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This is entirely a work of fiction.
She leant her hips into the washing machine. The motion during the spin cycle was strangely addictive but even as she was becoming sexually aroused the telephone rang.
She listened carefully before replying.
“Okay Albert, that’s ten o’clock tomorrow, but Email me with the address.”
She climbed the stairs to the appointed place regretting having walked all the way from the 18th Arondissment for although wrapped up well against the freezing temperatures the wind had eventually found a way through the layers and she was now chilled to the bone.
At least his studio was nice and warm she thought as the artist sat her down and pressed a bowl of hot coffee into her hands.
She already knew and admired this man’s work so when the agency had rung she had said yes even before terms were agreed but now meeting him in the flesh Anais liked what she saw.
Being naked before strangers had never been a problem for the model. Her mother and father had worn few if any clothes around their Danish home and not surprisingly their daughter had been brought up the same so when she posed for painters it was as natural as being fully dressed.
His last show at a prestigious gallery in New York had been a resounding success and with the plaudits of the critics still ringing in his ears and a bank balance that would see him through at least another year if not two he was very happy.
That is until he wondered where the inspiration for the next painting would come from.
The well was dry following two years of intense work so he had picked up the phone and rung the agency. He would go back to life drawing, do what he always did when the muse temporarily deserted him.
“…for god’s sake Albert I don’t want a fashion model, I don’t want some skinny woman who is just biding her time until she gets something better…I want a professional…someone with a body that’s been around the block a few times…someone with character…oh yes, and able to hold a pose. Haven’t you got one of the regulars?”
He listened, not encouraged by what he heard, but eventually capitulated.
“I know two years is a long time…Okay, send her round and I’ll see if she’s suitable.”
At least she had turned up and punctual to the minute but huddled up in cold weather clothes and with a knitted hat under which her hair had clearly been carelessly stuffed he could not assess her potential.
He heard the woman sniff an appreciation of the welcoming warmth in the studio but she stayed in her outer clothes until the coffee was provided.
“Sit down…err…Anais and I’ll fill you in on what I need.”
She dropped into the chair he indicated and gripped the bowl with frozen hands.
“I’ll have no idea what pose I will eventually settle on until I’ve got used to your body…you know…done a series of sketches to familiarise myself.”
Her positive reaction seemed to indicate an understanding of what he was saying so maybe, just maybe, she was perhaps more experienced than he had first thought?
“When do we begin?”
Her first words surprised him. He thought from her accent that she was a foreigner or perhaps French but from Alsace? She was obviously an educated girl but maybe French was not be her first language.
“As soon as you are ready.”
He showed her the dressing cubicle and indicated a clean newly laundered dressing gown before leaving. Back in the diffused North light of the studio he began to assemble an array of charcoal sticks and his preferred drawing paper.
She reappeared a few minutes later and turning he saw that she was already naked but with the gown over one arm. He could then take in what had been so highly recommended.
Anais was tall, probably 1.75 metres in her bare feet. She had good shoulders and fine facial features, enough flesh on her bones to define the shape, and was displaying no hint of nervousness under his steady gaze.
“Okay then let’s get on…oh by the way, who have you sat for?”
She mentioned three artist’s, all the names were familiar with but none had work he knew.
Anais had sat, or rather stood for him on three consecutive days before opening her mouth to ask a question.
“What shall I call you? ‘Monsieur Bernard’ seems too formal in such a situation.”
She was about to settle into the pose he had decided to paint and had turned her face expectantly.
“Jean…call me Jean.”
“Then Jeannot it shall be.”
She smiled for the first time in their short relationship and in doing so her face lit up.
He hovered around while moving an arm or a foot, turning her shoulders a few centimetres, tipping her head forward slightly, retreating to assess the pose then returning to make a tiny alteration until he was completely satisfied and finally chalk marked the position of her feet.
Then disappearing behind the primed canvas he began blocking in with ultramarine only to find that he could not get past the girl’s nudity.
For Maltepe Escort the first time since he had been a young student he couldn’t simply see the model as an object to render accurately, an assembly of muscle and bone in harmony.
All he could see was sensuality, no, it was far more than that. He actually wanted to stretch out with her on that chaise longue, wanted to explore her flesh with his tongue, wanted to excite her passive body, wanted to arouse the woman, make her wish to cleave with him.
It was no good, he couldn’t work like this.
“Mamselle you must leave. I find I cannot work today.”
When she was gone he picked up the dressing gown that she had worn and with his nose buried in the towelling collapsed on the nearby sofa upon which she had earlier perched.
He thought long and hard. When had he last fancied a model? Rarely if ever. What was it about Anais which affected him so strongly? She was not conventionally beautiful nor even petite like his usual lovers.
She had not come on to him, nor tried her wiles. Did she even have any wiles, did she ever use them on men or even women? He knew nothing about her but maybe that was a good thing.
His sudden decision to send her packing needed some examination. What was the cause?
She had found a taxi rank close by his Atelier and was now sunk in the seat thinking back. Anais could only assume that he had either become unwell or genuinely found that he could not capture what he saw.
However she was relieved when the sessions were resumed for, although the money was irrelevant, posing provided quiet introspective time which she needed to consider her writing.
It was undeniable also that being naked before an attractive man always turned her on. Not just turned her on but while it provided the grist for much of her fiction it also gave her many a silent and intense orgasm.
At least on the next occasion when she climbed the stairs and took up her position he found that he could work, even felt pleased with what he had achieved.
There was a raw energy to the marks he made which augured well for the future.
When she had gone he perched on a stool and viewed the work critically. It was during these times, after the subject had gone for the day, that he could check the proportions, verify the spaces between solid objects, hone the composition but today the memory of her breasts kept intruding and he had to take a long walk to an unknown bar in an effort to calm his thoughts.
“May I look?”
He had offered a break and the question forced him to turn his mind away from the canvas. He merely nodded approval so she padded across to stand close beside him, her nakedness in stark contrast to his fully clothed body.
Anais considered the half finished work for a time admiring the freedom of the brush strokes until it occurred to her that he was holding himself strangely taut. Was he concerned by her presence so near to him?
Whatever the reason she thought it better to move away. In fact she needed the toilet and by the time she returned to resume the pose he seemed to have regained his composure.
Later she scrubbed off what little makeup she had worn during the day and dressed with infinite care. Her costume had come from the Paris Opera House where the wardrobe mistress Babette was her closest and most intimate friend so when she entered the night-club Anais felt excited but in control.
The masked ball was one of the major events of the year and in the past had enabled Anais to find much to stimulate her writing. She had a fertile imagination which was just as well for the young woman was still technically a virgin.
The sensual encounters described with such fluency in her fiction were composed entirely out of thin air although well informed by the regular practice of onanism.
He had nearly completed the first painting and was casting around in his mind for how he would pose Anais for the next when he acted clumsily and out of character.
Anais had finished for the day and was on her way to get dressed. As had become normal she had not bothered to don the dressing gown and was studying the work when he stumbled against her.
She grabbed at him to keep her balance and to avoid overturning the easel which was when he was forced to clasp her body against his own.
“Merde” he thought as he moved away. Please don’t let her have noticed my excitement.
That night she found her mind was fixated on the unmistakeable erection she had felt when Jean steadied her.
So does he fancy only me or do all his models have the same effect? Does he even have a woman? Is there a short story here?’
“Have you finished the piece for ‘La Plume’?”
“Yes, it went in yesterday.”
Anais and her bosom friend Babette were seated in the rear of the café, well out of reach of the cold air which blew in every time the outer door was opened.
“Do you want me to come with you to the award İstanbul Escort ceremony?”
“Yes please…but can you get the time off?”
“That’s no problem.”
Impulsively Anais reached out to clasp Babette’s hand grateful for the support.
“I wont win of course but my publisher insists that I turn up and wear a proper designer dress.”
She had now become akin to a drug, a drug he could not do without, an opiate which got him off to sleep and got him up in the morning.
He could draw her now entirely from memory, conjure up the sweep of her long legs, precisely depict the way her head was set on sloping shoulders.
And he had at last discovered a way to successfully convey her rangy Scandinavian look and the precise paint mixture needed to suggest her ripe corn coloured hair which had, since the previous painting was completed, been cut in an even more masculine style.
Today he would start a new canvas. He would silhouette Anais against the cold light which flooded in through the floor to ceiling windows.
Encourage her to clasp hands behind her head. This would pull her shoulders back and thrust out her breasts.
Naked in the pose but far away in a world of her own a smile came and went in a split second.
She had become involved with constructing an encounter in her head, honing the words, trying different descriptions, getting ever closer to what she wanted to say.
He had set everything up and was sketching with the charcoal held at arms length when he saw the smile so swiftly hidden.
Her nipples had been erect all the time that he had sought to capture the pose, even while he had wiped away a couple of earlier attempts until finally satisfied.
What was she thinking about? What did she think about during all those long hours while he made marks on the primed surface?
Babette pulled Anais to her feet and pushed her towards the dais joining in the applause as she watched the author receive her deserved accolades.
Later they lay in Babette’s bed with their bodies entwined.
“I never believe that I will win.”
“You never think you will but you always do.”
Later, after they had made love, Babette returned to a long running topic raging between them.
“You will have to give up your virginity some time if only to find out what it’s really like to have a man deep within you.”
“How can it be any different to a dildo?”
“Oh believe me it is, admittedly not always so good but definitely different.”
“But you have always told me that you never came with a man…or at least not during penetration.”
“True, but being fucked is totally different and until you have experienced a cock filling your vagina then your writing must inevitably suffer.”
“Me.” Babette heaved herself up. “And what’s more you know that I’m right.”
“But there’s no one I like enough to give myself to…and what happens when I have? I don’t want to be at the beck and call of anyone, let alone a man.”
“Just find a bloke who doesn’t repel you and who can get it up but I can tell you it’s a bonus if they last until you’ve had an orgasm so don’t expect any miracles.”
“Well I don’t know…maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”
There was something different about Anais today. He couldn’t put his finger on it but there was a tangible change.
“Are you feeling alright?”
He felt foolish as soon as the words had left his mouth for in all the time that she had been posing neither had ever asked even one personal question. But she answered without altering her position.
“I’m fine, why do you ask?”
“You seem different somehow but what do I know…we are still strangers.”
“But I know enough about you as I will ever need.”
He felt unaccountably sad at this bleak reply but persisted.
“I know nothing about you.”
Again she retained the pose but at least replied positively.
“Well what do you want to know?”
He was silent as he collected his thoughts but then began hesitatingly.
“Oh small things such as where you are from and what you do to make a living other than this.”
His free hand waved around clearly conveying her present occupation.
She in turn was silent for what seemed an age before replying without any wasted words.
“I’m Danish and I’m a published writer.”
He took time to digest this news before venturing further.
“Then that explains your accent but would I know your work?”
“That depends upon what you read?”
“But I don’t even know your surname.”
“Why would you?”
He backed off rebuffed but in time she relented.
“‘Anais Becker” is my given name but I write as ‘Simone Sargeant’.”
Hidden behind the large canvas he was immediately hit with a punch in the solar plexus.
Here in his atelier and standing naked before him was a doyenne of the literary scene in Europe. A woman whose books regularly topped the best Anadolu Yakası Escort seller lists and were immediately made into films.
Then his thoughts ranged further. Why does she need the money from posing? She was wealthy, he had seen the printed rich lists.
The silence had already stretched to breaking point before she spoke again.
“Do you know my work?”
“Bien sur, of course. Who does not?”
“But,” unerringly she had picked up on a hesitation that he had thought unnoticeable, “you want to know why I work as an artist’s model?”
That simple word was all he could manage to utter.
Should she be honest? It was a difficult question to answer without being entirely straightforward. There seemed to be no simple excuse which would sound convincing so she resolved to tell the whole truth.
“It helps me think clearly.”
This time she broke the pose to watch his face and saw the cogs in his brain whir in an attempt to catch up.
“So that’s why you can remain silent and immoveable for hour after hour.”
“Partly. While I pose I can write in my head. I need no pencil, no keyboard, to record the words. My memory is sufficient until I can dictate everything later.”
She lifted her arms to stretch and remove the knots in her muscles while remaining entirely unconscious of the effect she was having upon the watcher.
Later he gathered up in his portfolio all the sketches he had made of Anais or should he call her Simone. It was now a fat collection.
Then he returned to perch on his stool before the current painting while realising that he had not asked if she would come again. On balance he decided she would not for he had been far too intrusive with his questions.
She prowled naked around her apartment unaccountably upset by the conversation with Jean. Why had he felt the need to disturb their comfortable arrangement? What was it that made people step over the line?
Anais knew she was a loner, preferring her own company, Babette had told her so. But something about him had got under her skin, quickened her heart, disturbed her equanimity.
Selecting a padded envelope she inserted the latest micro-cassette tapes and stuck on a pre-printed label. She would drop it off at the secretarial service and pick up last weeks pages for correction but first she would calm her disordered body.
She went to a chest of drawers and put on a pair of masculine boxer shorts followed by men’s dress socks then went over to her special wardrobe where after taking time she finally selected a black shirt which she carried to a cheval mirror.
With infinite care she inserted her arms one at a time into the long sleeves pulling the material lovingly over her naked breasts then lingering over each button as her nipples rose and a damp stain began to form at the crutch of the boxers.
Now to select a tie. She settled on a deep blue silk number and returned to the mirror. Would she use a half or a full Windsor knot or maybe a simple over and under? Half Windsor it would be.
Her arms rose to execute the knot and she gasped as the material of the shirt dragged across her erect nipples.
Now for the suit. Which suit? Again she trawled along the row of hangers. Yes the grey pin-stripe.
Trousers first. Insert each smooth leg then deal with the fly buttons. One, two, three, four, now the clip at the waistband then draw the bracers up across her breasts to rest securely on her shoulders.
Into the jacket. Settle it on her shoulders. Insert the middle button in the corresponding hole. Turn to admire the back view in another mirror. Shoes? Of course, the shiny black Oxfords.
Now she was dressed to go on the town.
Would Babette keep her/him waiting. Would the woman have changed her outfit a dozen times already. Was she sans knickers, bare for her/his marauding hand, or silk clad to rebuff his initial attempts.
Later she would place Babette’s hand at his/her flies and she would open them up to find………………….
Anais came back to the present collapsed on a cane chair and winding down from an intense orgasm.
He was working at cleaning his brushes when the doorbell peeled. Anais entered and behaved just as normal. She stripped and took up the pose without comment other than the normal ‘Bonjour Jeannot’ but he could not restrain himself.
“Will it be a problem for you when I exhibit this work?”
Strangely enough and despite all his soul searching this point had only now occurred to Jean. Her answer however was made without taking any time for consideration.
“I am not embarrassed by my body so why should I care?”
“No, I mean for you as a public figure.”
“Again it’s not a problem.”
He worked solidly for an hour until she coughed to remind him of the time.
“I’m sorry. You must need a break.”
She came to stand by him her breasts just touching his arm which froze at the contact.
“It’s only a breast.” She smiled up at him and taking his paint streaked hand placed it over her nipple. ‘You see. My breast is no different to any other.”
But it was to him. He finally cracked and pulled her into his arms. Somehow her head tilted back then his lips were on hers, devouring her as if he was starving.
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