"How about I treat you to a drink? You must be thirsty from all that naked time on the platform."
I had just climbed down from the velvet-covered bench on the platform where I'd been posing, in the nude, for the past hour for Chad Simmons's Savannah College of Art and Design night school art class. I'd barely had time to shrug my white cotton dress shirt over my shoulders. That didn't stop the man from sidling up to me and taking liberties, though. He had a hand on my bare butt. I wasn't surprised; I'd been expecting him to leap up on the platform with me and try to cover me since half way through the art session.
Truth be told, I was kind of aroused that I'd have an effect like that on a good-looking guy.
I looked over at Chad Simmons. He was cleaning some brushes and talking to the last of the other art students who were already filing out of the room. I'd only taken this gig to be near Chad, wanting it to be him asking me the "How about a drink at my place?" question. But the art professor was being very polite and standoffish about it all. I'd hoped when he saw me naked it would turn him on—like seeing him in a Speedo out at his Tybee Island beach house a couple of weeks ago had turned me on. But he was showing less interest in me naked than when we passed in the hallways.
"Drinks?" I said, turning my face back to the fiftyish local businessman—a very successful Lexus dealer, as I recall being told—with a large townhouse just off Chatham Square, within walking distance of here, that he had all to himself. He was tall and distinguished looking, with wavy gray hair, a manicured look about him, and a perpetual deep tan. His body obviously gym cared for. Some sort of South American. Brazilian or Colombian, which probably answered for how deep the tan looked. Maybe into more than just automobiles. Really smooth. Not so great with the painting, though, I could tell, because we were standing next to his canvas. He'd made my butt too big, and he'd obviously stood at my butt end to do the painting. Everyone else did side views. I'd heard rumors about him taking willing male students from SCAD to his place and paying them top dollar.
I couldn't deny that I was a willing student—for a price.
"Sure, at my place; it's just a short distance from here, closer than any of the bars," Rafael Perez said. He still had his palm on my butt, but he was moving it around and squeezing a bit. It was obvious he was a butt man. The fact that I was letting him hold it there no doubt told him that I was for sale—and maybe I was—but only for the right price if I didn't want the guy. I'd give it away for free to Chad Simmons, but for the right price I could be had by the Rafael Perezes of the world. I had college expenses just like everyone else. And, being a student in the drama and film-making department, I had plenty of offers too.
Letting him palm and pet me there helped him be pretty bold.
"I'd just need a couple of hours of your time. And I'd pay you $100 an hour. For a high-quality hour, of course."
I looked over at Chad Simmons, who, seeing that I was still here, walked over to us. Perez took his hand off my butt, stepped back, and turned and looked at his canvas like he was trying to decide what else to do with it. I thought he probably could make the butt smaller and there'd be a 100 percent improvement.
"Before you go, Jason . . ."
"Yes, professor?" I said, stepping into my jeans and turning to him as he walked up to me, looking every inch the sultry dark and sexily hairy young hunk that he was. He could have been a movie star as easily as an art professor. And I knew he was gay, because everyone knew he'd had an older lover who had died and left him that mansion with the private beach on Tybee Island that the art students had been invited to recently.
I left my shirt open and hanging off my shoulders, leaving the fly of my jeans open and my dong hanging out. I knew I looked like an Abercrombie and Fitch model poster that even A&F couldn't hang on their walls—it was why I was asked to model for the art classes—and I wanted those charms to work on Simmons. It was why I accepted the modeling jobs. I wanted him to see me as naked as possible as often as possible. And as he came up to me I did see a spark from him, an even stronger vibe of interest than when I normally saw him in the halls of the school, where I first thought that there was a connection to be had between us. And much more than earlier tonight, when I was posed, reclining and stark naked, on the platform over there. It might have been because he was teaching a class, but he was a cold fish in the face of my nakedness. And I look pretty damn sexy when I'm naked.
When he reached me, he touched me lightly on the arm, and I felt like a jolt of lightning was going through me. I'm sure he could feel it too, and he was looking at me with lust in his eyes, I know he was. "I've meant to ask you if you're free Wednesday evening for a private session. I need another male nude sketch for my portfolio for the New Orleans show and I'm running short of time."
Hallelujah is what I thought, but what I said was, "Sure thing, professor. Any time. Even now if you—"
"I can't tonight. There's an art opening I have to attend. So, Wednesday at 8:00 would be convenient for you?" I noted a tinge of genuine regret in his voice.
"Yes, of course." Any time for you, I thought. But what were these mixed signals all about? I got the distinct impression just now that he'd like me to stay so he could fuck me.
I watched him turn and slowly walk away.
"So, you are free now to be with me?" Perez asked. He was back beside me and had a hand on my butt again, even though it had to be over my jeans.
"Sure, why not?" I answered, tucking my dick into my jeans and zipping them up.
He fucked me in what obviously was a painting studio on the top floor of his townhouse—so he was a serious painter at least, or maybe just a dabbler from the looks of the paintings on his walls in the studio. He had a one-track mind in his painting. All young men with big butts, painted from the rear, most of them showing gaping holes like they'd just been reamed big.
He spent a whole lot of time on my buttocks during foreplay, so I could tell it was a real obsession of his. I was bent over a studio bed in the center of the room on my belly, with my butt sticking out and up, while he virtually worshipped it with his lips and teeth and his squeezing and revolving hands. I was as worked up as he was when he turned me on my back, grabbed my ankles, spread-eagled my legs, and fucked me with a thick cock that would ream me as big as those guys in the paintings on the wall.
When we were both done, he turned me over on my belly again and told me to go up on my knees, my chest pressed to the bed, my legs spread wide. He then took out a camera and his easel, canvas, and paintbrushes, and it was evident that my backside and my gaping hole, thankfully my buttocks painted large enough so I wouldn't be recognized, was destined for his wall collection.
The signal for when he was finished with his painting came when he came over, slapped my buttocks, and rolled the cheeks with his hands until my skin was red and he was ready to fuck me again—which he then proceeded to do with gusto.
I earned $300 for the session, but never was offered that promised drink.
* * * *
I gave a little cry as he entered me and pulled nearly all the way out and then back in, deep this time, making me open to him, but not as comfortably as if he'd given me more time and attention. And then slamming it home, again and again. A louder groan and a cry out this time. "God, you're fuckin' killing me." He was big, and he was taking me swiftly, almost brutally.
"Shush," George Garnett hissed. "You'll bring on the dorm counselor." Then he laughed.
He'd entered my dorm room while I was dozing on the bed, tired from a late-night play rehearsal. I wasn't even fully awake when he teased me to raise my hips enough for him to pull my cock through my legs and include that in the cursory attention he was giving to my asshole. And then it was all arms and legs, covering me, turning me on my back, forcing my legs to spread wider, and trapping me until his hard cock was in position to penetrate me. He bit me on the neck as he thrust his cock home, which had caused me to cry out in shock and momentary pain.
"You are the dorm counselor," I growled. "You're supposed to be the one protecting me."
"Got ya covered," he muttered, with another laugh, as he thrust it deep again and again and again.
"Shit, what's the hurry?"
"Got no time. Got a class. Came in to tell you something, but you looked too sexy laying there. There should be a law against a guy looking that sexy."
I groaned as he turned me on my belly; coaxed me up on my knees; crouched close over me, his chest pressing mine into the mattress, my arms out wide, my fingers digging into the crumpled sheets; and pistoned my channel with his cock. He was an athlete and in superb condition. All I could do was groan and take it. It wasn't like he hadn't been there before.
When we were stretched on the bed, my body pulled into his stomach and his arms and legs entwining me again, both cooling off from our separate ejaculations, him kissing my ear, I asked him why again he'd come into my room.
"Well, I was hoping for a quick fuck. Didn't want to go to class hard and I woke up with a raging hard—thinkin' about you, of course. But I also wanted to be sure you'd heard about the beach party out at Tybee Island this Sunday."
"No, I hadn't heard."
"Celebrating national Nude Day. All guys, wearing nothing. At Professor's Simmons's beach house. He agreed to let us use the place. Nifty idea, eh?"
I'm not sure what George said after that. I wasn't more than half aware that he then was standing hovered over me sitting on the side of the bed, me cleaning his cock with my mouth, him getting hard again, but pushing me off with a laugh, saying he was late to class. And then me alone.
All I could think of was that I'd be at Chad Simmons's house, nude, with another chance to have him doing to me what George had just done—but, in my imagination, slower, more sensually, making me come again and again for him.
I had snapped out of it enough when George reached the door to my room that I called out to him and he turned.
"You know you can't just barge in here and fuck me whenever you want," I said, jutting my chin out.
He laughed. "Yes I can, and you know I can. You may have the cutest tail on campus, but it's mine whenever I want it—and you are a whore for it."
I couldn't look him in the eyes. I knew he was right. If he'd come back for me then, I would have opened my legs for him. I was such a slut, I knew it. But I was aching to be Chad Simmons's slut. And I would be Wednesday night. We'd be alone. I knew he wanted me. He'd have me—and I him—on Wednesday night.
But when Wednesday night came, I found that wasn't to be.
I was naked even before he came into the studio, posing myself in a reclining position on the couch on the platform in the center of the room, my thighs open for him.
But he was as cold and clinical as he'd always been in my nude sessions. He never came close enough to me to touch me, and he had me rise from the couch and pose in an open doorway, leaning into the frame with an arm raised over my head and my hip raised.
I gave him the most sultry look I could muster while he sketched me. But forty-five minutes later, he just thanked me and told me that he was pleased with the result. He then said he was late to an engagement and that I was free to go.
After he left, I went and stood in front of the easel to see what he'd done. It was a charcoal sketch done in bold strokes. He had caught perfectly the sexy, sultry, "take me" expression I'd gone for and the openness to exploration of my body. I couldn't, for the life of me, understand how he could have seen that in the art and not in real life. I knew he wanted me. I just knew it.
Earlier, in a panic, I'd wondered if maybe he was only a bottom—that it had been the rich, dead lover who was the sole top in their relationship. But, in asking around, I found that wasn't true. I also found that he wasn't above nailing SCAD students, so I still didn't know what the problem was with me.
* * * *
I didn't pay too much attention to what I was putting on to go to the Nude Day beach party on Sunday and I'd just come out of the gym, so I hopped on my motorbike wearing sweat pants over a jock strap and a gray athletic shirt with a ripped flap in it that exposed one of my pecs, the one with the silver ring in the nipple. I did shower first, though. It wasn't that I was wearing what I had on in the gym. It also, though, wasn't like I had to dress formal for this; it was a nude party. I wasn't planning on wearing anything for very long. And I wanted Chad Simmons to see me in the nude; it was my best aspect. I was counting on him being there. The party was at his beach house.
When I arrived, I was ushered upstairs to a room that had a bed in it but was mostly a study, I thought. Lots of bookshelves and books. Guys were leaving their clothes in there on a studio couch. I stripped and left my gym clothes there too. Open double doors led into a large bedroom on the back of the house. Beyond that was a balcony overlooking the beach, and the noise from there led me through the bedroom and out onto the balcony.
There were a couple of dozen guys down there, all naked, and most of them well muscled and cut. A few horses too, including a couple of black guys talking with George Garnett. They were real bodybuilders and both were covered in tattoos. I didn't recognize them as students and guessed that they were from the city. They certainly were hung, both of them. There were several down there, as a matter of fact, that I didn't recognize as students.
The beach was quite private, which I suppose was why we were permitted to do this here. Chad's lot jutted out into the water and had high fences down each side. The lots on either side were unimproved and I thought it likely that Chad owned them too—inheriting the lots and this house from the manufacturer who had been his lover. Rock outcroppings ran down either side of the lot inside the fences too, extending from the grassy area below the balcony into the sand. The rocks created little pockets of sandy areas that could only be seen from the water—and from up here on the balcony.
What I could see from the balcony was that, although there was a volleyball game going, some tanning on towels on the beach, and a few guys out in the water, the more private areas already were being put to use by couples copulating. It wasn't just going to be a Nude Day celebration, it was going to be an action party. That was just fine with me if Chad Simmons was here.
I looked carefully at those down there, but I didn't see him. I paused to contemplate what I did see—what the party was supposed to be about. Did I find it more arousing, more sexy, to see guys nude rather than clothed? It helped in the shopping, I guess. I could see what was hanging and how fluid they actually were in movement. It certainly stirred me to see what those two black dudes were packing—and how their tattoos flowed across their bodies and undulated as they used their muscles. I admit I wouldn't mind a private meeting with either one of them. But did I really see the nude guys down there as more sexy without Speedos? There was something to be said about the mystery of anticipation and hidden possibilities, I thought.
When I turned to walk back through the bedroom and down the stairs, I noticed the décor of the room for the first time. It was a man's room. The walls were a dark green in a suede texture and the other color accents were brown and gold. The walls were covered with prints, lit up by track lighting. They seemed to be Oriental studies of ornately clothed figures in ancient costumes. The Oriental motif was followed elsewhere in the room as well. I was surprised about the artwork. This seemed to be the master bedroom. I expected that Chad's bedroom would have nude male figures on the wall—most of them probably painted by him.
Maybe, though, this bedroom had been decorated by his lover and Chad had decided not to change anything.
I approached one of the walls closer and saw that they were all Japanese wood block prints. And further, that they were Shunga pillow book art from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I had been exposed to these in a class at SCAD. Pillow books were essentially sex manuals. These were distinctive in that the figures in the wood block prints all appeared to be males—in couples. And they all were having sex of some sort. In keeping with the technique, the figures mostly were clothed, with just bits of flesh here and there exposed—rather more than less in some of the prints. But it was clear that they were all having sex and that, walking around the walls, I could get a clear picture of the various sexual positions for male-on-male sex that were practiced at that time. I also "got" that the arousal of sex could be conveyed with just the expressions on their faces and the entwining of their clothed bodies. I didn't have to see naked cock in hole to "get" it.
I walked all the way around the walls, and by the time I reached the doorway out into the upper hallway landing, I was hard. As I descended the stairs, I saw Chad at the front door. He was in a suit and apparently had just arrived home. He seemed surprised to see me descending the stairs. I admit I was pleased that he saw me in erection.
I expected him to make a move then, but although I could see the hint of interest in his eyes, I couldn't see enough interest to have hope that he would lose control and ravish me on the spot.
"You are part of this Nude Day gathering thing, then, are you, Jason?" he said, his voice sounding a little surprised, like this was the first time he realized I was gay. He took his suit coat off while he said that, but he folded the coat over his arm. Hardly the stripping down I'd been hoping for. And a check of his basket didn't reveal any particular arousal.
"Yes, George Garnett invited me."
"Ah, George. Yes, well, the others are out at the beach, I think."
"Yes. I just arrived. We were told to strip upstairs in that study-like space." We both were being awkward. I was wanting him to cover me right there on the staircase and take me and he just seemed tired from wherever he'd been.
"Yes, well. I hope you enjoy the party."
"You aren't going to be coming out?"
"No. I don't think so. Nudity's not really my thing. I have some work to do upstairs. But enjoy yourself."
I'd reached the bottom of the stairs and he moved past me, careful not to touch me, and slowly ascended the stairs.
Not into nudity? I thought. He'd thrown me for a loop there. The man's specialty was painting the nude male figure. Shaking my head, I padded through a kitchen at the back of the foyer and out onto a covered porch underneath the second-floor balcony and then out onto the grassy area.
George Garnett, standing, alone on the verge between the grass and the sand, saw me and waved me over. Now it seemed a bit unfortunate that I was still half hard. When he saw me, he started going hard too. He obviously thought he was the one who had excited me. He had every reason to think that. He was a horse, and I'd made it abundantly clear that I liked them big.
"Happy to see me, I see," he said as I came up to his side. He put an arm around my shoulders, his hand draped over my pec and his fingers finding the nipple with the ring in it, and he fisted my cock with his other hand. "I thought you'd never come. I couldn't wait for us to come together. Get it? Come together."