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.
I want to join him, I sense the urge to abandon all artistic pretences and strip with him, until we are both naked, until he can look at me, my bare young body, and I can see his response, I can gaze at the hardening of his exposed penis. Until I feel his strong male body, my smooth skin against him, my legs apart, his long hard cock pushing inside me.

I stop. I play my game. I obey my rules.

Fabrice unbuckles. He unthreads one half of his belt from the other, leaves each loosened link to hang in front of his trousers as he unbuttons, unzips, pulls and pushes his covering of dark denim away from his groin, down, oh god, down over his legs. He is doing it, fuck, my tutor, this strong handsome older man is undressing in front of me, for me. He stands on single feet as he removes his jeans. And faces me in his underwear, in a pair of pale blue boxer shorts. Too loose to see anything, to be able to make out the shape of what they cover. But he is past the point of waiting now, to tease would be to make the game too obvious (is he playing too? I remind myself it might well be just me). I watch him push his hands into the back of his shorts, his thumbs outside, and lower his last piece of clothing.

He stands. Upright. His arms by his side. His face, not quite expressionless, can I force myself to study? To interpret? He is nude, I can see the dark shapes in the lower part of my gaze, the unfamiliar textures of his intimate places. I look at his face. His eyes, meeting, holding mine. My stomach rolls and tumbles. There is something there, I am sure, am I? Something other than impassive nudity. I look down. I am losing control of my own face. I look at his naked body. His waist, his bare hips, the two curving lines of his pubis. His hair. The large thick nest of dark dense hair covering his pubic area. And surrounding his genitals. I know I am lingering, I know, I let the knowledge of what I can suddenly see infect my own still hidden regions, I flicker my eyes down and look at Fabrice's naked penis. He stands in front of me nude. And I look at his soft bare cock. Uncircumcised, pale, small, hefted out in the most gentle curve by the tight round pouch of his testicles.

I stare. I know I am, I let myself, as if I am preparing my eyes for drawing. I look at my teacher's nude body. His hairy legs, arms, chest. His beautiful bare cock. Not long, at all, not nearly as thick and fleshy as the model earlier that morning, as slight as Laurent, as slim, a little longer, his foreskin extending out in a delicate pointing frond over his tip, his tip, oh, I stare at the soft shape of his glans as it pushes out underneath his soft covering. And wonder if it is slick with the shimmer of arousal, if he has felt the first ooze of arousal escape his suddenly exposed penis? Is he? Feeling anything?

"Just... standing? Like this?"

"Sure, this is... this is fine."

His voice sounds even, relaxed. Mine sounds broken as it echoes against my walls. I am still sitting. I have to instruct myself, to order my hand to pick up a charcoal stick, my eyes to look at lines and angles, proportion, perspective. All I can see is his nakedness, his strong mature male body. I haven't seen his ass, I realise, I want to, I want to study him, to move closer, to sit within a meter of his soft cock. I start to sketch the outline of Fabrice's nude body, I rely on physical memory, every particle of conscious mind is focused on his penis, the tight circle of his scrotum, every part of my mind is committing his soft little cock to its core memory. And is wondering what it would be like aroused.

I draw. I sketch the outline of his body, his head, his legs. My arousal has been rising and falling on a swell of male nudity for so long, without having reached a peak, I am almost exhausted by my own body's pulses and flutterings. I draw Fabrice's face, his hair, the small points of his tight nipples, the dark pit of his belly button, the strong lines of his shoulder muscles, his thighs. I force myself to wait, to avoid looking for as long as I can bare. And then I look at his exposed penis. I study, I sketch, I stare at my teacher's soft small pale cock. So beautiful, I capture the tight pouch of his balls, full and round, showing at the side of his penis, underneath the point of his foreskin. His foreskin. Oh god. I am looking, I can, I am allowed, I gaze at his beautiful soft penis, moving gently, softly, as he breathes, as his blood pulses. So slim, his stem no thicker than my forefinger, and shorter, his soft oval bulb showing underneath the malleable covering of his long prepuce, all of his sex protruding like a separate entity at the centre of his body, perched, extended. I draw quickly, I capture his cock, his balls, his soft genitals.

I look up. He is staring at me. At my face. And doesn't look away. I blink. And look back down. He watches my gaze return to his sex. Does he move? Does his penis enlarge? Just so slightly? I am becoming attuned to even the gentlest of swellings. I am sure Fabrice's cock has pulsed with arousal.

"How is it going? Am I still enough?"

"Oh sure, you are a good model, you have a nice body, very manly, hairy."

I draw. The lines and shape of his penis, his thick pubic nest, his stretched round scrotal sac. I want to be closer, I want to fill my page with outsize images of his soft cock, I want to sit nearer, close enough to breathe in the sweet scent of his maleness, his pulsing male sex. I feel myself churning again, trembling, aching with frustrated physical sensation. Is he reacting? Feeling any sort of excitement? He looks thicker, straighter, does he? Oh fuck. Has his penis thickened? A touch? I have lost track of how long he has posed. Does he need a break? Is it my turn?

"How are you doing? A few more minutes okay?"

"Yes, five more? Whatever you need."

He breathes, his torso shifts. His penis wobbles in front of him, in front of me. I draw each contour, each wrinkle of bunched skin, the freckle near his small soft tip, the faint green furrow of his vein tracing along the centre of his slim stem. His hair, his thick dark bush of pubic hair. His protruding balls. Again I hold my legs together. I squeeze the soft swollen lips of my sex tight, sliding, slipping, easing the hot honey of my pussy against myself. I have to stop. I can see Fabrice shaking slightly with the effort of holding his legs still. Calling time makes me nervous though. Knowing it is now my turn. I want to carry on. I want to undress. I want Fabrice to look at my nude body. To study me. To react.

"Okay. I am done, more or less, you can relax."

I sit and cross my legs, my paper in my lap. And watch him move his feet, stretch, twist and soften his muscles. And oblige his penis to sway, to jiggle in front of him, to swing and dance from side to side in delightfully small circles, in tiny stiff looking jerks. My breath is entering and leaving me in uneven rasps. Am I going to do this? I am still playing, I know I am, all this involves is undressing in front of a man, who is already naked, I have done this before, perhaps not countless times, but many. But, still, not quite like this, not quite after having known them for so long, not quite when we are (both? Are we both?) pretending nothing sexual is going on.

"Would you like to look?"

"I would, yes."

He doesn't dress, he could easily have reached for his trousers, his shirt. His underwear. He remains nude. As he steps closer to me, his feet patting softly on my bare floor. His penis jumping, bobbling. I stare. I cannot control my gaze any more. I stare and dilate at the sight of his soft little cock, his testicles, visible, available to me, gripped tight by the retracted skin of his tender pouch.

Fabrice stands next to me, I can feel his breath on my neck, I can look down to his bare body, his hairy chest, the pale column of his sex. So close I could reach for him, open my hand, place it gently over his warm waiting member, cupping him, oh god, I want to feel his cock, I want to feel the hot soft flesh of his exposed penis in my fingers.

"It is good, you are good, you know you are don't you?"

"Oh, uh, I don't know, I love to draw, to capture people, things, moments."

"Of course, well, so I know I have said it, you are good, you have so much talent. You must make sure you do not grow out of this, you must work to keep art in your life, as you get older."

"I know, I will."

"You think you will, some do, some lose it, it is not easy."

He is still naked, as he speak to me, as if still in the class. He takes a step sideways, and we face each other again.

"Do you have paper I can use? Some pencils?"

"Of course, right here, anything you want."

He picks up his wine glass and takes a sip, his first for a while. I do the same. I feel the alcohol mixing in my belly with adrenalin and arousal. Affecting me more than it should, making me light headed. Weak. My knees feel unsteady, unequal to the task of keeping me upright.

My teacher steps back, to the seat I had been using, waiting for me. And still not dressing. I think to say something. But, I don't want to, I don't want him to cover himself. I step to the same spot he had used to pose, in front, facing him, the light good, the large window to my right. I look. I look back. He is sitting, naked, his bare ass on my small wooden chair, his feet, his legs together, his feet crossed, his cock pushed up now, as if he is displaying the smallest of erections, perched up between his thighs, drawn forward by the seam of skin running into his still tight scrotum. He is waiting. He is not bothering to dress.

I face him. Both of us staring. I sense the mood has changed, despite neither of us speaking, there is a more overt eroticism present, less of a charade that this is other than a sexual moment. I feel yet more moisture escape my vagina, I feel my thick wet labia touching, my damp swollen clitoris pleading to be touched. My fingers feel heavy, clumsy. I push my shoes off by the heel. I know I should follow the example of professional models, and retreat to my bedroom to undress, and find a robe, and let this drop at the final moment.

I do neither. I reach under my skirt and hold the waist of the pair of thick black wool tights I am wearing. This is the wrong order, every time I undress I remove my skirt first, each time, unless I am not alone, unless I am undressing for someone, with someone. Unless it is an erotic encounter. I am stripping, I know, I realise, in the way he pulled his socks off before his shirt, before his trousers, I am obeying the strictures of tease. I pull and unroll my tights, feeling the bare skin of my legs react to the cool air, feeling an upbreath caress my hot sex.

Fabrice is staring, waiting, sitting, casually, as if casually, as if he is not already nude. As if his soft cock is not showing, not sticking up straight above his tight, his dark hairy scrotum.

I pull off my sweater, in a single swift movement, feeling it draw my hair upwards, I can sense the scruffiness, the strands now over my face. I don't stop to tidy. I stand in my skirt, my legs naked, a white V-neck T-shirt covering the top of my body. Our eyes meet. I can't stop myself from looking down, I know he'll see this, my look to his cock. Still perched, still upright, still deliciously soft. And yet, oh, is he, just, a little, thicker? Has his penis swelled? I want to stare, I want to provoke a more blatant reaction.

His face is without expression. I reach and take off my T-shirt. I raise my arms, crossing them first, pulling, hoisting, feeling the hair on my head become scruffier still, feeling the quick breath of cool air hit the damp dark stripes of hair in my armpits.

The desire for him to see all of me is intoxicating, to strip, bend, be looked at, studied. I toss my T-shirt behind me. Stand in my skirt. I am not quite sure this was what I intended, that I forgot I was not wearing a bra. I am facing him, topless now, my breasts exposed, I see him register this, just, oh god, his eyes widening a fraction as he realises I am already half naked, my smooth small breasts in full view, my tight dark nipples drawn to a pair of stiff points. The air holds me, tickles me, his eyes, his gaze creates the sweetest of frictions over my skin, as I stand before him.

Too long. I cannot wait. I reach and unbutton, unzip my brown wool skirt, push, wriggle, and feel this item fall from me, over my hips, down along my legs. I step and kick it away. Standing still, now, I feel so breathlessly aroused, my pussy is so damp, so thick with desire. I bend and strip myself naked. I feel the centre of my panties stick to my wet sex, they hold against my pussy, glued to me with my own sweet liquid, I pull, sensing my thick dense bush of pubic hair becoming exposed, my underwear unpeels from my hot vulva, I look at the stretch of darker material, the stain of moisture in my knickers, as I leave them at my feet, looking down, afraid suddenly to look up, staring at my own nude body, my belly, my pale thighs, the vivid thatch of hair above my genitals. He is looking. I can feel his eyes.

I look up.

The climax I have been anticipating all day nearly crashes over me.

Fabrice's penis is completely erect.

I say nothing. He is motionless. I look at his crotch. His cock looks enormous, after looking at him so soft for so long, it sticks up, back almost, curving towards him at the centre of his stem, touching his hairy stomach, it looks so thick, so long, I let myself examine him, I let my eyes perform a lingering survey of his altered shape, his wide stem, his large oval bulb, still hidden by the now taut shield of foreskin, the soft ridge of his swollen seam. My body connects, thrills to the sight of his obvious arousal, the fact he is not trying to hide his erection. Fabrice sits, his position unchanged, still looking at me, his mouth is closed, I can hear his breathing, his eyes flicking over my naked body, my young nude form, and his body has reacted, to the sight of me, my undressing, my act of exposure. He watched me, and became stiff.

Still, we are silent, I stand. We stare at each other. I roam over his body, his beautiful hard cock. I know it is not huge, not really, I don't care, he is not small, I wouldn't care if he was, his bare prick looks so solid, so wonderfully stiff.

He seems so calm though, otherwise, as if his penis has become hard of its own accord, as if this is devoid of sexual intent.

His eyes are fixed on me, on my now naked body. I am being looked at, studied. Like never before. I shift my feet slightly as I look back at him, still nude, both of us now, his feet as bare as my own, his legs, his belly, both of our pubic hair in full view, my breasts, his chest, I turn to tidy my clothing, knowing he will look at my bare ass, knowing he will look, my naked little ass, facing him again, tremblingly nude, showing him my pussy, as he sits and still lets me look at his quivering raging erect penis.

I doubt myself, the situation. My sex feels so slippery wet, so hot. I feel faint with arousal. And Fabrice is sitting, nude, his cock is so hard, is so wonderfully rigid, yet he looks apparently unaffected by any of this. And, somehow, the absence of any sign of his own erotic engagement makes me more heady, more naughty: this is just me, this is not going on for both of us, this is a casual moment of nudity, for him at least, nothing more, he might have become erect, as if this is okay as well, for an artist when looking at a model.

It is so much more. It has to be.

I stand with one leg slightly in front of the other, my hand placed over my hip, the edge of my finger touching the outermost curls of my womanly hair, my other hand turned out, facing him. It is an easy pose, a beginner's. I feel close to abandoning our game though. How I stand for him matters less than our mutual nudity, the act of exposure. I watch him watching, starting to draw.

I look, I do not try not to, my legs weaken as I drop my eyes, slowly, so he can see me, over his bare body, interrupted earlier now, before I reach his hips, the swollen tip of his cock appears in my vision sooner, pointing up, sticking up from his legs, exposing the full round sac of his testicles.

I stare. He has to say something.

"Sorry Juliette."

"Huh?"

He looks down to himself quickly.

"Undressing, it is so intimate, watching you, sorry, I should have... left you alone, or dressed myself, but you've seen now, my penis is hard, I'm afraid I was a little aroused watching you strip."

"It's fine, I don't mind."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, it is perfectly fine. I like it, looking I mean, at men, when they are aroused, our model the other week."

"Sure."

"And... I like it. Your penis. When it is hard. I like the way it looks now. You... you have a nice cock."

"Hmm."

Has his voice changed? Become heavier? Weighted with breath?

"Did you ever? When you modelled? Become hard, like this?"

"No, once I sat for an artist, just for him, he asked me to... make myself erect, he painted me that way, holding myself."

Fabrice's cock pulses and moves as he speaks, as I watch.

Minutes, silence, I think of a class drawing me, studying me, a class of nude men, men I know, classmates, friends, all of them sitting nude and waiting to draw me, their soft penises swaying in front of them. Stripping, as I just did, standing, each of them becoming aroused, each of their soft cocks stiffening. I stand and fantasise about standing in a room of nude men, young, older, my age, Fabrice's, sixty, seventy years old, all naked and outrageously erect, dropping their papers, their pencils, sitting on stools and chairs in a large circle around me and masturbating, I stand still, motionless, watching each of them stroking themselves, rubbing their erect penises, some so big, sticking up, pointing, vivid prongs of aroused male sex, some so big, two, three, eight, nine inches, some contrastingly smaller, short stubby pricks of engorged member, all masturbating hard, fast, as if alone, ten, twelve men all nude, hard, moving their hands quickly over their penises, ejaculating in long messy streams of white fluid, over me, in front of me, for me, thick spurts of pale semen leaping from their exposed organs, dancing, jumping lines of cum pulsing from their stiff cocks onto the floor in front of them.

"Do you know Schiele?"

My body performs its own dance of arousal. "Of course. Why?"

He says nothing more, nothing else. He wants me to get there by myself. If I want to. My thoughts catch up with his. I look behind me, turning, offering him the second sight of my naked ass, facing my open bedroom door, my bed, the tangle of sheets and blankets, the twisting dimpled mass of pillow. Where I sleep, where I sleep naked, where I touch myself, where I masturbate. Can I? The idea weakens me, enters me, to pretend to, to pose on my bed, for him, my legs apart, my hand between them, touching my aching damp sex, touching myself as if masturbating. With Fabrice drawing me, still nude, sitting, studying, his cock rigid.

The idea draws me to its actualisation.

I follow my body around and walk silently, slowly, to the bed, knowing he is looking, trying to imagine what he can see, his young model's naked body, her slim waist, her smooth firm ass. I walk. Hoping I seem calm, assured, in control of my actions, my desire, my trembling arousal. I want him to be as weak with pleasure as I am, from watching me. I turn. And look back. Fabrice is still sitting. But stands when he sees I am waiting. I look as he walks to me, his stiff cock pointing up, out, swaying now in jutting circles, bouncing, still above horizontal, leaping in thick rigid hops and skips.

And he is next to me, I could reach for him, this older guy, this older married guy, I could cross that line, end this torturous game. And still I do not. I want his hands on me, his mouth, I want to feel his stiff penis, I want to draw back his tightened foreskin and expose his shiny damp tip, I want to taste him, to feel him in my mouth, I want to feel his hot hard cock between my lips, between my legs, deep, oh, inside me, stretching my tight little cunt, our thick pubic hair meshing together, I want to sit over him, gliding his penis into me, gripping him, rolling to and fro over his thick organ, grinding my swollen bud against his hard pubis, feeling his hands on my bare ass, grazing my tight tender anus. It is one movement, one extended hand, one caress of my fingers over his chest, under, across the tender skin of his balls.
"If you are sure?"

"Uh-huh. And... you would pose for me this way?"

"Oh, this way?"

"Yes, holding your... self, holding your penis, gripping yourself, as if you are masturbating?"

There are several beats of silence. We are staring at each other. If Fabrice's penis lost some of its hardness as he stood and walked, the idea of posing so explicitly demonstrates its appeal, I look as his naked cock jumps up, pulses up, thickens and lengthens some more. It stands upright, sticks up between us, achingly hard, vertical, out to form a beautiful V between his stomach and the rigid, curving stem of his erection.

"Yes."

And for the second time his voice carries the weight of his body's arousal. It is thick, rasping.

"Yes?"

"Do you want to pose, on the bed, for me, now?"

I step back, unsteady, on a precipice of desire, ready to sit, to pull his penis into my mouth, to make him come, to feel his thick sweet sperm cover my flickering tongue.

But I sit, just, and pull myself back, until I am fully on the bed, laying down, kicking the covers away, using a pillow, looking. Fabrice steps back, holds up paper, a fresh pencil, staring at my sex, my midriff, and I push my legs apart. I nearly climax. I show him the dark moist mound of my naked pussy. I know how wet I am. He will see this now, my arousal will be as blatant as his. He will be able to see how my labia have swollen, how my vagina is seeping my warm moisture. I leave one leg straight, and bend the other out at my knee, as I do, it feels so filthy to pose this way, whore-like, pornographic, displaying my most intimate behaviour to another. I slide my hand over my breasts, grazing the sensitive peak of my nipple, creeping over my stomach, entering the warm triangle of hair above my sex, lower, between, as if for the first time, I open my hand and drape my fingers over my bare vulva.

I fight an orgasm. The contact, the physical connections in my body are overwhelming. I gasp. I hear myself. Breath is dragged in and out of my nostrils. The urge to stroke my genitals is almost too great to resist, to slide a finger between my thick damp lips, to penetrate myself, to rub my tight little clitoris.

"Okay, are you okay if I draw you like this? Exactly this way. Do not move. This is perfect."

"Uh-huh."

I can feel how hot I am, how wet. The tender skin of my pussy is slippery, god, I cannot remember feeling myself so warm, so swollen and moist. And I cannot move. I cannot stroke or part or circle. I want to reach for a draw and push my dildo hard inside my vagina, I lay and hold my sex, and imagine fucking myself in front of Fabrice, thrusting my real-looking silicone cock deep inside me, lubricating it, rolling over, doing something I have never done and penetrating my anus, my smooth tight virgin asshole.

I am sure I am coming, in ripples of pleasure, small lapping climaxes teasing me towards something unprecedented. I lose track of time, am just able to turn my eyes to look at Fabrice, standing over me, his beautiful hard cock still completely erect, jutting out like a small limb of male sex, his foreskin stretched taut now, I can see his small opening, the soft lips of his urethra. My vagina tightens. I feel myself throb.

The tip of Fabrice's stiff cock glistens with his own liquid. His penis is coated with a slick of sweet clear moistness. I have to concentrate now, I have to force myself to think of other things, to ward off what feels like the inexorable rising of erotic sensation. Have I had an orgasm before without being touched? I move my fingers, one finger, rolling it along its joints between my aching lips. Have I come without someone, without me having touched myself more forcefully?

The image of Laurent returns, his long hard naked cock, the sight of him becoming stiff, in front of the class, the idea of him being here now, next to me, on top of me, inside me, in front of Fabrice, drawing his cock as it enters my vagina. Ripples are rising into one large growing wave of impossible pleasure. I can't. I have only posed for a few minutes. I can't. I have to move. My breathing betrays me, the flush of mauve rising on my neck, my breasts.

"Would you like to move?"

"Uh-huh, sorry, is that okay? To draw you?"

There is silence again. I move. I let my legs spread as I sit on the bed, facing him, moving, allowing the accidental interpretation, I sit on the edge of the bed, naked, my legs wide, my feet still up, my sex splayed open. I see him looking, I look down, to his visibly quivering cock. I know if he moved to me now I would let it happen, I would meet his movements with my own, if he reached, touched, I would reach for him, and touch his rigid penis, and pull him to me, pull him between my legs, pull him with abandoned greed inside me.

Neither of us say anything. His eyes rise to meet mine. I stand, we are so close, so near, our breath, I can feel the warmth of his body, I glance down, staring, fixing the image of his rigid cock in my mind, the shining mouth of his wet opening. We move without words. I step to the side as Fabrice hands me the pad of paper, his pencil, I look at the drawing he's made of me, seeing myself as others do, naked, nude, reclining on my own bed. I see my body, the inkling of my features, my bare breasts, the shadow of hair above my sex, my hand, oh god, I can see my arm stretching over my stomach, my hand, my fingers stroking my vulva, I can see the cleft of my pussy, the dark thick line of my labia.

I step back with weak legs. Fabrice is sitting on the bed now, in the impress my own bare ass had just made, his penis is still upright, is pointing up, away from the tightened pouch of his balls. I hear my own voice suddenly fill the room.

"Perhaps, lying back, as I was, one leg, a little away from the other, and... and if you could... hold your penis, pull... I mean, as if you are... masturbating..."

"Uh-huh."

He moves, heavily, my bed creaks, I watch him lay back, his stiff cock springing up and down, he slides one knee away from the other.

"And you want me to..."

"Yes, touch yourself, please, as if... grip your cock, hold your stiff cock."

"Like... like... "

"Down, yes, slide your foreskin back, so I can see the bulb of your penis, as if... yes.."

He does. My pleasure begins to fill me, I am not going to manage this, the sight is going to be enough, his mouth is open now, Fabrice moves his hand over his chest, his stomach, to his penis, I watch him graze his fingers along his own quivering length, open them over his scrotum, then grip his stiff stem, and stroke himself, once, slowly, I watch, I look as he exposes this final part of himself, as he pulls his soft skin back over his smooth dark damp tip.

"Oh... oh fuck... oh... god..."

The tip of his cock is soaking, he looks as wet as I am, seeping, coated in a thick translucent layer of sweet male moisture.

I know, we are meeting in the centres of our separate mutual climaxes. I hear paper and pencils hit the floor, as I drop my hand to my sex, as I thread a finger between my slippery hot lips and enter myself, the swollen soaking walls of my vagina close and hold my finger, I slide up to my clitoris, my orgasm is instant, is detonated by the perfect sight of Fabrice, he's not been able to resist movement, the moment he felt his own raging sex he gave in to his body's demands, he had to stroke his erect penis, once, three, four times only, it is irresistible.

"Oh Juliette, oh god, I'm sorry, fuck, I am sorry..."

"Please, do it, let me see you, oh, oh, masturbate for me, come for me, let me come for you, watch me come, watch me stroke my hot little pussy."

And his fingers closed around the rigid stem of his cock, sliding his foreskin over his trembling tender glans, he loses himself in his own pleasure, his hand is quickly a blur, thrilling, it is a thrilling contrast to his stillness, his calm, watching, his hand moves fast on his cock, his breath, his voice, his large balls slapping heavily against his thighs, so beautiful, large oval balls being bounced so needily up and down within the dark, creased skin of his scrotum. I stroke my own sex as I watch Fabrice masturbate with abandoned lust, uncaring how he looks, how demeaned, degraded.

And I am the same, we are both lost in this strange moment of mutual display and witnessing, inviting the other into our most private behaviour, transgressing our most private space.

He is now motionless, his hand stopped, his cock so stiff, his glistening bulb. I see it, I see Fabrice start to come, his first long white lash of semen bursting from his bare slit, we come together, astonishingly, my climax crumbles me into a kneeling heap, my fingers darting, stroking, as I watch him coming, four thick spurts of creamy male ejaculate splashing out onto his chest, I barely have to touch myself, points of pleasure blur into a delirious epiphany of ecstasy.

I fall onto my back. I listen to the sounds of our breathing, the room thick and warm with our sweat, our sex, our eruptive moisture. Fabrice lights two cigarettes and rolls across the bed to place one between my lips, we barely have the strength to smoke. We don't touch. Still. Not even our hands meet.

Our minds do though, words escape us, next week, when we are both free, Wednesday again, in the morning again we will have to draw each other, again.