The Artist's View

When the model arrived at my home studio, I was momentarily stunned. I remembered him as handsome -- but somehow in a group modeling, I had maintained the 'model-artist' unwritten protocol -- and just ignored that fact.

Because there IS a protocol: "Models aren't sex-objects or male or female. They are human bodies -- a mix of light and dark areas, muscle and fat, textures and smoothness. Heavy or thin, all bodies have an inherent beauty, and that non-sexual beauty -- as artists -- is all we see."

Except for now. With him standing in my doorway, I had a sudden tightness in my chest when I thought of him modeling nude -- and me drawing him -- in the intimacy of my living room. Instead of light and dark, all I saw was a very desirable man.

Quickly, I cleared my throat and in my most business-like manner, explained to him that we would be modeling in my light-filled living room. In the daytime, I doubted anyone could see in.

I handed him a towel, showed him the chair where he'd be seated and directed him to the spare bedroom where he could disrobe in private.

This was my first time hiring a model, but I was determined to bring the vision I had in my head to life in a drawing. And the 45-minute classroom poses were just not long enough.

I had hired my model for three hours -- at minimum wage, it was a great deal! I wondered if he knew that art classes paid a dollar more ... $9 rather than $8?

But when I had called him, he had seemed eager for the work. While he was undressing I finished sharpening my pencils.

The model settled onto the overstuffed chair. We quickly discussed his pose. He had his right leg crossing his left leg, just barely hiding his cock. Then I took my seat and began trying to draw. But the focus and lack of emotion -- that objectivity -- that I always pride myself on, just wasn't there.

Instead as I tried to create a likeness, my vivid imagination took over ... what if. What if he was as attracted to me as I was to him? What if his cock gets hard? What if I kissed him then?

"STOP -- OMG," I yelled at myself. What do you mean, "kiss him." There is no kissing in modeling. The artist DOES NOT touch the model. Never. Not. No touching.

I renewed my focus on my drawing, ignoring the wetness growing between my legs. Line- shape -- shadows I admonished myself. Always, I pushed myself when I drew -- To look harder. To really see. To not get lazy and just draw any old line. To look intently and draw only what is there.

My eyes scanned his face as I started with his head. Drawing the crook where his eyebrow started, and then his eye. Then his nose ... making sure I left an eye's width between his eyes ... down to his mouth.

He was a very handsome man ... not pretty handsome, but rugged 'James Bond" handsome. But he had dimples! Killer dimples. And when he smiled his face totally changed, opening up. One moment the warrior was sitting there -- the next moment the entertainer was there.

Stop it! I admonished myself. This is WAY outside of what is appropriate. I continued to block in his body, letting my pencil lines follow down the defining lines of his arms.

And great arms they are ... powerful. I felt a twinge in my crotch. Ohhh. Mmmhh. And they fit nicely into his shoulders -- which sloped down to his powerful chest. You could see that he had always been a very fit, very well built man. I carefully started to indicate his pecs and his nipples.

After I finished blocking out his body, I moved back up to his face. As an artist ... ok, and as a woman ... I consider myself someone of an expert at telling when people's eyeballs move, what they are looking at. For instance, I can always catch those 'boob glances ' ... even when men think that I'm not looking. My peripheral vision is excellent.

I started the shading under his eyebrow, deepening the space at the corner of his eye. I observed his eyes were no longer focused on the painting across the room. Instead -- while his head stood still -- his eyes were scanning my body. They took it all in- at least everything that was visible outside of my drawing board. He looked at my legs -- up, down and up again ... then he stared very intently at what had to be my crotch area. I warmed up even more. He studied my shoulders. My face. My hair.

He scanned me like an x-ray machine. If his eyes could have removed my clothes, I would have been as naked as he was right now. That idea made me catch my breath. As I tried to maintain my composure, I realized that his cock was no longer hidden behind his leg ... indeed, it was growing in a very impressive way. He seemed a trifle non-plussed -- the muscles in his face rippled as he focused ... trying to will it down. But it continued to march upward.

At this point my resolve weakened. I looked at my drawing. I looked back at the model. My art brain had totally turned off ... instead my insides felt like mush.

"I think we can use a short break." I said brightly. I knew that I seriously needed one. It was becoming very clear to me that his sweeping my body with his eyes had produced this very impressive hard on! And I knew I was about as turned on as I could be without having an orgasm sitting on my stool.

I went into the bathroom, just so I could have a moment alone. I heard my model getting a glass of water in the kitchen. My pussy was throbbing. Again I reflected on the situation — what if I indeed did have an orgasm sitting there across the room from this luscious man. What would he say? Would he be embarrassed? Would he be encouraged? Would he just get mad and leave?

And how would I explain it. I wasn't sure I could help myself.

I tried deep breathing. I did some math ... wasn't that supposed to help men?

Nothing was helping. I was so totally going to explode soon. I didn't think there was any preventing it, any more than you could stop rushing water or thunder following lightening.

Something had to change. I recalled his sweeping my body with his eyes. His growing erection. The slight, sexy change in the muscles at the side of his mouth ... he wanted me. He wanted me really badly. I was almost sure of it ... no, I was totally sure.

Quickly, I decided. There was one option and only one option here.

I stripped off my tank top, bra and shorts - then retied my apron on. At least from the front, I would look pretty much the same. But I would be ready for him -- and I would make the first move.

Because my two choices appeared to be have a killer orgasm in front of my model. Or on top of my model. I was choosing on top.

As I walked back into the living room, the model was back in place. However, his hard-on was even harder -- and larger. A smile crossed my face. Oh yes, I had made the right call.

He was looking at me with clearly evident lust. I tried to continue drawing. Then I quickly erased what I had just drawn -- it was crap. A monkey could draw better right now. My art brain was gone -- in its place my sex brain was screaming at me "go fuck him now."

At that point, his eyes widened. He noticed that I no longer had anything under my apron. I stood up, and let my apron fall away from my body. I was now as naked as he was. I caressed my breasts as I quickly walked across the room and straddled his legs. Before I mounted him -- I reached two fingers inside my pussy and brought them up -- wet and glistening. "This is for you," I said. He took my fingers, put them in his mouth and sucked them clean.

"And so is this," I continued ... And then I lifted my pussy onto his rock-hard cock and instantly we smashed the model -- artist protocol into a million tiny bits ... as we lustily violated each and every rule, every stipulation, every barrier. Until we weren't artist and model any more, but lovers. A 60-something man and woman. Kissing. Touching. Yearning. Exploring. Discovering. And wanting more and more. And finally, exploding with orgasms.