

After one of her modeling sessions, Polly was lazing in bed. Wallace excused himself to do some work on the computer. She showered and put on a bathrobe. As she sat on the bed toweling her hair, she noticed another sketchbook under the bedside table. She thought that was odd because he kept all his notebooks in the studio, where she had looked through most of them. This one was dated 2009; but there was another one in the studio with that date.

One glance inside told her this was a private sketchbook. It was half-length figure of a girl whose wrists were bound with rope. She had straight dark hair and he had not bothered with a face. She turned the page. A different girl was blindfolded and her arms were tied to her sides. The view was from the back and her head was turned to show it from the side. A third picture shows the subject from the waist on up playing with her leather collar and smiling inward. There were matching leather cuffs on her wrist.

How did he portray that inward smile? Her are were lifted up and to the side. Clearly she is not looking at anything in particular. What she is thinking about is far away, or perhaps in her imagination. A fantasy? Or what might be about to happen?

She heard Wallace returning and quickly put the book back on the floor under the table. He walked by the door but didn't come in yet. She bent down to pick up the book again and saw three more under the bed. She reached for another instead. This was dated 2011, last year. She opened it to a picture of a nude woman much more completely bound with ropes. The details of the knots and fabric of the rope contrasted with vague rendering of her face and hair. This was Wallace's imagination, not a model. Of that she was sure.

She turned several pages to another sketch. This figure squatted on the floor, naked except for high heels. He hands were tied or perhaps cuffed behind her back. There was a collar about her neck and leash attached to it pulling gently forward. The tug caused her to turn her face away from the viewer, and her hair hung down so as to hide its features. Polly realized her own hand was in her crotch.