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From: "* Nessus" <nessus29@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} New Nessus:The Artist's Model (FF)
Date: Thu, 15 Nov 2001 18:10:05 -0500
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This story is intended for the enjoyment of adults over the age of 18 or 
whatever the legal age is in your part of the universe. It contains fantasy 
scenes of graphic sexual activity.   Please, if you are under the age of 18, 
or if you may be offended by such material, use your intelligence and read 
no further - delete the file.  Otherwise ....enjoy!

The Artist's Model
By Nessus(C)




Paris, the summer of 1929, 'the last summer' we called it later, remembering 
the October Crash; it was the end of an era but I also remember it as the 
summer of my awakening.

It seems like yesterday. A heat wave had swept through Europe and its 
arrival in Paris coincided with my own. The heat wave died after five days 
but as it died I was reborn.

Paris sweltered and so did I, as my mother had insisted I wear conservative 
clothes complete with foundation garments, and as a dutiful daughter, I 
obeyed. My mother described me as 'an ample woman' so the foundation 
garments kept my full and rounded body in check.

As I laboured in the heat, walking down the boulevards in my starched dress 
and brushed cotton petticoat, short of breath because of my corset, I envied 
the freedom of the Parisian girls in their breezy dresses. They wore their 
skirts to the knee (my mother would have fainted at the sight) and those 
girls had obviously eliminated the restrictive undergarments; garters, 
petticoats and corsets were no longer appropriate for the girls of Paris in 
these wild times. Everywhere I looked the girls displayed their legs, and 
they dressed as if they were free to move, to dance, to swing and sway. 
Stockings were rolled, the sheerer the better, while seemingly respectable 
women wore rouge and powder. I was glad my mother was not with me.

I had been dispatched to Paris in a hurry after my fianc  had run off to 
Canada with the daughter of his father's chauffer. We had heard the news 
just as my mother and father were about to take me to my first opera, 
Puccini I believe it was, but after that abrupt announcement the opera 
vanished. I had seen Mother scream with rage at the whole incident and I 
could not decide whether she was angry with my fiance for leaving me or for 
causing such embarrassment for her. To make matters worse, the maid wasn't 
even British! My mother, her face red with embarrassment, arranged with my 
uncle to have me assist an anthropologist in Paris while the humiliation 
evaporated.

My role was to sketch articles of interest that were to be published in the 
anthropologist's thesis. Each day I would climb the stairs to the second 
floor, to that small office with its big desk, unlock the iron chest and lay 
the articles so I could draw them.

The building had four floors and a jazz band rehearsed on the floor above 
me, while an artist had his studio on the top floor. As I climbed the stairs 
on that fifth day, I could hear the band playing upstairs and small children 
squealing in the street behind me. The office was stuffy and hot, so I 
opened the doors leading out to a small balcony and let in some air. The 
anthropologist was in the
country, and for that I was grateful as I hoped that the humiliation would 
evaporate quickly so I could return home, before I had to meet him again.

I unlocked the iron chest and selected an artefact to sketch, carefully 
placing it on the heavy wooden desk. Charcoal and crayons, together with 
crisp sheets of cartridge paper, were taken from the drawer and spread out 
on the desktop. I drew steadily through the morning, starting first with the 
shrunken head from Equatorial Guinea. When I completed the sketch, I took 
the calligraphy instruments from the second drawer and carefully lettered 
the description and illustration number below my drawing. I had learned the 
art of calligraphy as a young girl at the knee of my aunt on many a rainy 
Sunday afternoon, and it now proved to be very useful indeed.

The clock chimed ten and, flushing self-consciously, I opened the door to 
the hall and furtively glanced down the stairs. For the past few days I had 
opened this door, so I could watch her go past on her way to the artist's 
studio.

My obsession with her, for that's what I feared it was, began on my first 
day while the anthropologist was detailing my instructions. On that day she 
had glided past the open door, a long green knitted scarf loosely hanging 
from her throat, and our eyes locked for a moment over the gesturing hands 
of my instructor. She had an exotic and exquisite beauty with lush brown 
skin, dark pools for eyes, pouting lips and short coal black hair. Those 
liquid eyes swept over me, she raised an eyebrow mockingly and was gone.

 From then on, I opened the door so I could watch her undulate past on her 
way to the artist's studio. I knew the studio was her destination for I had 
followed her once, stealthily keeping back so she would not see me. She 
knocked imperiously on the artist's door and, while waiting for it to open, 
turned and smiled slyly at me, causing me to blush furiously and hurry back 
down the stairs, my skirts rustling.

Late at night when the heat stopped me from sleeping, my nightgown sticky 
and clinging, I wondered about her. She had to be a model for the artist, I 
had decided that almost immediately. With such beauty there could not be any 
other conclusion, but what was her nationality? Was she a gypsy or a dancer, 
a singer or an artist herself in some way? One afternoon I had heard a 
woman's voice singing with the jazz band and I wondered if it was the 
beautiful model, as the voice was husky, raw and emotional.

I heard the front door creak open and I rushed back to the desk, perching on 
the hardback chair, hunching over the paper in an effort to appear busy. As 
I listened to her footsteps grow closer, my heart raced, and I forced my 
eyes to remain on the paper, sensing her stop in the doorway. My face was 
hot as I lifted my eyes. She was standing on the landing with a cane basket 
on her arm, her eyes on me
as a slight smile played around those full lips.

"Il fait chaud aujourd'hui," she said.

The chair clattered as I stood, nervously adjusting my ankle length skirt. 
"I'm sorry," I stuttered. "I don't understand."

"C'est tr s chaud un jour," she said with a smile. "Et vous  tes tr s 
chaud."

I shrugged helplessly, face glowing as she blatantly inspected me, that 
smile still there. Her blue silk dress, tiny pale blue flowers on a deep 
blue background, was so short, almost to the knee and I gasped a little when 
I saw her legs were bare beneath the hemline.

"Il importe pas," she said, turning away and in a moment she was gone.

Slowly, I sat down, my fingers trembling as I reached for a charcoal stick 
and breathlessly began to sketch a small white bone. As I worked I could 
hear the traffic in the street and my mind drifted until the feeling of 
another's presence startled and overwhelmed me. I jumped a little when I saw 
her standing there, once again leaning in the doorway and calmly watching 
me, a small crystal bowl in her hand filled with ice cream. Hypnotised, I 
watched her slowly eat the frozen treat with a silver spoon, sucking on each 
mouthful until the spoon shone clean.

With her dark eyes fixed on me, she walked in, casually kicking the door 
shut behind her. I found myself standing, my fingers nervously checking the 
waistband of my skirt and the collar of my blouse. Her eyes never left me as 
she stood next to the French doors, my own eyes watching the spoon between 
her lips, while my ears filled with the sound of my own heartbeat. The noise 
of the traffic also seemed louder and I thought I heard an almost 
imperceptible suction noise from her as the spoon moved in her mouth.

"Do you speak English?" I croaked, my throat as dry as the cartridge paper 
now forgotten on the desk. She tilted her head, watching me as I spoke and 
then shrugged. Moving so close to me that I could smell her musky perfume 
mixed with garlic and tobacco, her eyes locked on mine and she raised a 
spoonful of
her dessert to my face. Without thinking, I opened my mouth and she slowly 
slipped the spoon between my lips, the ice cream cold and sweet, melting on 
my tongue.

She fed me like that three more times, as my breath rasped in my throat, my 
knees so weak I gripped the edge of the desk for support. Her eyes watched 
me impassively each time she lifted the spoon, with only a sardonic lift to 
the corner of her lush mouth as I whimpered softly the third time that she 
slid the
spoon between my lips.

Without warning the bowl and spoon clattered on the teak desk, and her 
fingers
moved towards the mother-of-pearl buttons on my blouse.  My breasts were 
rising and falling quickly, my breathing restricted by my tight corset.

Exhaling sharply, I watched as she deftly undid the button at my throat and 
moved onto the next one, her eyes searching my face all the while. "No!" I 
gasped, moving my hand to stop her. With no change of expression, she 
slapped my hand away and continued until all the buttons were undone. My 
breathing was loud in the room as she retrieved the bowl and licked at 
another spoonful of ice cream. She watched me in wry amusement as I panted 
against the desk, my blouse open to the waist.

She moved quickly and her silver spoon flicked down as she tapped it against 
the buttons still fastened at my wrists. Mild irritation flickered over her 
face and she tapped sharply once more on my wrist. My hands were shaking as 
I undid those buttons for her while she watched, savouring another small 
mouthful of her ice cream.

Once again, the bowl and spoon rattled on the desk and she deftly pulled my 
blouse from my skirt, opening it wide and then pulling it sharply down so my 
upper body, encased in those stifling undergarments, was exposed. I gasped 
in shame and struggled to move my hands, but my blouse imprisoned them for a 
moment as she calmly studied me, her finger idly stroking the side of her 
nose.

Then reaching out, her hands seized the blouse and in an instant it was gone 
from my body, sailing through the air to land on a chair. Hot with 
embarrassment and the beginnings of something else I couldn't yet name, I 
folded my arms against my large breasts but once again, she slapped my hands 
away, her eyes
moving over my breasts as they rose in the white lace cups of my corset.

She then hooked her fingers into the waistband of my skirt and pulled me 
sharply towards her. Her eyes burned on me as her soft fingers stroked the 
valley between my breasts.

Suddenly, she spun me around so I was pushed against the desk, my breasts 
flattening against the teakwood, as she deftly undid the buttons of my skirt 
and pulled it, along with my petticoat, down around my ankles. With my 
stockings rolled to my knees, I felt a flood of moisture in the thin fabric 
covering my sex and wondered if I had wet myself or worse, my monthlies had 
arrived early.

I swallowed hard when I felt her hand press against my sex and I flushed in 
humiliation as she rubbed through the silk crotch of my corset, realising in 
that instant that someone, other than the family physician, was touching me 
intimately for the first time.

I moaned in protest as her hands pulled at the studs that held my stiff 
undergarment in place but she ignored me, opening the corset and then 
roughly pulling it down and away and I felt a sudden weakness, accompanied 
by a strange forbidden feeling, flooding through me.

She spun me around once again, and I faced my tormentor naked, the hot 
breath ragged in my throat. I saw a faint smile transform her serious face, 
her eyes travelling up and down my body as my arms and hands futilely tried 
to shield my nudity from her. Her hand slapped my arms away but, in silent 
desperation, I swung them back across my breasts and my mound.

Without changing expression, she slapped me firmly across the face and I 
dropped my hands, a sharp cry of pain and shock escaping me as the stinging 
heat rose in my cheek. Her fingers held my chin firmly and I felt my naked 
body crush against the silk of her dress, as her lips met mine in a 
surprisingly slow and delicate kiss, her tongue smoothly touching mine. A 
quick tug at the nape of my neck and my long hair fell free, tickling my 
bare shoulders and sweeping down my naked back.

I swooned against her as her wicked fingers ran through my pubic fleece, 
stroking, caressing and flicking at me as a foreign and wonderful feeling 
rushed through me like a rising torrent. I had never experienced such 
exquisite pleasure, which coupled with my sense of humiliation, sent me 
reeling against the desk while her fingers teased at my wet sex.

I groaned with a mix of self-consciousness and pleasure as she leaned 
forward to gently lick my swollen nipples, my heavy breasts swinging free as 
she pushed me back further against the desk. Her fingers stopped moving as 
quickly as they had begun and I felt a desperate need to continue, to keep 
going as I felt myself floating free.

"Please," I moaned, face flaming and eyes tightly closed. "Please don't 
stop," I begged and her fingers started again as she whispered softly in my 
ear in French. My body rebelled against everything I had known up to that 
moment, my life, my upbringing and my conservatism, and I bucked and writhed 
in ecstasy until I screamed out unintelligibly, my mouth pressed against her 
long neck, my body taut like the stretched string of a violin.

Slowly, I rejoined life and I heard the sounds of the city and the low growl 
of thunder as dark clouds rolled in. The temperature was falling quickly and 
I could plainly see my sweat and my juices smeared against the veneer of the 
desk. The shrunken head lay on the floor, the crisp cartridge paper was 
rumpled and damp, my breasts were smeared with charcoal.

I lifted my head and she was standing by the window, watching the clouds 
move rapidly over the horizon as she finished the melted remains of her ice 
cream. I didn't know what to say to her and I lay on the desk naked, certain 
that I looked like a beached white whale and wondered in amazement at what 
had just happened to me.

She turned then with a look I could not interpret, and she walked toward me, 
tucking my corset and petticoat under her arm, then tossed me the crumpled 
blouse and skirt. Eager to hide my body, I slipped into the skirt and then 
the blouse, hastily buttoning it over my bare breasts. It felt odd to be 
naked under my clothes but it also felt strangely liberating and sensual.

A crack of thunder shook the building and rain began to flood then like a 
cleansing torrent of tears. I shivered in the cool breeze that came with the 
rain. My nipples were plainly visible through the blouse but I did not 
attempt to hide them as she leaned close to kiss me one last time. Her lips, 
so full and soft, lingered on my own for an eternity as I gave myself over 
to her.

"Anglais esclave", she whispered, raising an eyebrow and I nodded, not 
knowing what I was committing to, but she seemed to expect an answer and I 
gave it to her willingly. She had a cheeky smile on her unforgettable face 
as she left the office, my undergarments under one arm and the bowl and 
spoon in her hand, as the rain drummed hypnotically against the windows.

I shivered again as I watched the rain and wondered what I was going to do, 
now that my life had changed forever. Nothing could ever be the same and I 
thought about tomorrow morning when the artist's model would once again 
glide past my door.



.....................................................................
All Nessus stories are archived at www.asstr-mirror.org/Index.html in the Authors 
Section under Nessus. A small number of Nessus stories can also be found at 
www.literotica.com and Chastity Belt only stories can be found at 
http://www.tpe.com/~altarboy/
......................................................................


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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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