Afternoons

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We undressed, we drew each other, we looked.
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I step out of the bath first, drying myself, looking down at Philip, at his rippling eddying body, wrapping the towel around myself, pulling it under my arms, over my legs, between them, rubbing my pubic hair, patting the tender damp skin of my sex, staring down, looking, at his firm hairy body, his soft swirling penis. Then standing back, dry, taking the towel away from myself, standing in front of him naked, letting him look, reaching for a fresh towel, inviting him out.

And drying him. Feeling his body, his arms, his shoulders, his tight chest, reaching around to his full firm ass, sliding down and up his legs, scrunching over his thick dark bush. And looking, oh god, seeing his soft penis start to stiffen, watching his small cock start to get bigger, pulling the towel over his male part, then dropping it to touch him there with my bare hand, feeling his delicious warmth, the hardening of his aroused organ, pulling, stroking him, his skin tight and clean from the bath, letting myself look at his smooth shiny tip, feeling him become erect again, fully, thrillingly erect, his foreskin slid away from his glans, letting me look, letting me stare at this most intimate part, Philip's is so smooth, shining, soft, pink, a slightly more reddish pink than the creamier, browner skin covering his tumescent stem. I stroke him, I want to see that first delicious drop of sweet liquid appear in his opening, I grip his sex until it is upright, until his cock is sticking up between us, full, thick, long, hot, always, why does this always surprise me, the heat of him, and so ready, the undisguise-able reaction of his body, that erotic chain of mind and sensation.

But, moving back, already looking, looking down, feeling my breath, my belly, my pleasure, feeling my own body react, sensing my own hidden responses, my own sweet swelling, the slick moisture seeping from within my sex.

And my mind, I stay still, Philip looks at me, as I shift my feet apart, as I offer him the most teasing view of my naked genitals, as he stares down, lingering over the moist folds of my warm cunt. I feel myself pulse with wetness, slip and slide with hot arousal.

My mind follows my eyes, I live again, back again.

He asked me out for coffee, or was it a drink? Casual enough, friendly enough. Laurent, our beautiful young male model, did not return, not for those classes. We saw the two women, and another man, older, again, though not old, in his forties I guessed. He appeared for our last class. Do I remember him? From those sessions? Do I trust the source of my own stories? My visual memory is clear though, is detailed for him, for everyone I have drawn or painted, clothed or nude. At least, again, I think it is. How would I know?

Our final model entered and nodded to the teacher, smiled at a few of us as he walked to the screen. I sensed the confidence of his experience. Within moments he was in front of us again, covered in a black robe. I sharpened a pencil, and waited. And looked. Without looking, at his short grey hair, his bare feet, his smooth naked calves. And then he undid his robe and dropped it behind him. He stood naked. And stepped into a pose. I looked carefully now, with fresh attentiveness. At his tight body, at the hair around his nipples, at the centre of his chest, at the small bulge of his belly, at his dark, thin looking patch of pubic hair, flat looking, not cut, I was sure, but it grew close to his body, his skin. I let my eyes slip lower and look at his suddenly exposed penis.

He stood, turning, extending, stepping. I watched. His soft penis wobbled and swayed. His cock was quite long, quite thick, and very circumcised. I supposed he was good looking enough, unobtrusively handsome, not a man you might stop to look at, to look back at, but someone you could get to like. My obsessions reverberated within me though, my physical pleasure at looking at nude men, naked women. I stared. The model was still, his cock hung down in front of him, touching the valley where his thighs met, his large oval tip in view, the tight slit of his opening, his long stem, oh god, his gnarled veined thick shaft, dark, the skin of his sizeable penis was darker than the rest of his body, the smooth bare cap of his glans just slightly wider than his fleshy stem.

His balls hung behind his cock, held tight, gripped by his exposed pouch, perhaps slightly lower than our younger model, showing around the sides of his penis, the crinkled skin of his scrotum slightly relaxed. I could see his large testicles shifting, swaying, as he breathed, as his body pulsed and expanded.

I explored my wicked imaginings, as I drew, as I studied him, my depraved fantasies, to have him undress for me, with me, for me alone, to draw him, to lay him down, to arrange him into a pose, and to request tumescence, to watch the first pulsings of arousal, to instruct him, to order him to touch himself, to masturbate until he was suitably erect. Watching as he did so, watching his penis lengthen, thicken. Drawing quickly, as he let go, sketching his bare body, the unambiguous focus the long extension of his sex sticking up over his belly.

And to reach for him, to let him soften, to hold his warm, soft organ, take that long soft penis in my mouth and suck him until he was rigid, to draw, to hold a mirror and draw myself, my face, my mouth open, stretched around his erect cock, to pull it away and take one of those large pendulous balls between my lips.

I enter myself once more, I drop back, back inside, to thoughts as clear and affecting as the tile under my bare feet. Thinking, re-living, living.

Do I have a thing for older men? I hadn't considered this before. For men? Any man? I think of sketching him, and undressing, simply, wordlessly, stripping for him, letting him look at my smooth firm young body, my small breasts, my tight dark nipples, my thick bush. Holding his stiff penis, pulling him against me, sliding my moist sex along his thick hard stem, sitting over him, feeling his taut smooth glans stretch into my vagina, and pushing down hard, enclosing him, enveloping his long thick cock deep inside my tight little cunt.

The hours pass, as quickly as usual. He is a good model, his poses are challenging, he stays as still as anyone we have had, I draw quick charcoal renderings of his firm smooth body, his small ass only just betraying the deflating signs of age, longer pencil drawings of his large fleshy soft penis, hinting at experience, at life, and hands, mouths, openings, closings. Making me, oh god, it makes me think of him hard, I think of him fucking, holding the swollen tip of his penis to a lover's opening, a woman's slippery warm vagina, a guy, I think of him with another guy, both naked, both aroused, kissing, touching, stroking each other, finding their rhythm, turning, opening themselves, kissing and moistening the other's tight asshole, entering him there, fucking, fucking his lover in the ass with force and need.

But then, in a moment he is by himself, in bed, in his apartment, in the afternoon, undressing in the daylight, his curtains drawn, a fifth floor, naked, already half erect, finding himself aroused, masturbating quickly and easily to orgasm, spurting thick loops of semen over himself, over his hands, his smooth belly, his hairy chest.

When he chats to the teacher between poses, during one of his breaks, he remains nude. I remain transfixed. As he steps and sways, as his soft cock swings and shakes, as his relaxed scrotum holds his testicles, as they hang lower behind his long penis.

His long pose involves him reclining on a long flat seat, long leg raised, the other flat, his penis hangs over his thigh, his soft pouch allows us to look at the shape of his balls.

My thighs are closed together throughout.

When I pack up it is with a large amount of sadness, that our course has finished. I know I will have to find another one, more models, nude men, nude women, posing for another group, for me. This thought has dangerous appeal, that I could ask people, friends, boyfriends, strangers, to pose for me? Could I? Would they? Then, one cascades into another, that I could pose. I barely move, I have slowed my packing to an absent shuffling of my papers, as I imagine undressing behind a screen, a class waiting, stepping out, letting my robe fall from my naked body, having a group of young artists look at me, at my bare skin, watching as I strip, as they are suddenly able to look at my breasts, my dark bush, my soft dark sex.

I linger so much over this thought I am the last one to pack up, to leave. Our teacher is still there, also packing. And he catches my eye.

"Juliette, how did you enjoy the course?"

"Oh, very much, it was new to me, but I enjoyed it immensely."

"Good, I am glad you got something from it."

"Do you teach may other classes?"

"Sure, a couple of others. You should try them, you have talent I think, you should develop it."

"Oh, thank you, I might, I mean, if you could let me know? Where they are?"

"Of course, um, are you free now? Would you like to get coffee?"

This surprises me, it continues to, when I am asked out, if that's what he is doing, when a conversation takes that sudden shift. Do I want coffee? Do I want to spend time with him? Do I sense any other interest? Does he? I answer a quick, if tentative yes to all.

"Coffee would be nice, yes."

"Are you okay to give me a minute to close up?"

I give him his minute, and wait, glancing out (was it winter? Do I remember cold weather? Our breath hanging on the air? Clouds, the sky low, having to go inside, when you could still smoke, double espresso for him, cappuccino for me. Cigarettes for both of us.

Had I looked at him before? For more than a passing glance on the way to someone nude? He had a nice face, creased around the eyes, his mouth, blue eyes, dark brown-black hair. And a thick dense beard. We spoke. I know we spoke. Conversation came easy. I don't remember any of it. Until the subject turned to painting, modelling, nudes. He asked if I had ever done any life modelling. I took it more as a flirt than a suggestion. Until I asked him in return if he ever had).

"Yeah, when I was younger, a few times, for girlfriends, a few times for classes. I liked it."

"Really? Nude?"

"Sure."

I let the image grow in my mind. Of him, undressing, standing, naked, his body exposed, his penis, his tight balls.

"What's it like?"

"Uh, quite... pleasurable, sensuous, sort of, but, I mean, the need to stay still takes over, and you do forget that you are nude, you are the only one who cannot see you after all."

"Of course."

I look at him. Are we flirting? Am I? With intent? I look at his hands, at the light blue packet of Caporal, the thick, between them, an unfiltered Gauloises sending up pale grey-white ribbons of smoke, held between the first two fingers of his left hand. A thick gold band visible next one along.

"You are married?"

"Uh-huh."

We leave this alone.

"Do you fuck around?"

"Oh, no, of course not."

I study his face. And take a chance.

"You don't have affairs? With your students?"

He leaves this alone. Only smiles, shakes his head. What am I doing? Am I disappointed? Do I want to be that woman? That student? He is catching me in a dangerous place though, at the consuming height of erotic intensity. I would usually be home now, undressed, on my bed, touching myself, holding my bare breast, cupping my damp sex, savouring the physical release of so much pent up erotic stimulation. It overpowers me. The desire for more, to see more, to have more.

"Can I draw you?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean... can I draw you?"

I watch him. Is he considering? Really? Or wondering if I am really asking something else. I wonder if I am asking something else. I am. I am not. I only want to draw him. Drawing is an essential part of what is an erotic encounter though. Does this matter? My brain is too cloudy with arousal to work this out. Is he thinking of it? Is he reacting? I wonder if my question has affected him, I wonder if he is not sitting opposite, his penis stiff in his trousers.

He takes a breath of smoke and blows it out of the side of his mouth, away from me.

"Yes."

"Yes? Really? Thank you, fantastic, now?"

"Can I draw you?"

The thought enters me, penetrates me. We look, we stare. I am trying to catch amusement, condescension, the raised eyebrow or curled mouth of someone playing. There is nothing. Honesty. He looks suddenly more handsome than a minute ago, his eyes have a measure of green within them, hold my gaze with beautiful sharpness. I am aware of my own hypocrisy. I don't care about drawing him, not really, or being drawn, I am not playing, but I am driven by physical not aesthetic desires. I want to see him nude, undressing, stripping for me, exposing his soft penis, his tight balls, his full ass.

"Juliette?"

Undressing for him, looking at him looking, standing in front of him, nude.

"Yes."

"Okay then."

And we walk to my apartment. We haven't agreed to draw each other nude of course, yet this is my thought, that we will both undress, and pose for each other, naked. Is he thinking this?

(I remember his grey tweed jacket, his thick navy sweater, a scarf. I remember walking in near silence now, with the trembling pleasure of anticipation, not of sex, not quite, he was married, I had to have a line somewhere, but of exposure, of being nude in front of someone. That same strange thrill I used to get on the way to the beach, when I got older, with my parents, my brother, their friends. Undressing, stripping, looking, being looked at. That sweet denial of the erotic.

By the time we had climbed the five flights to my front door we were both breathing loudly and heavily, I felt the prickle of sweat on my neck. I looked. Did I know his name? I must have. When did I ask? Had he introduced himself at the start of the first class?)

I unlock and let us in, dropping my keys on the floor, looking at where I lived, for the first time, through someone else's eyes. Other people had been there, but nobody who wasn't my own age. I look with Fabrice's perception. Is he noticing the glasses still stained with last night's wine? The overflowing saucers of cigarette ends outside on the windowsills? The unshelved books? The unmade bed? The scattering of discarded clothes, the unfinished drawings, the careful clutter of art equipment? I feel suddenly young, slightly more ill at ease than I am comfortable with. I imagine his house, his floors, his studio, an attic, a basement, some apportioned space devoted to his work.

His wife. Artistic, like him? Is he successful? I am at the age when I have criteria other than mere happiness, this is not what it's about is it, creative achievement, exhibiting, critical acclaim, critical contempt. Extreme reactions. His wife.

I take some time to imagine her, as we enter, as I take my coat off, let the seconds of silence extend into minutes.

Is she beautiful? Tall, dark, poised, French. Stripping in front of him in one swift elegant motion, stripping still with things to do, undoing the one button as she walks away from him, sliding a couple of shoulder straps with her back facing, a single smooth unzipping, stopping as her dress falls around her feet, stepping free with one high heeled foot after another, exposing her long slim figure, naked, apart from those shoes, a pair of black stockings, held up on their own, her waist, her back, her hips, her full firm smooth ass. Walking, naked, still in her shoes, into the kitchen, their living room, letting him watch her, turning a record off, putting one on, tidying, getting a glass, two, whisky, letting her husband stare at his wife's bare ass, her shadowy cleft, naked, bending, that quick glimpse between her legs, dark, hairy, the mound of her pussy, the hint, still hidden, the idea of her tight anus. Finally stepping to him, facing him, letting him look at her full firm breasts, those dark stiff nipples, and her shaped but thick dark bush. Knowing he is hard now, seeing the bulge of his swollen penis, and reaching for his trousers, the front of them, then in, reaching in, unbuttoning, unzipping enough to find his thick stem, opening her long fingers around her husband's stiff penis.

"Okay, who is first?"

Stroking him until he is full, firm, until she can tell he is completely erect, leading him to a tall bay window, leading, leaning onto it, bending, pushing herself back, offering her ass to him, her sex, her damp pussy.

"Um, well, I asked first, I think it should be me."

"Fair enough."

"Would you like a drink of something? Wine? Um, some whisky, I think, somewhere?"

"Wine, might be nice, if you are joining me?"

I find some clean glasses, a reasonably fresh bottle, pour us both a large swash of Margaux. I stand opposite and watch Fabrice first sniff, quickly, casually, and take a sip. I am looking as if I want a reaction I realise, some approval for my choice, as if I just retrieved this from my cellar. I drink.

"Okay. Are you going to..."

I leave this as well. I know what I mean, I don't know whether I really mean it, mean to really suggest it.

"Where do you want me?"

"I thought, just, standing really, by the window, with the light."

"Okay, sure, good spot."

He stands. I pull up a chair, paper, charcoal, pencils. And sit. And watch. My heart is racing, this is so silly, he is not here to pose nude, am I really going to suggest this? To encourage him to strip? He is married, fifteen, twenty years older? My heart is connected to my pussy though. My pussy is directing me. My pleasure has not been met, my physical arousal is leading better judgements into dark hidden corners.

I wait. He is still, ready to be drawn. "You are not doing anything?"

"Oh..."

Am I, can I? My breath has stopped, my mouth is dry. My genitals are soaking. "... I thought... I mean, you are not... going to undress?"

He says nothing. Oh fuck. I have ruined this. The room is gripping me in its silence, the hums and clicks and crackles are nudging and poking different parts of me.

"You want me unclothed?"

I say nothing. I don't trust my voice. Do I? Just to draw? I want to see him naked. I want to look at his bare body. I want to look at him nude, unclothed, his soft cock, his tight balls.

"Really? I didn't... I mean... this is what you thought? For you as well?"

This causes me to leap forward, to the idea of myself undressing, for him, in front of him? Do I want this as well? My body answers, my body tells me. Being looked at is almost as wonderful as looking.

"Of course, I would love for you to draw me nude, I would love to pose for you that way. And for you...?"

"Well, for this I better have another drink."

Pleasure rises within me, my stomach is churning with excitement, I feel sweet moisture between my legs, oh, oh yes, undress, strip for me.

Fabrice takes a large swallow of wine, and places the glass on the floor, bends after it and unlaces his boots. I watch, I stare with greedy appreciation as he first steps with thick-sock covered feet on the dark wooden boards, then as he pulls and stands with bare feet, large male feet. His toes are long, I notice, slim, for a man, any mistake avoided by the covering of dark hair on his larger toes, striping the roof of his foot with badgery tufts of black.

He stares at me again. Should we smile at each other?

"I haven't posed for anyone for nearly twenty years you know, not nude."

"Uh-huh."

I force myself to pretend this is casual, that I am indifferent to how nervous he might be, as if I am the paragon of detached artistic virtue. My vagina tightens.

He unbuttons the same thick blue shirt I remember him wearing for our first class. I watch as he exposes his skin, his chest, his belly. He tugs it up from the waist of his trousers and shakes it away from his shoulders, down along his arms. He waits for less than a second. I stare. I am unsure of my expression. Do I look calm? Disinterested? I stare. At his broad shoulders, his thick forearms, the covering of hair, spreading wide over his chest, his small nipples, thickening at the centre of his torso, a trunk of dark pelt running down along the centre of his firm belly, furling in fine arcs to the raised furrow that leads to his deep wide navel, that invites my eyes lower, over his abdomen, towards the denser forest of his pubic hair. Still hidden. Still held back by his black jeans, his brown leather belt, his underwear.