"Stop moving!" The artist grumbled at us.
I resisted the urge to squirm as my companion's erection pressed into my thigh.
We stood together, nude, bound together by a strip of gauzy fabric around our legs. Bright sunlight illuminated our pedestal in the middle of the studio. The artist peered at us from behind his easel, pallet in hand. Paintings that would have sold for more than my rent leaned carelessly against the wall. The smell of strong coffee almost covered up the lingering aroma of turpentine, and tinny music played from a cheap stereo in the corner.
Of course, I wasn't really paying attention to the studio. It no longer held any mysteries for me. I had spent many long hours there, holding poses until my muscles ached, with nothing to do but stare at my surroundings.
Most painters only hire a model for an hour or two, and take reference photos. It's easier, but pays a lot less. This artist was unusual in his approach. Old-school. He believed there was value in painting from a live model, which meant long sessions.
My companion and I were two of the only models who were up for it, which is why so many paintings on the walls depicted our bodies. The curve of my hips. His broad shoulders. The swell of my breasts. His muscular thighs. My rosy nipples. His uncircumcised cock.
We'd never actually worked together before this, but when I walked in, our eyes met in a crackle of recognition. He paused in the middle of taking off his shoes, and I knew right away that he'd spent just as long staring at the paintings of my body as I'd spent admiring his. He arched his eyebrows, raised a hand in greeting, and pulled his shirt over his head.
I quickly retreated behind the folding screen. I'd always found the screen silly. After all, if I was about to pose nude, why provide privacy for the undressing? But this time, I was grateful for it. I hung up my dress and tucked my underwear into my bag, hoping the blush would fade from my cheeks by the time I walked out.
The artist bustled around us impatiently, and we fell into the usual routine of negotiating the pose, trying to balance what he wanted with what we could hold comfortably. In the end, we found ourselves facing each other, my hands on his chest, his on my hips. The artist wrapped a thin sheet of gauzy fabric tightly around our legs, giving him some texture and color to contrast against our skin.
We rested our heads together, with him gazing down at me, as if we'd just kissed. The artist fussed about our height difference, and I found myself up on my tiptoes, leaning against my companion for balance. My breasts pressed against his chest. We pretended not to notice the way our pelvises were making contact.
Satisfied, the artist retreated to his canvas to sketch and mix colors. I felt an odd blend of awkwardness and intimacy, pressed against his body like that.
"Hey," he said under his breath. "Nice to finally meet you."
"You too," I replied. "I'm Claire."
"Ben," he said, "but everyone calls me Tex."
"You don't sound like you're from Texas."
"I'm not," he conceded, "but you wear cowboy boots to work one time..."
I snorted. The artist looked up and frowned.
"Don't make me laugh," I whispered. "You're gonna get us in trouble!"
"Sorry," he said, trying not to grin. "I'm just nervous. I've seen so many paintings of you, it's like meeting a celebrity."
"Really?" I tried to play it cool. "What's your favorite?"
"The one by the door, with the red background."
"Oh?" I risked a quick look over my shoulder. In the painting, I held a hand dramatically to my head, as if about to swoon. A swatch of fabric was draped carelessly over my shoulder, leaving one breast exposed. "Yeah, I remember posing for that one. The studio was freezing, even with that noisy space heater going."
"How about you?" He asked with studied casualness. "Any of mine ever catch your eye?"
"Hmm." I pretended to consider the options. In truth, I already knew the answer. "I like the one by the window where you're sprawled across the couch." I'd spent hours admiring it. He had an arm over his eyes. One foot propped on the arm of the couch, the other resting on the floor. My eye was always drawn to his cock, prominent, but not yet erect. More than once, I'd imagined kneeling next to him, taking him in hand, and feeling him swell to life for me.
"Oh, yeah," Ben chuckled. "He told me to imagine I'd just had sex, and was lying there, breathless, after a climax."
"He did not!"
"Well," he grinned, "maybe that was just what I imagined."
"Stop talking!" The artist snapped. "I can't get the line of your jaw if you're chatting."
We fell silent, but all I could think of was his post-coital sprawl on the couch. I wanted to ask him more. Sometimes during a long pose, my imagination would run wild. How elaborate a fantasy had he constructed of this sexual encounter? Was she on top? Did he cum inside her?
Did she look like me?
