They’re late. The studio’s dark and mostly empty except for the model stand, the mirror behind it, the stool, the single light above it, and you, wrapped in a thin cotton robe, huddled here, waiting. It’s November, and the space heater by your feet only does so much.
Leaning down to crank up the heater, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You’re still flushed from the bike ride over. Turning, you let the robe drop around your feet and twist to get your profile. Arch your back a little. Your ass looks good. Well, this is a way to pass the time. You lean forward and run your thumb into your thigh crease, grab a handful of yourself, feel up your belly to your neck, spread your fingers to grip—
“Sorry I’m late.”
You turn around so quickly you almost fall off the stool. Dressed in University-approved neutrals and perfectly polished leather boots announcing their weight as they walk heavily towards you. They move like a dancer… or a boxer. Deliberate.
Pulling a chair up from the stack against the wall, they thank you for being patient. “I’ve really been looking forward to this.”
You’re buzzing already and flush hot. They almost-smirk before leaning over to fish around in their bag, hinging perfectly at the hips. Narrow shoulders, square jaw, the kind of shifting masc beauty that makes you stare. They look up and catch you watching, hold your gaze, pause there for a moment. “Would you prefer to be seated or standing?”
Mind blank, you just choose one. “Seated.”
You take your pose facing them, spine stacked tall as you can, the balls of your feet braced against the bar on the stool. Folding your hands in your lap you ask, “Will you tell me how you’d like me?”
They look up a little too quickly then lean back, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. “Hmmm, would you mind resting your hands on your knees?”
You nod and place your palms there.
“Mmm, mhm.” They shift forward a couple degrees. You think you can hear their watch, but maybe that’s just your pulse. Your stomach tightens, preparing for the pose. Your breath is shallow. Wait. They just look at you.
“And would you mind spreading your knees a little?”
You push your legs open with your palms, like double doors. “Like this?”
“Now, would it be comfortable to spread a little further?”
A head-rush. Your hips strain wide even before they finish, like your body already knew what they would ask. Your arms brace tight.
They smile. Again with the direct eye contact. “Does that feel good?”
The heat from the studio light washes down your shoulders to your pubic hair. An inch wider and you feel the wet of your lips parting. This time you’re the one who has to stop yourself from smirking. “Mhm, yes?”
“Good.” Earnest and firm. “I’m so glad.” They shift back in their chair. “Will you tilt your chin up? Just like this,” they show you, running fingers up their neck as if to demonstrate space opening.
“Look at me.”
You let yourself gaze down from the stool on the platform, naked and spread wide, starting to sweat as they look back up at you through tousled hair. Rolling their sleeves, twice, each side,
they ask, “Is this good for you? Will you be able to hold this?”
Breathe deep and nod slow.
They uncross their legs and plant their feet firm on the ground, hip distance apart. They start the timer on their phone. “Good.”
Over the 30 minutes you spend sitting there, they never once move to draw you. Did they even bring paper? At one point, they look up sharp to catch your gaze. “Is this what you had in mind?”
You make a move to reply but they cut you short before you can open your mouth.
“Ah, but you will stay still, right? You can do that.”
You catch yourself.
Your back is burning with the effort to stay still. You think about pulling your navel in and up and realize (swelling heat) that you’re wet.
They’re looking. Eyes burn over your skin and you almost shiver. You’re going to devour me, you think. That would be nice: to be consumed, swallowed whole down their hot wet throat.
Twirling a pencil between their fingers, they say, “If you hold very still, I can tell you what I’m thinking about. Would you like that?”
You don’t dare open your mouth, but grip your knees tighter to pull your legs further apart, showing yourself.
“Oh, good.” Smiling wide this time. “It looks like you’re dripping onto your seat? I’d like to feel that, maybe even see how many fingers you’d like to take.”
Sweat rolls from your hairline, down your spine, to your ass. Stay still…
Elbows braced against knees, they thumb their lower lip. You can smell yourself. Your clit is pulsing. Looking at them there, still and intent, you imagine your clit growing and growing, better for them to kneel between your legs and… Suck.
“—and if you started to lose control, well then we’d have to stop until you’ve managed to collect yourself.”
You hold your breath.
“I won’t help you, tie you. You have to hold yourself in place.”
A deep contraction in your groin and you swear you’re opening like a spent fist.
“So. If you can hold still, I’ll fuck you with my hand like this…” They show you. Your thighs are almost quaking. “But I won’t touch you.” Shaking their head. “Just one hand inside of you, however I please. And you’ll stay…” Looking up at you, catching your chin dropping. You jerk back into position and they continue, “…exactly like that.”
Breathe slow as possible.
“And you’d let me put anything inside of you like that, right?”
Your whole body is one nerve. You feel huge, and like their gaze is a net around you, holding you there.
“If you can hold this pose, even with me inside you, even fucking my hand, I’d like to suck you off, clean, all that…” – gesturing towards the sticky film between your cunt and the stool – “…up.”
A woozy high. You let your breath out slow (slower, even slower) through your nose, not even letting your nostrils flare, counting your heartbeats: pum pum pum pum.
Can you smell them, too? Are you starting to? Is that their scent? Cedarwood? Salt? Sweat drips down your ribs from the tufts of hair under your arms. Your back is screaming.
Head cocked, they lean on one elbow, watching. “Your veins are beautiful.” The one on your forearm must be popping. “I can see your pulse from here.”
Pum pum pum pum!
“I’d like to watch you come like this, no grinding, no moving away from it. Only your cunt can move. I wonder if you’d gush for me? And you’re there…”
You could faint.
“Just letting me look. Just—”
When the timer blares you almost scream.
“Oh,” they silence it and stand, smoothing their jacket. “That’s too bad.”
You don’t move. You’re not even sure you can move. “Thank you. So much.” They turn and stride, fluid, almost bounding, towards the door. They pause there in the sliver of fluorescent light. “Truly.”
You count out a minute until your pulse slows. Joints creaking, you gather yourself, dress and emerge into the daylight.