By Kinkabella
Archived Here With Her Kind Permission

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

I found the classroom and met Jeremy just as arranged, although I was almost late which meant the students were all set up and ready to start before me. This dashed any hopes I might have had for a low-key arrival. I could sense an air of impatience even before I undressed. Jeremy's smiling, relaxed welcome did nothing to alleviate the pressure of the hard, twisted knot of nerves in the pit of my stomach. There was no time for chit-chat and instead he simply pointed me to the back corner of the room - a small area screened off with paint-splashed canvas drop sheets - telling me I could 'change' in there.

It was difficult not to make a joke at my own expense. I mean, I was about to sit nude for an hour and a half in front of fifteen or so total strangers and he was telling me I could go somewhere private to get undressed? I wasn't quite sure what he expected I would re-emerge as but I did as he suggested and disappeared into the makeshift dressing room to undress.

(An aside - I later asked about this peculiar situation and was given an explanation that was entirely obvious once I thought about it. The changing area was set up so that models had somewhere clean and 'paint free' to hang their clothes. Every available space from the floor to the ceiling outside in the rest of the art room resembled a Jackson Pollack work in progress.)

Modesty under the circumstances was surely a waste of time but still my hands instinctively wandered in front of my body to shield my nakedness as I walked to a divan. It was draped in heavy black velvet and sat silently ready for me in the middle of the room. Jeremy by this stage had reappeared by my side. He retained his 'professional manner of disinterest' in my nude body but I nonetheless felt his eyes discreetly wandering over me. He asked if I had brought something to read.

I hadn't expected him to be interested in what I read during the sitting, so I casually waved the plain, black covered imprint of The Story Of O and hoped it would satisfy his interest. It didn't but he said nothing. He did, however, raise an eyebrow and give me a funny look as if to say, 'Oh really? You're going to read that while sitting naked in front of a large group of strangers barely out of high school?' It was a look that made my ears and neck hot with the tell-tale sensations of a sudden burning embarrassment.

I stood and stared at the divan for a long moment. How exactly, I wondered, did Jeremy want me posed? For somebody like me, who has spent a lifetime working around famous works of art, the mental blank I was had about how nudes usually reclined artistically on divans was unexpected. Jeremy explained I should begin by just relaxing in a seated position. The precise position, he said, was unimportant just as long as I could hold it without moving too much for about half an hour.

I didn't have to be a statue, he said, and the purpose of classes such as this was for the students to select and paint specific details of the human body rather than entire portraits of my nude form. There was clearly more to this modeling business than I had ever thought! After half an hour a change of position would be called for and I could have a quick break between each half hour pose.

The lush velvet fabric draped over the lounge felt luxurious against my bare skin. I found it difficult to relax at first, but I soon settled into position. My legs extended out in front of me and I crossed my ankles so I could hold my book open in my lap. I began reading and it wasn't long before I felt accustomed (if not totally comfortable) in my new surroundings. I kept my eyes down on my book for a long while and pretended to read the words of the first few pages. They're pages I have read literally dozens of times in the past. In fact, I have read those pages so many times that I almost knew all the words by heart.

When I did finally begin to survey the room, I at first made furtive, short mental excursions with my eyes discreetly raised from the pages in my lap. My attention was drawn to the easel set directly at the foot of the divan. Below the back of the canvas on the easel, I could see the crumpled bagginess of a man's trousers. Paint stains splattered the material bundled atop large, scuffed, unlaced brown leather shoes. The sight immediately made me think of an eccentric old artist like van Gogh or Dali standing there. The bespectacled head which every ten or so seconds rolled sideways out from behind the easel to spy on me caused me to become acutely aware that the class wasn't entirely young students fresh out of school. This man looked to be sixty or more years old and I couldn't imagine what a person of his age was doing in college ... learning to paint nude women ... an old man using the class as an excuse to ogle young, naked women? Surely not!

I quickly averted my eyes from his whenever they came close to meeting my sly peeks up from my book. Out of everybody in the room, and I could only see about a third of them - the ones set up in an arc around the foot of the divan - this one old man unsettled me the most. Oddly enough it was the thought of him gawking at my nude body that set my mind reeling with a peculiar, almost familiar excitement. The tingling that stirred in my loins started to become an itch that I couldn't publicly scratch. I thought of 'O' and the way she's roughly stripped in the opening scenes of the book I held in my lap. I thought of the way she's taken blindfolded into the Chateau. I thought of the way the old men there force her face down over a divan and hold her there while they pleasure themselves with her. There's the thought of how two of them take her both from behind and in the mouth at the same time with 'O' unable to do anything to stop them.

I began to be able to see the old man's face clearly in my mind. I imagined him as a kind of leader of the younger students in the class -- his acolytes who refuse to allow me to sit as casually and modestly posed as I am. They force my arms up over my head and lash my wrists together with ropes. My wrists are then tethered to an unseen hitching point somewhere at the back of the divan. Others have grabbed hold of my ankles and they pull my feet over each side of the divan before my legs are spread to lewdly expose me fully to the old man watching silently from behind the easel. I struggle, trying to prevent my ankles being hobbled loosely together under the seat of the divan.

The restraints are just enough to prevent me modestly bringing my knees together. The length of rope allows me free movement of my feet from the floor up to the sides of the divan but no higher. Struggling to bring one foot up onto the seat forces the other to be dragged below again in a teeter-totter kind of response. It twists my hips and keeps me fully exposed to the old man.

Jeremy abruptly interrupted this fantasy, calling a temporary halt to the class and telling me I could take a break. I didn't want to move! I could smell myself. There is an unmistakable scent of my arousal now mixed with the sweet smell of paint fumes. He simply shrugs and smiles when I tell him I'm okay and don't feel like taking a break, but he does still insist I have to change position.

When I roll onto my stomach, I immediately feel the cooling dampness of where my pussy had leaked onto the velvet. I'm mortified! More than this, lying on my stomach forces my legs, from my thighs down, to hang off the end of the divan. It's an uncomfortable position and one I'm not likely to be able to hold for any length of time. This becomes one of the most embarrassing moments of the whole session as I wriggle and squirm and try to get into any position that doesn't fully and provocatively aim my bare backside at the old man at the end of the divan. It is impossible and the best I can manage is to curl up into a fetal position so that at least he is about the only student in the room who has a direct line of vision to my aroused pussy.

Once I'm settled in this position, I give up trying to read my book and instead rest my face on my hands. I close my eyes. It occurs to me I've had virtually no sleep for the past few days. I drift off into a light sleep the moment I close my eyes. It's not long before my dreams resume and for that indeterminate period time before I fall properly asleep, I feel electrified with a rush of pleasure. I imagine myself being pulled up from my position and forced into a fully bent over prayer position on my elbows and knees. All sorts of wild, arousing dreams flood my senses and the more I try to mentally defend myself against the wraiths that invade my sleep, the more I can feel my inner pussy lips swell and unfurl. They're undoubtedly awash with juices and I'm convinced I've probably stained the luxurious velvet beneath me.

In my dreams I could feel the hot warmth of the old man's naked body embrace me from behind. I could hear myself quietly moaning as his erect cock slipped effortlessly into the slipperiness of my pussy. His weight rests down on my back and then I feel him rock himself to drive his hard cock deeply inside me. The hotness of his breath on the back of my neck as he vigorously pistons himself into me feels so real it takes my breath away. I tense my butt cheeks and pelvic muscles in an attempt to make real the hardness of his cock ramming me in my dream. It feels so real! I shiver and gasp. His old, calloused hands grope my breasts as he roughly ravishes my pussy from behind. I dare not open my eyes. I'm overwhelmed with a sense of utter humiliation and imagine the whole class of young students circled around me. They've abandoned their painting to watch this old man mercilessly bang his hard cock into my excited pussy. I can almost feel and hear his balls slapping my swollen clitoris as he pumps me! Each time he drives the length of his cock to the depths of my pussy a small grunt escaped my lips. His energetic efforts knock the breath out of me. The friction of his cock burns inside me. I can hear myself whimpering now; gasping for breath and almost tearful from the overwhelming emotions that hold me locked in my perverse dream. I suddenly gasp so loudly I wake myself.

I was dazed for a moment before I realized where I was. When I did open my eyes I looked up and saw Jeremy staring down. There was a look of uncertain pleasure creasing his face and causing his lips to curl up slightly in a vague grin. I didn't even realize I was naked at first but when I snapped back to my senses I shrieked. My hands recoiled rapidly out from between my thighs and rushed to cover my nakedness. The art room was almost deserted except for a few young students mumbling and clearly laughing to each other as they left the room. There was no sign of the old man.

Jeremy seemed to accept my stuttered explanation of falling asleep on the comfortable divan but there remained a look in his eye. It was a sparkle that almost winked back at me as if to announce loudly, not only was I lying about what happened, he'd obviously SEEN me in the throes of an orgasmic, delightful dream. A surreal state of confusion continued to cloud my head until after I got my clothes back on. I still wasn't fully alert or awake when I re-emerged from the dressing room. Jeremy's offer of money -- payment for modeling for his class -- surprised me. He laughed when I questioned it and simply pressed it into my hand, telling me I'd better hurry if I wanted to get back to work in time.

It was well and truly after 2pm by the time I got back to my office. Luckily my boss didn't question me on where I'd been or why I was so late getting back although he did eye me suspiciously for a moment before going back to his own work. If only he knew! And to think I have to go back and do it all over again tomorrow...