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Model Behavior by Dorla Moorehouse

By the second semester of my freshman year, I realized I needed a job if I wanted to keep up my club-hopping and late-night pizza orders. Unfortunately, the second-semester campus offerings were sub-par. I wasn’t quite desperate enough to work in the dining hall, but I was applying too late in the year to get any of the coveted library jobs.

Finally, I came across a listing from the art department for figure models. The thought of being naked in front of strangers was terrifying, but still more appealing than serving fries and washing dishes. Plus it was one of the best-paying jobs on campus: $15 an hour. The art department was desperate; I didn’t even need to interview, just emailed the department chair, and was assigned to the Monday/Wednesday open drawing session.

Before I knew it, it was time to squelch my nerves, grab my robe, and head down to the studio. The instructor greeted me with a smile as I came through the door on my first night.

“Hi, I’m Professor Wiggins. But you can call me Jean.”

“I’m Alice. Nice to meet you.”

“How are you tonight?”

“Nervous.”

She chuckled. “Everyone is their first time. But you can relax. I promise, they just want to draw you, nothing more.”

I went to the back of the studio, undressed, slipped into my robe, and re-emerged to take my place by the stool in the center of the room.

“Okay,” Jean said. “You have two hours. Today, each pose will last ten minutes.” She nodded to me. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I took a deep breath, slipped off the robe, and perched on the stool, right leg over the left, arms stiff at my sides. Ten minutes later, my left leg was numb and my shoulders were in agony. I nearly fell off the stool when it came time to switch poses. But none of the artists laughed or seemed to care. They just sat at their easels, waiting for me to settle into my next position.

Halfway through my second pose, I realized my nipples were pointed like bullets. Being naked and still left me vulnerable to the air conditioner. I was freezing, but couldn’t do anything about it. Although I felt humiliated, none of the artists seemed to notice – they just sketched away. By the end of the session, my nerves had fizzled out. I was cold, stiff, and bored, but after two hours, I realized the students really were just there to draw me.

One Monday halfway through the semester, I arrived at the studio a little earlier than usual. Only one student was there.

“Hey,” he said, looking up from his sketchbook.

“Hey.”

“Do you want to see how I’ve drawn you?”

“What?”

“You know – do you want to see the sketches I’ve been doing?”

“Oh. Okay.” I walked up to his easel and glanced over his shoulder. There I was, my features turned into a series of pencil curves. There was my ass, from when I’d been tired one evening and leaned lazily over the stool, giving everyone a good rear view. I had to admit, it looked really sexy, perfectly round and full. I wondered if I really was that hot, or if he’d taken some artistic liberties with it.

He flipped a page, and there I was with my arms stretched up and my breasts pulled high and round. My cunt began to tingle, and I tried not to blush – I didn’t feel right getting turned on by my own body. But as he flipped the pages, I kept noting my smooth round thighs, my hourglass waist, my curved neck – I couldn’t help feeling more and more aroused.

By the time the rest of the students had arrived, my cunt was dripping wet. For the first time in weeks, I was afraid to pose. My pussy was going to drip all over the stool. If I left my legs open in the slightest, they’d all see how wet I was. I spent those two hours feeling more uncomfortable than I had my first night on the job, selecting positions that kept my legs crossed or pressed directly together. All the while, the heat in my cunt was building, the pressure behind my clit rising. When those two hours were finally over, I hurried to dress, and then raced back to my dorm and pulled out my vibrator.

I could barely stand to tease myself as I ran the device up and down my throbbing lips, thinking of the penciled shape of my perfect ass popping off of the white paper. After just a few minutes of play and picturing page after page of my sexy curves, I set the vibrator right to my clit and turned it up all the way. The orgasm started as a tiny wave through my cunt that radiated all the way out through my body, leaving me gasping for breath.

Once I was done, I felt ridiculous for having masturbated to myself. I believed that if you were in your own fantasies, there had to be at least one other person with you. But as I stood up to put my clothes back on, I took a look at myself in the mirror. Seeing myself head-on, I couldn’t deny that I was just as attractive as the student had drawn me. I watched myself stroke my breasts, and suddenly I was horny again. I grabbed my vibrator and turned it on low, pushed it against my nipples, then up my neck and down over my belly. Finally, I brought it to my waiting pussy, turned it up a little higher, moved it in slow circles so my knees trembled; it was nearly impossible to stay standing as I watched myself shake with orgasm.

On Wednesday, I showed up at the studio with a plan to thank the artist who had given me such a hot evening with myself. I’d spent a day and a half choreographing poses in my head. As the artists settled behind their easels, I set myself directly in front of him.

For my first pose, I sat in front of my artist in profile, legs crossed, hand positioned just over my breasts. From most angles, it looked innocuous, but from his position, it appeared as though I was about to start teasing my nipple. My wrist went numb, but I knew the effect would be well-worth the discomfort.

When it was time for my second pose I stood up, turned to face my artist, spread my legs slightly, and placed a hand in front of my crotch. Again, I arranged myself so while I looked innocent from some angles, from his direction, my middle finger looked like it was curled toward my clit. As I held my posture, I stole a glance at his face, but his eyes betrayed nothing. Just like every other session, he was there to draw me, not ogle me.

Finally, it was time for the last sketch of the night. I sat on my stool, leaned forward, and opened my legs just enough to reveal my pussy. I set a hand in front to keep me steady, but splayed my fingers so that he could still get a good view. Even if he wasn’t going to appreciate what I was doing, even if he was going to be a distant artist, at least I was giving him the challenge of drawing a part of my body I had yet to put on display.

Once the session was over, I dressed slowly. By the time I finished, most of the students had cleared out – except for him. I caught his eye and approached.

“Do you want to see my drawings?”

“Sure.”

He hesitated a moment, waiting until everyone else had cleared out, then opened up his sketchbook. My cunt got wet almost immediately, but what made me even hornier than before was that this time, he hadn’t drawn my entire body. Instead, he had just focused on the parts I’d been highlighting in my poses. There was my breast and my tapered fingers filling up an entire page. A fingertip making its way towards the soft curls of my pubic hair. The arch of my spine where I’d pushed my breasts out. And best of all, the spread of my lips, the sprawl of my fingers, the opening of my cunt.

“Hey, easy now,” he chuckled.

“What?” I looked down and realized that while looking at the pictures, I’d been fondling myself through my jeans. “Oh, that. What, are you concerned that if I make myself come, there won’t be an orgasm left for you?”

He raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Maybe.”

“Then you should hurry up and get naked.”

I barely had time to blink before he was not only undressed, but unfastening my jeans. I hurried out of my shirt and bra, and we began kissing, deep, probing, biting kisses. But a minute later, I pulled away.

“What, is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, exactly. But you’ve spent six weeks looking at me from every possible angle. I feel like I should get some time to look as well. Now turn around. Slowly.”

He complied, moving at an aching pace. His ass was perfect: round, and just fleshy enough to grab. His skin was smooth and covered in freckles. And when he finally faced me again, I made sure to get a good look at his cock, which was perfectly straight, hard and ready.

I reached out, ran my palm up and down his shaft, watched him tremble. Still holding his dick, I guided him over toward my stool. This time, I leaned forward onto it, pushing my ass out towards him.

“Come on. Fuck me.”

He gripped my hips and plunged his cock into me so quickly that I felt his balls slap against my skin. Balancing on one elbow, I took my other hand and began playing with my clit. He reached out to brace one arm against the stool and put the other hand on my breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. Moments later, my cunt contracted and my knees buckled under the force of my orgasm. I screamed as I pressed my ass into his pelvis, trying to remain upright.

He pulled out, eased me onto the floor, then slid inside again and started pounding. I started playing with my breasts again, squishing, tugging and pinching until I was on the verge of orgasm. As I came, I let my arms fall and the pleasure overtake me, my back arching, head sliding across the cold wood floor. He started to come just as my own orgasm was winding down, but the final pulse of his cock made me spasm again, starting a whole new wave of pleasure that left me thrashing and scraping my skin on the rough wood, until my body relaxed and I collapsed for good.

“I was thinking,” he said, as we were dressing. “I’ve been looking for a regular model. And you’re quite the inspiration. What would you charge for private sessions?”

“Keep fucking me like that, and I’ll work for free.”

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Dorla Moorehouse runs Austin’s Lusty Literati Reading Series, which takes place monthly at the United States Art Authority. Check out the first (free!) event on September 14 at 8 PM. She is also a freelance writer and bookstore employee living in Austin, Texas. In her spare time she performs with an amateur dance company, studies Iyengar yoga, and volunteers for a reproductive rights organization that provides financial assistance to low-income women. You can read her poetry and prose (both erotic and otherwise) at dorlamoorehouse.blogspot.com.