5 comments/ 42032 views/ 13 favorites Moments By: JulietteLeM Memories drift in and out, as I look, as I watch him, as I reach over: I am back in Paris, studying, living my naive version of the bohemian life. Painting, drawing, drinking, smoking. Running out of money, always, running short, running out, scrabbling around for bar work, waitressing. Meeting men, having affairs. Long afternoons making love. Sketching him, painting, then lying naked on my small single bed, making the one bottle of wine and single packet of cigarettes last. Standing up, walking, walking naked to the toilet, walking back, looking at him looking, standing, watching, looking at his bare body, his soft penis, watching him getting hard, feeling myself moisten. And reaching again, reaching for the first times, for him, holding his thick stiff male organ, sitting over him, opening myself and guiding his beautiful hard cock inside myself, hovering over his smooth thick tip, sliding my wet vagina over his rigid stem. And I remember signing up for my first life drawing class. Knowing I had left this late, at least a semester. For no good reason. That morning, that winter, arriving with fifteen minutes to spare, making coffee, finding a spot, setting up an easel, clipping up paper, deciding some quick charcoal sketches would be the thing to warm me up. Sitting, sipping coffee, and waiting, looking around the room. Letting my shoes slip off and scratching my feet on the old, cold, darkened, paint spattered wooden floor boards. Looking through the large windows. It was up a flight of stairs, but opposite another building. I wondered if the model would worry about someone looking over, they took the care to block off the square of clear glass set into the door. Anyone strolling opposite would surely be able to look straight in. The idea wasn't unappealing, I realised, as I sat, being in that building, looking in, seeing a class, seeing a nude model, being that model. My mind took a small wander, and I imagined posing. Stripping, walking out into the room, opening and dropping my robe, standing nude before a group of young artists. Then being looked at by a strange pair of eyes outside the room. Male eyes. Non-artistic eyes, a less than professional gaze. Being seen. Being reacted to. I imagined this man's penis stiffening in his trousers, I imagined someone young, then someone old, in his sixties, feeling his cock swell with unusual speed. And giving in to the sort of temptation he thought he had long outgrown. I sat, I waited, I killed the minutes by picturing myself posing, by imagining myself nude, in that cold studio, being looked at by this old handsome man in the building opposite, thinking of him fumbling with his buttons, his flies, reaching and releasing his aching hard penis, feeling himself stiffen some more, until his thick cock is as hard as he can remember. Holding himself, rubbing his rigid stem, exposing his slippery damp tip. Masturbating to a quick and powerful climax, looking at me, his knees weakening, spurting thick plumes of semen as he studies my naked body. I enter, I enter the moment again. People start to sit next to me, old friends, classmates, strangers, faces I can barely recall now start to form an informal circle around the large white sheet in the middle of the room, marked with dark lines and splodges of emulsion. And I can sense a pleasing dampness in my vagina. I cross my legs, I feel the soft lips of my pussy glide together. The tutor pulls the sheet outwards, glancing back to look at a waist high wooden platform. I stare absently at him, forties, I guess, black hair, still mostly black. Tall. Bearded. Wearing a blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the top couple of buttons undone. I look at the thick dark hair covering his thick looking forearms, bushing out from his chest. My mind is heading in his direction when I hear the door open, when I glance back. A younger guy is walking in, looking over, looking around the room with obvious apprehension, catching the eye of the tutor. Walking directly over to him, shaking hands. Our model? I affect professional disinterest. Musculature was musculature. Male, female, old, young. My body reacts though, as I knew it would, and it always did. With curiosity. With eagerness. If he was the model he looked like he hadn't done this before, or not often, he looked like a student after some casual work. About my age, about my height, blond brown hair, slim. My quick look is enough to appreciate his handsome, strong, manly features. My body reacts. The tutor returns and after a couple of minute the young guy is walking to the centre of the room, out from behind the screen he has stripped behind. Bare footed, onto the large floor sheet, bare legged, covered only by a thin white robe. One thin layer. This was enough, knowing he was naked underneath, knowing he would remove this thin layer, knowing his soft cock would be wobbling freely underneath. This was why I had avoided this class so far. I couldn't help it, I knew my mind, I knew my body, I loved to draw, I loved to paint, but I want to see him naked more than I want to get better at either. I watch, I wait as he stands, waiting for the teacher, just standing, teasing me with the prospect of dropping that thin shield and exposing his nude body. "Okay, class, everyone, this is Laurent, he is our model this morning. He will do a few short poses, five minutes each, for all of us to warm up, to get our eyes working, then a longer pose, perhaps fifteen minutes, then we break. After a few more medium poses, again, fifteen, twenty minutes, and we end with one longer pose, about an hour." I look, I wait. I think of being there myself, ready to strip, ready to pose. I anticipate seeing him, Laurent, him, relishing this strange intimacy, this young handsome guy about to strip in front of people he has never met before, showing us his bare body, his naked ass, his soft cock. Our model. And my body. I don't feel like an artist, I feel like a horny young woman who is between lovers, who has been between lovers for far too long now. I feel a shameful and delicious moistness between my legs. I shouldn't be reacting this way. I should be a serious student. I don't care. I press my thighs together. "Laurent? If you are ready, you can remove your robe." And he does. I am directly in front of him. I watch as he undoes the knot holding each half of his robe together, as he pulls it open, oh god, I can suddenly see his body, quickly, I can see his chest, his belly, the dark flash of pubic hair, the shaking length of his penis, it is like I am thirteen, as if this is the first time I've seen a man naked. He turns to hold his robe, shrug himself out of it, tossing it behind himself, and standing in front of us, nude. I watch him place his feet, stretch his arms up, I look, I stare. I look at his tight, firm, strong body, smooth, hairless apart from his legs, his thick dark pubic bush, I gaze at his long toned legs, his flat stomach, his slim waist, he turns, finds his pose, I glance at his smooth round naked ass, he faces me again, oh god I am so wet, this is so silly, I feel my sex pulse with small tremors of arousal. He straightens up and poses, something fairly simple, one foot in front of the other, his arms above his head, his hands touching. I force myself to draw. The teacher walks around the room, behind us. I look. I stare. Oh god. I look at his face, his broad shoulders, his smooth pale skin. His bare hips. I follow his legs down, then up, teasing myself, rising to his exposed genitals. The context should make this fine, my creative intent should neutralise any other physical one, somehow this is not working. The openness of the room accentuates his nudity, the circle of clothed people around him enhances his nakedness, the bare floor, the large windows, the bright day light, the art-clutter surrounding him, the walls covered in drawings, shelves, books, paint-spatters, paint pots, brushes, boxes of pencils, charcoal. The grey brown red yellow white background, and his soft smooth pale creamy pale brown body, his utterly unclothed body. Made to seem more naked by his relative hairlessness, the absence of any sign of sun on his skin, the darkness, the shocking thickness and darkness of his pubic hair. My eyes finally raise up. His cock. Oh fuck, I am not sure I can stand three hours of this. I stare at his small soft cock. I had the mental image of him being large, of him dropping his robe to reveal a large thick fleshy penis. I assumed that for a man to pose nude he'd have a reason to be confident. He'd know his cock was fairly sizeable. This model surely couldn't think that. I like him all the more. He stands with admirable stillness, the minutes passed, I face him from the front, drawing, making myself fill at least one sheet with something resembling a naked man, staring his bare body, staring at his soft little cock, the tight round small pouch of his testicles, high, drawn in to his body, pushed out by the closeness of his thighs, pushing out the slim length of his penis. Slightly darker than the rest of his skin, protruding from the dense thicket of his pubic hair. He stands, looking at a clear space in the middle distance, unselfconscious, comfortably nude in front of all of the class, the tutor, all eyes upon him, upon his slim tight body, upon his smooth small tapering little cock, his stem as slim as my little finger, shorter, I am convinced, his tip, even the shape of his tip hidden by the soft crinkle of his foreskin, extending out over the end of his penis in a small point. Our teacher calls five minutes, our model relaxes, I watch him move, step, stretch, still naked, his cock wobbles in a straight, stiff looking bobbling circle. I want to slip to the toilet, I want to pull my trousers down, peel my underwear away from my damp genitals and stroke myself quickly. I don't. I don't move. I look. Aware I am probably trying to catch his eye. "Okay, if you could pose again, something different, another short one, so anyway you like." He has been murmuring throughout, encouraging, advising, pushing us one way or another. The model twists himself at his hips, one leg, one foot behind the other, one knee pushed forward, his hands linked, pulling his shoulders back. His chest and head still face me, his torso, his midriff are in profile. I look down. At the lines of his leg muscles, the dark cuts in his belly, the bulging tuft of his pubic hair, the shape of his cock from the side. The full curving shape of his firm ass. I have thoughts. As I draw. As my pencil lingers I think of undressing him, having him strip in my little room, drawing him in private, touching his bare ass, kissing him there, sliding my fingers along his tight cleft, touching his smooth tight male anus. Reaching, watching, looking at his small soft cock stiffening. Kissing him, pushing his foreskin back over his large damp tip, pulling his hard penis into my mouth. I draw. I fill my page with a dark shadowy image of his body, his soft penis in the centre of the sheet, his body long, strong, his cock small looking, surprisingly so, a tiny soft slim point in the middle of his naked form. His scrotum just showing, the tight bulge of his bush, the raised prong of his little dick. Tasting his small stiff cock, watching it grow, watching his soft little cock swell and stiffen. Standing up, feeling his hands on me, undressing me, reaching between my legs, sliding a finger over the swollen wet mound of my hairy cunt. I draw. I tell myself to draw. I tell myself I am an artist, a painter, I am here to improve my technique. I question whether my erotic interest will interfere with this? I haven't concentrated on a subject so fiercely before. As much as I want the class to go on, for the time to pass slowly, as much as three hours sounded like a wonderfully long amount of time to be able to sit and look at Laurent's beautiful nude body, with absolute freedom, with obvious encouragement, it feels like only minutes pass when we stop and start to pack up, when our model steps behind his screen and dresses himself. My mind finds those minutes, those hours, my body re-lives its own pulsing response. I am sure that was the first time. The class went on for a few months, once a week, we had different models, three in total, two female, only one male. The women were older, not old, but not students, late twenties, early thirties. One bigger than the other, she dropped her robe and revealed her large pendulous breasts, her full ass, strong looking legs, a wide and dark expanse of thick pubic hair. I hadn't seen another woman naked since earlier holidays, since long wonderful days on the beach. She turned and posed, with an ease and confidence the younger male model, I realised, had not quite had. I became more convinced that our first class had also been his. I sketched her from behind, her long back, her narrow waist, her round womanly butt. Then from the front, she was quite pretty, striking green eyes, full plump lips, and her superb big tits. Her belly, unashamedly round, smooth, flowing gently into the wide stretch of hair above her sex, growing in a thick extended triangle, thinning to a point between her legs. Her long pose was laying down, more or less facing me, one leg raised, her knees apart, her sex in full view. Was this brave? I admired her for being able to do this. Found myself more than a little aroused at being able to see her vulva so clearly, so blatantly. My arousal thrummed with the thought of her exposure, to everyone there, able to look between her legs at her dark full pussy, the fringes of straighter hair visible on the rippled surface of her large, thick, protruding labia. My drawing stopped at a dark smudge of curling thatch covering her genitals. My eyes were drawn like fidgeting fingers to clips and buttons, by the crinkled folds of her exposed cunt. The soft hood obscuring her clitoris, the slim tender fronds of her smaller barely showing inner lips. We had at least four weeks of female models, both alternating. I wondered if we'd seen the last of our male model. Whether once was enough for him. His longer pose was sitting down, his legs extended out in front of him, one arm on his knee, the other resting on the back of the chair. His cock was pushed upwards, his small tight scrotum perched above his slim thighs. He looked so beautiful. Young, male, firm, his cock so small, so soft, held up in a vertical position, bobbling slightly, gently, as he breathed. When the class ended he stood, he stretched again, remaining naked for a tantalising second longer than he had to, moving, movement making him seem more naked, more exposed. He faced me, not looking, not catching my eye, but he faced me. I looked down at his crotch, as I packed up my things. I looked at his still soft, still small little cock. I was sure, was I? I was sure I saw the faintest glimmer of moisture reflecting at the enclosed tip of his penis. He picked up his robe and covered himself. No. Yes. Had he? Whilst sitting, being drawn, being studied so intently, by so many, had he let himself become aroused? Had he started to secrete the first few slivers and pearls of his sweet male liquid? Seeping from his tiny opening, escaping over the slim smooth spongy soft tip of his cock, coating the inner clasp of his tapering foreskin. He walked softly behind his screen, I tried to make out the silhouette of his body as he dressed, as he stripped again, briefly, quickly, standing naked, aware of his simmering pleasure, reaching down, touching, gently, pinching the soft tender end of his soft cock between two fingers, feeling his aroused tip, feeling the slippery friction of his foreskin sliding over his moist bulb. Had he been aroused? So gently as to avoid an erection, but enough, that when he got home, he undressed, he looked at himself as we just had, and held his soft cock, and got himself hard, and masturbated, quickly, vigorously, satisfyingly, coming with jolting force over his naked chest, covering his smooth belly, spurting his thick warm seed over himself? The following week I was eager to look at him again. By week three I registered some intense disappointment when our model again turned out to be a woman. She stood, drank coffee, smoked out of a window, looked at us with barely disguised amusement, even contempt, our enthusiasm, our vigour, our hope, our youth. I liked her a lot. She was tall, slim, dark, older than the other women, as old, perhaps, as our teacher. She waited until we were all ready before walking behind the screen and undressing. After less than a minute she walked back out. She was already completely nude. I mean, she hadn't bothered to wrap a robe around herself. She stepped with casual and naked ease onto the sheet, her small breasts swinging freely, slightly, as she moved, her small dark nipples stiff points, she turned around, stretched, I looked at her full smooth firm naked ass. She stepped into her first pose, facing me, her stomach flat and slim, her waist, her vivid thick black-brown patch of pubic hair shielding her mons, sprouting thickly between her legs, over her exposed vulval mound, deep, covering her long lips, her thick dark mature cunt. She didn't cover herself up once for the duration of the class, she stood nude between poses. She walked naked when we took a break, sometimes wandering behind the screen, sometimes walking to the counter to fill and drink a glass of water, standing amongst us, not talking, not ignoring, glancing at our drawings, thrillingly exposed. Our clothing a reminding pulse of contrasting pleasure when looking at her tall naked body. When she posed again, she stood on the platform, in a pose that pushed her legs apart, that spread her thighs and exposed her genitals to us. I stared and drew, a study, as best I could, her thick long labia, protruding from the cleft of her sex, hanging like thick fleshy petals of female sexual skin, rising to meet around the large hood over her clitoris. My mind took me to places I didn't normally venture. I imagined being with this handsome older woman, being undressed by her, being touched, her expert fingers pushing through the thick damp folds of my own genitals, frozen with sapphic desire, pulling my face to hers, my mouth, my open lips, feeling her kissing me, touching, oh god, I thought of touching her bare ass, her naked skin, dropping between her legs, feeling her hands on my head, pulling me to her, demanding I pleasure her, pushing her legs apart and holding my mouth onto her swollen hot cunt, my mouth touching those thick swollen lips, pulling them apart, kissing her wet sex, sliding my tongue along her sweet seeping vagina, licking her, god, what was I thinking of? I sat and drew and thought of making love with her, with her, kissing and licking and tasting her, opening the engorged leaves of her thick wet female sex. Rolling, opening myself to her, spreading myself, feeling her mouth on me, god, feeling her kiss and lick my tight young cunt. She sat for her long pose, her legs apart, her arms resting on her knees, one foot extended out in front of her. I imagined lovers, men, women, older, younger, I imagined her insisting, pushing men onto their backs and gripping their erect penises with her slippery tight pussy, pulling their mouths onto her, spreading herself for them, holding their heads between her legs, against her trembling wet cunt, against her tight hairy anus. I thought of pulling her panties away from her smooth firm ass, stroking her back, kissing her, fuck, oh god, kissing her long back, holding her ass apart, opening my greedy little mouth over her soft hairy asshole. By the time I finished and got back home, every week, I was in a state of delicious arousal. I couldn't wait to strip, in front of my mirror, as if I was the model, looking at my own tall naked body, my own small firm breasts, my own thick vivid bush, pushing my legs apart, my own aching dark ravenous cunt. I fell to the floor, pulling the mirror between my legs, watching my hand spread over my wet sex, watching myself masturbate, my fingers sliding inside my hot thickly moist vagina, spreading and slathering over my swollen lips, up, oh god, up to my throbbing little clitoris. Moments I felt depraved, wanton, horny. This was art, erotic, sensual, emotional, physical. This was my artistic reaction. The body. Mine, theirs. Nakedness not nudity. Arousal not appreciation. My orgasms were swift and powerful. When I woke the cigarette I smoked was rich and filling. And then he posed for us again. What would have been the sixth class. I hadn't forgotten him, but I had started to give up on seeing him again. I was there early, I looked as the door opened. I had to look away very quickly when I recognised him. He half smiled at me. I caught his eye. And smiled back. I am returning, I am giving in again. "Bonjour. Ça va?" "Oui, bien, merci, et vous?" "'Tu', s'il vous plait. Mais oui, ça va bien." This is it, this is our exchange. I glance, from the side of my eyes, as he fills a glass, drinks some water, chats with the teacher. I look. He still looks slightly nervous. Compared to our other models. Waiting, smiling, nodding. He looks back to me again. I am looking at his body, without realising, up and down, quickly. He looks away. The room is filling up, I take my usual spot, kicking my shoes off and scrunching my bare toes on the dusty floorboards. I look at the screen, look at the shadows behind it, undoing, unlacing, unbuttoning, unzipping. And then standing. The shadow looks sharper, more clearly defined. I realise he is naked. I see him bend and pull on his robe. Damn. I had started to hope he might follow the lead of last week's model. He steps out, covered, taking the same instructions as before, and undoes his robe. I feel my breath leave me again, as he turns, as he strips for us, drops his final item of clothing and stands in front of us gloriously and completely naked. I re-familiarise myself with his nude body, his chest, his stomach, his strong legs and full firm ass, that thick rug of pubic hair, his soft little cock. His tiny pinched tip, his pursed curl of foreskin, his tight round scrotum, nestled within his dark course bush, perched above his thighs, pushed out, god, his penis, his beautiful slim short cock, pushed outwards, almost, almost up, almost out. I sit. Clenching my leg muscles. Feeling the sudden dampness in my crotch, sensing and savouring the thickening of my sex, the tingle of my moist tight opening, the upward creep of warmth and wetness. I feel each of my swelling labia touching and sliding. He poses, standing, something new. Quick, five minutes, then something else. I find myself behind him, drawing him from the rear, memorialising his wide shoulders, his tapering waist, his perfect round firm ass, wondering if he was gay, suddenly, if he fucked men, if he undressed with them, for them, touching, reaching, laying down on his front, being kissed, both naked, both gloriously erect, his lover holding his full strong cheeks apart, kissing his smooth tight asshole, moistening him, pushing his stiff penis against his anus, god, I hardly ever thought of men with other men, I used to, I remembered, I'd seen my brother, I'd seen Serge and his friend together, on the beach, touching themselves, touching each other. I imagined Laurent flat on his bed, raising himself to another guy, his lover penetrating him, sliding his hard cock deep inside his smooth clenched ass, so slow, feeling every inch as another man eased him stiff penis inside his moistened anus, turning him over, kissing, reaching down and stroking Laurent's long rigid cock. I was already enjoying the prospect of getting home, undressing, stripping naked in front of the mirror, pulling it close to my bed, spreading my legs, stroking my moist sex, treating myself, getting my dildo out of its draw, watching myself slide this inside my slippery tight cunt. Oh god. I felt my arousal peak as I played with the thought of watching myself penetrate my vagina, fucking myself, pushing it in and out of me, as I stroked my tender clitoris. I told myself to draw. As I thought of watching Laurent with another man, as I thought of drawing two men together, having two nude male models undressing, posing. Then as I imagined undressing with them, painting nude, in my little attic room, the blinds up, putting my brush down, walking to them and holding both of their soft cocks, feeling them stiffen, taking them to my bed. Laurent changes his pose. Stands for longer. Then has his break. I pretend to look at what I have drawn as I watch him pull his robe back on. He had sat for his longer pose before, this time the teacher helps him lift a long, backless chair onto the platform. I get up and make coffee, hold off going out to smoke a cigarette, hold off going to the toilet, for two kinds of relief. Instead I wait. We all sit back down. I stare as he steps out from behind the screen and removes his robe immediately, before he starts walking to the platform. I moisten my lips. I watch him move naked to the stage, his bare feet making soft padding noises on the floorboards, his small slim cock wobbling again with appealing jerky motions as his legs push his testicles up, as his perched cock springs rigidly up and down. He steps up, sits, lays back, on his side, up on an elbow, one leg, one knee raised, one stretched out. His position allows me to look more clearly at his tight round scrotum, the soft line of his raphe, running up underneath the middle of his taut penis, down between his legs, between the firm round cheeks of his ass. His cock is still held almost upright, in that lovely parody of an erection, held forward by its own smallness, a tiny wrinkled barb of dark male sex sticking up from his thick bush, above his retracted tight balls. I draw, faint with arousal, telling myself off for giving in to it again, even as I tell myself it's only another hour or so before I get home, wondering if I have become so damp it will show when I take my skirt off, whether I will notice that erotic sign of dark wetness in my underwear before I pull them away from my hot sticky cunt. The thought occurs, I look, is he looking at me? Am I in his eye line? Perhaps. If he looked down. If he wasn't so studiously gazing at the wall behind my head. But he could, easily enough, when I am looking at what I am drawing, he could easily glance at me, down, with a flicker of his eyes. What if I let my legs drift apart? What if he caught a glimpse of my underwear? No. I push the thought away, not too far, perhaps for later, but far enough. The teacher is circling behind us, talking, encouraging, directing. The minutes pass. I want to slow them down, to stretch out each second. The secret erotic pleasure is only increased by the exquisiteness of the sweet torture of not being able to meet my body's growing demands. I am trapped in my own aching straight jacket of helpless arousal. And I knew the course wasn't going on for much longer, it was possible this would be the last time he posed for us. I drink in the detail of his body, each curve, each fold, each line and slope, his tiny nipples, the flat saucers of his pectoral muscles, the rippled cuts radiating out from the deep furrow running down his abdomen, running into his deep dark navel, surrounded by a small forest of dark hairs, thinning to a line that widened out to form the dense canopy of his pubic hair. I don't know why my eyes are still surprised when I am able to follow this trail of hair all the way into the thick tufts covering his pubis, then lower still, that I can stare with shameless pleasure at this beautiful man's exquisitely soft and small penis, at the tight round sac beneath it, his male sex a perfect delicate extrusion in the centre of his slim smooth body. I realise I have been staring at no other part of his body for far too long. I look up to his face. Our eyes met. He has been looking at me. He looks away immediately. I am sure his face reddened. I feel a deep shudder of arousal throb inside me and feel another spasm of moisture between my legs. I look down, back away from his face, back to his soft little cock. My arousal takes a sudden and huge leap. His penis is larger. Fuck. His penis has dropped back, is noticeably thicker, fuck, his penis has become obviously longer. Laurent's cock is getting hard. Oh god. I look back, to his face, he is staring intently behind me, does he know? Could he tell? Do men always sense their own arousal? I watch his mouth open and close, he closes his eye for a fraction of a second longer than a blink requires. Oh god. He knows, of course he knows. He is modelling nude for a class of male and female art students, all around about his age, some of whom he might even know, and he is starting to get an erection. I can't look away though. I know the right thing would be to... to what? To stop drawing, for the teacher to end the class, for Laurent to get up and get dressed? Or to carry on? And wait it out. I feel collective breath being taken in. I am sure I can feel the air suddenly thicken with erotic reactions. I look back to his penis. Oh fuck. I stare as his exposed cock shuffles up along his leg, creeps over the pale skin of his thigh, I glance up, his mouth is open again, his breath looks to be coming more heavily, my sense of embarrassment is swallowed whole and quickly by my own rising pleasure. My eyes are drawn down, his penis is taking small visible pulsing steps up to his stomach, we can all see it thicken, the whole class is watching the model's penis lengthen, straighten. Oh god. He is getting a hard-on, right here, right now, in the middle of a class, in the middle of a long pose. I am sure the teacher will say something, do something, will have experienced this before, surely, every once in a while it had to have happened. We are all staring, I know we are, without having to look around. I am. I am hypnotised by the sight of his blatantly stiffening cock. I look as it slides up over his belly, up from his still tight, still small round scrotum, over his pubic hair, I stare as his penis continues to swell, continues to thicken. The sight, having grown used to his softness, his smallness, is more thrilling, more shockingly arousing than anything I can remember, than any other time I had seen a man getting aroused. Laurent looks in pain, his brow is creased, his chin seems to be shaking, he is still opening and closing his eyes with denial, with concentrated effort to will his penis to stop throbbing to a state of full engorgement. It doesn't work. The class is silent. I might have expected giggles, would this have deflated him? Laughter usually did the trick, was usually more effective than the coldest of showers, unless derision was a person's thing, unless they got off on humiliation. Did he? I suddenly wonder? He is still getting hard. Is the fact of his public arousal making him all the more aroused? Is it the possible sense of humiliation which is getting him so turned on? Still, he sits still, laying half back, nude, deliciously naked, his body in clear view, posing for a class of young artists. And his penis continues to dance up his body. I look again. His cock is sticking straight up, away from his legs, towards his large navel, following the line of his pubic hair, I see it move again, again, pulsing, filling with blood, it gets thicker, fuck, longer, straighter, fuck, leaping up from his body, away from his stomach, I watch as his penis hovers above his skin. As he becomes completely hard. Oh god. His cock is now fully erect. It is raging up from deep between his legs, deep inside him, up from his bulging oval testicles, sticking up in a thick straight rail, quivering and throbbing visibly, so smooth and stiff, his increasingly ragged breathing moving his stomach up and down, causing the long rigid rod of his stiff penis to rise and drop as he takes in nervous gulps of air. His exposed and erect organ looks huge. I am so accustomed to the sight of his soft penis, when it was so small, looking at it now it is erect, as it sends small tingling jolts of erotic energy into my own sex, the contrast was thrilling, the sight of this private, intimate, most personal physical response happening in public, not aggressively so, accidentally, unavoidably. The fact he would be feeling such shame made the moment forbiddingly arousing. He was erect, completely and gloriously hard. And he shouldn't be. I judge the size of his rigid penis. It is thick, fuck, thicker than quite a few of the men I had known, long, fuck, Laurent didn't have a huge cock, but he isn't small, not as his soft size would suggest. It looks even bigger on his slight, slim frame, seems to dwarf his own body. I guess, in inches, seven? Nearly eight? Fuck. I sit and realise I haven't drawn a line in minutes. I clip a fresh sheet onto my easel. Our handsome male life model is sitting and displaying a thick and long and thrillingly hard penis. I draw quickly. I had never drawn a naked and aroused man before. I didn't know if I would again. I pick out a thicker pencil and outline his body as quickly as I can, as large as I dare, and return my gaze to his trembling rigid cock. The teacher steps in front of me, approaching Laurent. He has to say something. He almost whispers. I find myself leaning in to listen. "Are you okay to continue? We can stop? We are near the end anyway?" "Um, well, I don't know." "It is okay, it happens from time to time, if you relax I'm sure it will... you know, go away, as usual." "I'm so sorry, this is so... so unprofessional." "You are fine, new, I won't... we'll work with you again. We'll carry on though? Okay?" "Sure." He steps back. Laurent's cock is still completely rigid. I want him to touch himself, I realise, I want to watch him hold his cock, ease his foreskin away from his smooth swollen tip. I draw the shape of his stiff cock, his tight scrotum, the length of his thick stem, the curve of his still hidden, large oval bulb, the now stretched hood of soft dark skin shielding his fat glans. He remains erect. As minutes pass. Does this surprise me? I know men get hard-ons, they come and go, in the sleep, throughout the day, do they last this long? Laurent doesn't look any more relaxed now he's agreed to carry on, after their conversation. His face still looks contorted, still looks anguished. My sex is increasingly damp. I am not sure I have been more aroused, not without actual physical contact. My pleasure rises as I draw, as I see our model's large stiff penis taking shape on my paper. I wonder if his tip is wet, if he is producing his sweet male fluid, if I held him and stroked his thick stem and fully exposed his final hidden part his large glans would be coated in slick clear lubrication. Oh god. I might need this to end soon. I press my thighs together. I know when I pull my underwear off there will be a long thick damp strip of material clinging to the damp skin of my sex. I draw and draw. I capture him, nude, slim, strong, handsome, erect. My drawing doesn't do justice to the eroticism and aching beauty of his nude body, his large stiff cock. "Okay everyone, we'll end in a couple of minutes, so if you finish up what you are working on." Two minutes. My body demands more, two hours, two days, even as it is also demanding its own relief. I have done as much as I can, I use the time to look, to study, to fix the image of his bare body and erect penis in my mind. "Okay, thank you Laurent." He shifts, stands, his cock is still utterly erect, it stick up in front of him, away from his body, a few swaying degrees away from vertical, he walks quickly, away from our transfixed gazes. I stare, watching his long and thick erect penis making stiff circular bouncing movements as he steps behind the screen. I stare with undisguised longing at his bare ass. He glances back, I see the stiff tip of his dancing cock. Our eyes meet again. And he's gone. I think to wait. The class gets up, packs up, mingles. There are finally some smiles, one or two nervous laughs. I am not sure anyone found it funny, I am fairly sure even the guys there reacted in ways that might have surprised them. Everyone seems to be lingering. I want to wait, I want to try to speak to Laurent. To meet him. I leave. Am I playing the long game? Or merely eager to get home. I don't know. I think he might think more of me if he sees I have left and not obliged him to apologise, or explain. I realise I am walking home far more rapidly than usual, even after other classes. When I climb up to my apartment I am undressing before I close the door behind me, I drop my art equipment, pull my jumper off as I kick my shoes from my feet, as I reach and slide my T-shirt over my body, touching my already bare breasts, unzipping my skirt, feeling it fall, standing in front of my long mirror in just my underwear, braless, I can, I can see the dark smudge of wetness, I bend and pull my panties off, and stand naked, looking at my own slim pale body, my thick dark damp nest of pubic hair. From somewhere I retain enough control to step back to my folder, unzip it, pull out the last sketch I managed to complete. And place it on the floor in front of me, in front of the mirror. I reach up and touch my breast, my small stiff nipple, oh fuck, my skin is alive, is electrically charged, I touch my belly, opening my fingers over myself, feeling the top of my thick bush, and look at Laurent, at the quick lines of his naked body, at the large straight rail of male sex in the middle of his bare form drawing all my attention, I feel my way through my pubic hair, and finally reach the soft thick moist flesh of my genitals, I drop to my knees, my legs wide apart, my aching wet cunt splayed over the image of Laurent's beautiful long hard cock, and I thread a slim finger between the swollen slippery lips of my pussy. I feel my climax building almost at once, almost as soon as I find my tight opening, as soon as I feel another warm wave of thick sweet wetness escape my vagina. I look at myself in the mirror, imagining him, thinking of Laurent, here, in front of me, looking, both of us naked, his glorious cock stiff, his shiny smooth wet tip exposed, I stroke my pussy, oh god, I look at my exposed sex in the mirror, I think of his exposure, his nudity, his strong naked male body, the act of being looked at so intently, his reaction, oh, his stiffening prick, the delicious hardening, until his long thick rigid cock was completely erect, and inside me, oh fuck, I think of undressing in front of other people, in front of the class, Laurent already naked, watching him, being watched, I slide the tip of my finger inside my tight engorged cunt, I am slick and soaking wet, my fingers are already slippery damp with my warm moistness, I am coming, oh fuck, the pleasure rises within me, fill and echoes in my legs, in the base of my back, I feel ripples and waves of exquisite tension building, I stroke my lips, my vagina, my tender stiff clitoris, oh, oh, I think of being watched, stripping naked, Laurent, his cock getting hard as I undress, as people study us, as I climb onto that small raised platform, as my classmates watch, as I reach for his beautiful big cock and draw it inside me, as I lower my hot wet cunt onto his rigid male prong, as we fuck, as I slide up and down his thick penis. As people watch him penetrate me, enter me, stretch my tight cunt wide, oh god, my orgasm explodes within me, we are watched, in front of others, Laurent, oh, oh, pulling his glistening hard cock out of my wet cunt, stroking himself, they watch, the class watches as he comes over me, gripping his thick stem and spurting his thick hot seed over my bare breasts, over my face, I hear myself crying out, I give vocal expression to my pleasure, I never do this, not when I am alone, I gasp and shout and scream with the intensity of my climax. It's half an hour, it's a long period of exquisite semi-consciousness before I am in a fit enough state to enjoy my cigarette.