tagIllustratedThe Tuesday Art Class

The Tuesday Art Class


Another week, another escape. Sam was looking forward to his weekly Art Class. At least it got him out of the house! Middle age had crept right up on them, he and his wife. Before he knew it, here they were, in their fifties and just waiting for what? Time? Retirement? Looking back, he couldn't believe where all the time had gone. And now here he was, with plenty of time, and...nothing much to show for it. Mary was still attractive, in his eyes, thirty years together, and she hadn't really got as old as some women her age had, she looked good, she still had a fine body on her, and some clothes which showed it off discreetly. But she had slipped into Granny mode all too soon when their first grandchild came along. She was a cracking mother and grandmother, but somewhere along the line, the "wife" in her had died. Gone were the stockings and the short skirts, the heels, dressing up for bed, and little touches and teases.

"Oh grow up Sam, act your age!" was the usual line she had used lately, to the point where he had given up. But in his mind he still had desires. Sure, his body was acting its age, gone were the rock hard erections that lasted for hours. It seemed that now he knew he had no need for them, they simply stopped coming. At least the pun made him smile!

He set off for his Tuesday at the local college. He'd tried suggesting things they could do together, but she simply hadn't noticed, or even been bothered, what with going to the kids, baking, having the grandkids over for the evening. So he had signed up for an Arts Class down at the college in town. They were doing drawing this term, but would move on to light and photography after the winter break. As he had always dabbled with portraits, he was looking forward to getting the most out of the Digital SLR he had treated himself to when he took Early Retirement. Another phrase for Redundancy in his mind, but he had decided to get out so they could both live and have time together . . .. and here he was, off to Class! Still, it was a distraction. And at least they'd moved on from "still-life"!

He set up, and had bagged a front-row easel this time. He checked his pencils and shaders, and got all set. He was next to Gerry, an older bloke who was a bit too loud for Sam's liking. They spoke, but Sam was careful never to get too pally with him, there was just something about him. Next was Grant, the young student. Sam often wished he'd done this when he was that lad's age, but he hadn't, so that was that. Last on the front was Saskia, the Goth-girl, as he called her. She was striking in looks, and always sensual in her moves or her voice. She was definitely a looker, always made you feel special when she spoke to you, but was -- allegedly -- into the ladies. Sam didn't worry, she just made him feel nice.

While he was setting up, he heard Mr Richards chatting to the model. Linzi was nice to look at, and nice to draw. She posed really well, but never spoke much. He guessed that she just did this for the money, and it passed the time. She always dressed nice, and posed well. Sam knew that Richards pestered her to pose nude for them, but she always refused. When it was warmer, she would pose in a bathing suit, and once even in a bikini.

But when Sam glanced to the brightly lit seat in front of the students, he couldn't believe his eyes! Richards must have brought in a new model --and there she was, undressing in front of them. Sam at first thought she must have a bikini on under her clothes, but as she peeled off her tights, he could tell that she only wore cotton knickers.

He swore under his breath, having missed her removing her skirt. God, she was so hot, it felt like she was doing a strip-tease, just for him. He watched as she revealed her bra, and a lovely pair of breasts as she slipped off her blouse. He figured she was about five foot six, maybe mid-twenties, definitely curvy. The curves were all in the right places. Gerry snorted something at his side, but Sam just ignored him. As she turned and moved, he let his eyes feast on her body. Curvy, not fat, but thankfully not a stick insect. He was a leg man, in preference, but his eyes were drawn to those breasts that threatened to spill out of her bra as she reached back with her hands. But she couldn't...

He prayed that his gasp wasn't too loud as she deftly removed her bra, then quickly bent and slipped those knickers down her legs. He caught a slight glimpse of her womanhood as she sat, arms and legs crossed, looking at Richards. To his amazement, he heard that lucky bastard Richards saying something about "pose-arrangement", and he proceeded to lift one leg, and drape it over the arm of the chair, as he gently moved one of her arms to drape it over the chair.

She looked heavenly, though somewhat coy and bashful, as she sat there, blatantly displaying her charms, from the soft pillowy cushions of those magnificent breasts, to the downy-covered triangle of her pubis. He swore that he could see her labia slightly part, and a glisten in the lights from it. He'd seen paintings, he'd seen pictures, but never in his life had he seen a strange, naked female, sat openly in front of him, showing herself like this . . . . . . .

The sounds of Richards pacing round the room, and the scratch of pen, and whisper of brush on canvas brought him out of his spell. The lights were bright, she sat motionless in front of the class, as everyone -- surely like him, not believing their luck at this magnificence -- began their etchings. He managed a shadowy outline, though he was struggling with the tilt of the head, and the curve of her legs. He just couldn't help but be drawn back to those breasts time and time again, as he feverishly worked away, hoping he could capture her essence, and ignore the growing strain in his boxers.

Good lord -- he had an erection! He turned his mind back to drawing - - - - but oh my, it was hard! In more ways than one! Richards worked his way round the class a few times. Richards gave each of them an appraisal and criticism, comments always encouraging, never disparaging. They were all at different stages, which Sam liked, as they could always learn from each other. "Well done you've captured the fullness of her breasts..." as he glanced at Sam's effort.

Sam was pleased with that comment, though he was aware that perhaps the rest of her figure was not as good. He stared at his drawing, how had he -- a leg man -- come to be apparently fixated on those gorgeous globes? He shook his head. He was almost disappointed when Richards called to them for a rest-break for the model. He hurriedly turned to his pencils, trying to hide his discomfort from the others, and looking busy. The model stretched her arms and legs, but remained seated. He tried not to watch, but she looked so delicious. He shook his head. What was he thinking! He panicked when she stood up, her back to him, and his eyes traced the curves of her waist, the small of her back, that cute, soft, round, kissable bum, those thighs...

She turned, and began to step towards them...towards him. He turned in his seat, desperately trying to grab the small sketch pad from his bag to place over his lap, to try and hide...too late, she was stood next to him. He breathed in, a delicious scent of mint on her breath, and a soft trace of moisturiser from her skin. That soft, smooth, deliciously young skin, so perfect, so near, so... She was bent down to him, sitting awkwardly on his seat trying to hard a painfully throbbing erection that simply wouldn't go away. She touched his shoulder, and he jumped.

Her hand. He could feel the soft heat of her, even through his shirt. He swore he could feel a tip of moisture forming at the end of his cock, the tell-tale stain just starting to show there, on the thigh of his fawn trousers. God, he hoped she couldn't see, what would she think . . . . .? "Hi, I'm Miranda. I'm so glad you like my tits."

The shaft, engorged as it was, twitched involuntarily, and spewed out pre-cum. She must have seen. Those words, warm breath in his ear, coiling through his curls, her hand still on his shoulder, he swore that he could have, would have, come there and then, if she had asked him to, or willed him to. He turned to look her in the eye.

That was not that easy when those "tits" were brushing his upper arm, so soft, so full, so round, the nipples obviously hard. Her eyes were strangely shy, coy, bashful even, yet full of an energy and a light only witnessed in the eyes of a woman who is sexually aroused. "Could she be?" he wondered...

He was on the verge of embarrassing himself completely when she turned from him, her delightful arse rolling away, in only the way that a sensual woman can control her curves. It was there, like a peach, so firm, so full so...

She turned to glare at Gerry, who had sneakily pinched her bum while she looked at Grant's drawing of her. Gerry was "innocently" dabbing away at his canvas. She skipped away, over to the Goth-girl, and for the first time, Sam saw a true sensual predator openly in action. Nothing was rude, nor blatant, but he could see Saskia drawing Miranda - slowly but surely -- into her web. It was pure joy to watch, they exchanged a few words, then Richards came over, all bossy and lecturey, shooing Miranda back to the seat, arranging her back in the same pose. Try as he might, Sam just couldn't get the rest of the drawing to go right, and so stuck with making sure that those breasts were as perfectly drawn as he could.

He carefully shaded out most of the drawing, to try and capture the look of a spot-lit torso. The naked shoulders were softly drawn, fading out in the grey background, the breasts, now "centre-stage" were his best work to date, through to the curves of her soft belly, the waist line, the soft creases captured on her skin where she sat in the chair, down to the tops of her thighs and the hint of a whisper of her pubes before the grey ring of the edge of the "spotlight" faded the rest away. He was pleased, he seemed to have caught something there.

"Class over," Richards announced as a bell rang, and Sam wistfully looked over at Miranda.

He hoped she would be back again. Secretly he dreamt of recapturing that touch, that whisper, that scent. Saskia had gone over to her while she was re-dressing, and Sam tried not to picture the two of them together, naked.. He picked up his bag, and walked out of the room while everyone else was chattering away or packing up their things. The bag bounced on his now semi-erect cock, as he tried to cover the stain on his trousers.

On the drive home, he prayed that tonight would NOT be the night that Mary would want to see what he had drawn in class this week. She had never shown an interest before, but he knew that if she even had an inkling of what he had been able to draw tonight, he wouldn't be carrying on with this particular hobby. He wondered if he should stop off on the way home, and release his pent-up anguish. He groaned, his cock hardening at the thought, and he slowly drew the sketch out from his bag, placing it on the passenger seat, as he pulled into a secluded lay-by...

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