Nude Modeling

I’ve never been professionally drawn before. I’ve also never been naked in front of a strange man. So today is a day of firsts. 

The address that I received is nestled deep in Queen Village, almost unmistakable from the other family homes packed tightly together here. I enter through the old door as instructed and climb the four flights of stairs. 

I’m early, but the artist is already sitting in the middle of the bright airy loft, his back to me. 

Cody Liers is his name. Or that’s what the auction listing said. The lack of information unnerved me at first when I won my “Intimate Nude Portrait Session”, but now I’m thankful for it. The mystery makes this endeavour a little easier, puts my mind at ease. I’ve always wanted to do this, but never had the nerve. I’m comfortable being naked, yes, but it's the attention that scares me—to be looked at so thoroughly. 

I close the door behind me, exhale slowly and walk towards the long, empty sofa sitting in front of him. I tread quietly, matching his silence, and fixate on the thick mess of wavy brown hair. The dark strands are almost black, speckled with streaks of honey that catch the light like they’re asking me to touch them.

I stop in front of him, ready to introduce myself when something starts to flutter wildly in my chest. Warm, tanned skin is furrowed between his thick dark brows. That halo of hair frames his serious, almost lethal expression that clouds all his features. But it’s his full lips, the shape of his nose that bumps out in the middle, the scruff around his heart-shaped jawline. Something about him makes me feel for an instant, like I know him. Maybe it’s a combination of other lovers and crushes reflected in his features, but he looks like he's been made just for me. I forget how to speak.

"Hey, just set your stuff down anywhere —" he starts without looking up, then stops, looks directly at me, his lips pressed tightly together. Warm, amber eyes widen for just a second, then harden again like he has a problem that’s fixable, but complicated. "Please…sit," he motions towards the couch, then ducks his head again and resumes setting up his work station as if I’m not here.

He had prepared himself for another routine job. A naked body is just another naked body to draw, and honestly it becomes kind of sterile after a while. But when they first locked eyes—when he couldn’t help but widen his own at the sight of her—instant attraction hit him HARD. Like a zap of lightning.

I use the time to really look at him. My grandmother would call him “Hollywood good looking”, but the baggy, charcoal-stained clothes don’t do him justice. His legs are long, covered in jeans that bunch around his thighs where he sits on his metal stool. There is something irresistible about his disheveled appearance. Like he can’t be bothered to put in too much of an effort, but if you were to look underneath his t-shirt that cuts close to his long broad torso…I realize I’m undressing him in my mind while I’m meant to be undressing myself in real life.

I drop my bag on the floor beside him and reach down to remove my sandals. My fingers start to sweat, shake a little as I clumsily unbuckle one side. On the other, I wobble slightly, the motion making my dress slink between my legs, silky fabric sliding above that little freckle on my thigh. Nervous, I’m so nervous. I steal a glance in his direction and catch him staring, those full lips fully agape now.

The short brown hair that falls lightly in her face, those tanned shoulders and that cute nervous smile—he wants her badly. But her legs. His mental restraint starts to unwind quickly when he catches just a glimpse of her thighs. He’s instantly aroused and has no idea how he is going to do this. 

"Don't worry about getting fully undressed yet," he says gruffly, quickly averting his eyes. "We'll do a few warm ups before we get fully into it."

My mouth twists up just a half inch at the comment, at the flush creeping up his neck. And the way he says ‘fully into it’, whether consciously or accidentally, feels like confirmation that this quiet electricity between us has nothing to do with the session ahead. So I whisper to the ground in a low, husky voice, "Sure. I'm just getting comfortable." 

I don't dare turn to see his reaction, but I swear I hear a slight huff of air – like an annoyed sigh – escape from his direction. I like the challenge that his mood presents. His grumpiness is helping my ease my nervousness—I can channel it into something I feel more comfortable with: seduction. 

I cross towards the sofa, heat searing every inch of my back because I know he's watching. I know the effect this dress has on the world, the way the red-orange pattern draws attention like nothing else I own. It’s why I wore it. But here, in front of him, I feel naked already. And completely exposed.

"Okay – we'll start with three sketches, three minutes each. I'll give you some time in between each one to shift around, stretch, and find a new pose. Have you ever done this before?"

I linger over the words, entranced by the ease he exudes, the confidence. "Been drawn? Well, not really..." 

He looks at me for a heartbeat too long, blinks like he’s trying hard to focus, "Okay then. You should relax. And try not to move."

"So, should I look at you?" I offer a tight smile, matching his prickly energy. His voice is like a silky purr, especially the way he drawls the word you in his unhurried Philly accent. I want him to keep talking. Say more things like ‘fully into it.’

His work requires focus, and now it’s like she’s delighting in throwing off his game. He hates how distracted she makes him. He doesn't even know her, so why is he so flustered? Why is she making him feel this way? Why can’t he get his shit together now? He's pissed at himself, but it makes him angry at her. The more she speaks with her siren voice, the more entranced he becomes. So he needs her to be quiet. To let him concentrate.

A flutter whips between my legs when his expression turns dark. He narrows his eyes at me like I’m exhausting him. "Rebecca, isn’t it? This only works if we’re both professional about this. If you are quiet, stay still – I’ll make something beautiful for you. So just…get comfortable…or whatever you need to do." 

He looks away again, so I stare at the impatient rolls of charcoal between his long thick fingers. I trace the curves of his forearms, the tattoos that I now notice are rippling out from the shirt pushed up high on his elbows. He’s so beautiful, but I did come here to be drawn. So I turn away and nod. 

And then he starts to work. And I focus on breathing, catching glances at him as he works to transform my likeness onto the pages of his sketchbook. Slowly, without any concept of how it's happening, or why, my skin starts to prickle like he's touching me. Lightly, like he's running the tips of his fingers along my skin, so whisper soft. And everywhere his eyes roam, goosebumps appear in their wake.

By the third sketch, I'm close to panting, heat blossoming on my cheeks. I just know they're turning red or at least a little shade of pink. But now my head is tingling, like he's massaging my scalp, pulling lightly on my hair. It's like I can feel his large hands resting on my neck, his thumb tracing the spot just under my ear lobe where.. Whoa.

"You okay? You look hot?"

Dizzy and daydreaming. "Fine." I bite out, then foolishly lock gazes with him. 

Amusement dances back at me. As well as some trace of the same torture I’m feeling. I raise a curious eyebrow. 

For a second, I think I see a smile forming, but he schools himself quickly. His features return to that bored professional demeanor, a hint of venom beneath the surface. "Let's take a break. There's water in the corner where you walked in." 

He stands, breaking the stare and abruptly turning away. "I’ll be right back."

He's gone before I can even let out the breath I've been holding. I rise shakily from the couch and wrap my hands around the sides of my neck, shivering. I can feel the thick summer heat pooling in from the windows, but it's like ice is running down my scalp and prickling my fingers. Crossing the room for water, I take a quick glance at the sketch he left open and gasp. It's... beautiful.

I gulp greedily and then walk back to the couch before he opens the door again. I don't need any more reason to make my temperature rise, and I'm afraid if I feel him looking at me again like that, then I might just combust.

In the hall, he needs a serious pep talk with himself. "You're a professional, get it together," he repeats in his mind. He may want to fuck her, badly, but the worst thing here would be to make a shitty piece of art. That would be unacceptable. So he takes a deep breath and tries to shake it off. Decides he can do this.

The wooden door creaks open loudly. "Appreciate you waiting." His professional and clipped tone has returned, but there’s something…different about him this time. A shift in his energy.

"Ready to move to part two?" He picks up his sketch book, but instead of sitting down, he drags the stool forward. Pauses. Then forward again, until he is sitting less than an arm's length away from me.

"Do you feel comfortable removing some clothing?" An eyebrow raise. A challenge.

Do I accept? "Sure." The words sound strangled. So, I try again. "Should I just ..." 

I knock the strap off my left shoulder, and it falls to my elbow, leaving the curve of my breast exposed, my soft pink nipple hardening in the air. 

My left hand clenches once on my thighs, stubble catching on my fingers as they glide up, up past my center and up to my right shoulder.  

I marvel at the summer bronzed skin beneath my touch, how my fingers cast shadows across the sunspots on the outside of my arms. I trace the strawberry tattoo in the soft hollow behind my elbow, and the strap falls over it. Then I dare myself to release the butterflies that are throttling my stomach. 

When I finally look up at him, my hands pressed flat on my thighs, some little sense of madness breaks and my nails sink into my knees, desperate to hold onto something. 

His quick inhale of breath tells me he's not a master of control either. Good.

"Yep. Just like that." 

I stare at him now, unafraid to look deeply into his eyes. And I can tell it unnerves him. He starts to draw and then stops, his gaze bouncing between me and the page. The page to me. 

When he’s this close, his charcoal makes the most erotic, heavenly sounds. It makes me desperate to inch forward, to get another peak. He tilts his chin up slightly to study my collarbone with great interest, then shifts around loudly, scraping his seat on the floor. 

He was doing so well, so focused, but now—he’s too aroused. He needs her to turn around so he can regain control. Her eyes, that blood red mouth —they won't let him think about anything else, but…

Suddenly he stops, tossing his materials down. "Will you turn towards the back wall? Please?"

I open my mouth to say something snarky but think better of it. I obey, standing slowly as my dress slips down even lower on my hips. One hand instinctively reaches out to catch it, but then I swallow. Instead, I hook my thumbs into the fabric around my belly and drag the dress down towards my sex until it pools on the floor around me. I spin away from him and face the couch.

A strangled sound escapes from his lips, and even if I wanted to laugh at the thrill of holding so much power over him, I can’t stop my own heart from racing. 

"Actually, would you kneel against the couch? I can put the cushions on the ground for you."

I hear his stool scrape against the floor as he comes up to rearrange the scene, brushing his arm against mine while reaching for the back cushion. The contact is so electric I stumble towards him off balance.

A strong hand grips my bare shoulder and his thumb brushes along my neck for a second. Or minutes. 

"You’ll be right here,” He motions to the ground in front of the couch, “yeah, with your arms folded like that. I’d like to try something….different."

The commanding tone of his voice has softened, but he’s still professional. On the other hand, my breasts have gotten so heavy, so aware that he is inches from them, could even touch them, that I can't stop my mouth from hanging open in a preemptive moan.

Without removing his soft, curious grip, he adjusts me on the cushion so I'm finally kneeling as he envisioned me. In some kind of prayer.  "Like this?" I whisper, my face tilting up towards his tall towering figure.

He doesn't answer at first with words, his mouth twitching just an inch as he closes his eyes tightly. Finally, he moves his fingers away and their absence makes me cold. "Yep. Perfect."

I feel him find his rhythm. The way his hurried strokes dance wildly across my skin, down the slope of my spine, under the soft folds of my arms that curl into the small of my back. 

I have to rock a little, back and forth on my knees, to stay steady with this pose. When I do, the cushion rubs against my nipples, and I have to bite my lip when I imagine the same sensation against my clit. 

And still from behind me, his thumbs now dip into the soft dimples of my back, just as his fingers sink deeply into my sides. An empty ache pulses between my legs urging me to explode, but I remember I must be still. I am his muse.  

Focus, finally. Or a shred of it. The way she surrendered to him like that — it could have been his undoing if he’d been weaker. At least now he can trace each of her curves without supervision, observe them like a lover in great detail. His fingers still feel that twinge of pleasure. He shouldn’t have touched her, but he had to. And now he’s aching everywhere to touch her again. To grab her again to stop her twitching. He has to finish.  

The minutes crawl on as he relentlessly sketches without speaking another word. I’m about to voice my exhaustion, when I hear him pause, silence hanging for what feels like hours. I inhale slowly and exhale heavily. My mouth is too dry, but I won’t say anything. 

"You can turn around now. Please… sit." He echoes the phrase from earlier as I turn slightly to face him. He steps towards me, and I watch his resolve finally break. 

"Would you like to see?" Whisper. His voice is a whisper. 

I nod slowly. He offers me one hand to lift me up, and in the other is a green silk robe I hadn’t noticed before. I accept it graciously and slip my arms into it. He works quickly to reorganize the couch, and then we both take a seat.

I don't even think, gravity shifting as I respond to his closeness by shifting towards him. Instinct. Our shoulders bump, and we both inhale breathlessly.

Flipping back his notebook pages, he drags his fingers slowly across the edges, making my skin respond in a frenzied imitation of his touch. I can’t resist rubbing my fingers against the silk on my thighs, brushing against his legs in the process. 

He hisses, but continues.

"These are from the first rounds." There are three beautiful renditions of me, each unique, but all so much like the person I know from the mirror. I see the one I spotted earlier and the tightness in my skin is like a rubber band, ready to snap. He sees me. In a way that so few ever have, and it makes me feel utterly vulnerable.

"And these are the more detailed ones." 

My breasts. Curving slightly out to expose my large chest. My beautiful shoulders that seem to glisten like magic eight balls bouncing off the page. But my eyes are something special. There is so much intensity there, and I’m shocked by how much I like the way the creature stares at me. How much I already love her. 

He flips the page, but this time, he hands me the notebook, reaching his arm across my lap. I instantly feel the weight of the book on my thighs, and where his fingers linger on my knees. 

This is the finest of them all. He’s shown my head turned just slightly, as if I dared to look back at him. My shoulders, that run into the folds around my waist. And my ass, in all its glory. I’ve never properly observed it from this perspective, and now seeing it plump and spilling over my calves and onto my bare feet… my mouth waters. 

“I really love this one," he says.

He leans in and traces the curves of my body on the page, making wide turns until his fingers drift off the book, dangerously close. I feel the brush of heat from his breath as it tickles my hair. I have to remind myself to breathe.

"I can't explain it, but I felt especially drawn to your shoulders...right here," he says. 

He means to tap the page, but his movements are no longer his own. Instead, he circles a rough finger around her shoulder, drawing a single line down her arm. He dips his head lower, so his breath is inches from her ear, shifting her hair like a summer breeze. She whimpers softly.

"I’m finding it really hard to concentrate," he exhales. "when you make those little noises." He chokes on the last word, his voice like gravel.

I angle my head the other way, giving him access to my neck. I know he hears the silent plea when his nose dives into my hair, and my breath catches in my throat. Then I feel his lips, and his tongue, behind my ear. He nuzzles his nose lazily like he's taking his fucking time to enjoy me writhing next to him. Still the artist, still in control of his muse.

I sigh in quick breaths, my fingers bunching the robe like an animal clawing at the grass. He traces his nose down my collarbone, dipping his face between the robe to brush his lips against my breasts, then trails back up to my neck. And bites. Hard.

My control erupts, and I moan into the sky, my head thrown back in wild release.