Art Class

sketch of a woman


[4 minute read]

We shuffled behind our easels, searching for charcoal, sharpening pencils.  You looked poised, self contained taking your position, casually shrugging off your robe to lounge on piles of cushions and throws.

Licking my lips nervously I surveyed your pose, all glowing skin and curves.  I broke my charcoal pressing it hard to the paper.  I jangled with nerves, my focus off.  I tuned out the teacher’s advice on perspective and scale.  Classmates held pencils at arm’s length, gauging the angles of your limbs.

Looking at those limbs I yearned to clamber among them, be embraced, feel them curl around my frame.  You are soft curves of bountiful plenty, so when my eyes drank in the succulent flesh that wraps your bones a tickling warmth built within my core.  My mouth almost watered as I swept charcoal across the rough paper, sketching shoulders, arms and the shadow where your neck dips into your collar bone, the place I most wanted to press a kiss.

My palms were sweaty so I rubbed them on the jeans encasing my thighs – slim, people called them skinny – the complete opposite of your pillowy flesh.  My eyes were drawn to the full, tempting curves of your breast which spilt over your arm, its perky pink nipple drew my gaze.  A mental picture of licking and sucking it making me squirm in my seat, desire dampening my panties.

My sketching allowed me to study your details: puckered nipples, tips darker, the aureolas rose pink against an alabaster whole.  I marvelled at the undulations of your body’s geography, longing to explore with the pads of my fingers instead of my gaze.  I took the opportunity to feast my eyes on your form, while you couldn’t look my way, transforming my insides to lustful liquid.

My classmates created life drawings of your beautiful body, while I burned with desire to wedge my head between the heavy flesh of your thighs.  From there, I’d lap and probe with my tongue, obliviating the harsh names I’ve been called: runt, chicken legs, twiglet.  Enveloped safely in the warm folds of your flesh I’d make you moan and writhe, juices running down my chin, fragrant and tangy I’d probe your pulsing tunnel with my tongue.  Pleasuring you would please me.

When the teacher suggested our model needed a break, you gathered a robe around those tantalising marshmallow curves.  My mouth hung open in admiration as the silky red fabric draped your beautiful body.  How could so many famous artists be wrong? Glorious creamy  upholstery such as yours has been celebrated by sculptors or painters such as Rubens countless times.

With swaying hips you wandered, browsing the drawings around the class.  Your finger resting on your fleshy bottom lip made my pussy clench, wishing I could kiss you and draw it between my teeth.

Moving toward my easel, my head spun at your proximity.  When you surveyed my meagre sketch you smiled.

“Do you find me beautiful?”

“Very,” I nodded and blushed, gazing into blue eyes flecked with gold.

“You’re a hot little piece of ass.”  Your voice was so low, only I could hear.  Spoken close to my ear I felt a buzz in my seat.
“Why don’t you meet me after class?   Your sketch could use some extra time.”

As you walked away, hips swaying with sass, I caught a hint of your intimate fragrance. I was burning to meet up later, but needed to get through the rest of the lesson. My panties were already stuck to my pussy, my boyish nipples like stalks while my heart thudded against my ribs.

You settled back into the pile of cushions and plush fabric, while I must focus.  To represent the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, I marked paper with lines and shades of black.  Secretly, my fleshy folds swelled and fluttered with anticipation of carnality.

My goddess turned to me and winked.

This post fits the prompt for #MasturbationMonday No. 220 which is a delicious picture of @LasciviousLucy.  The sketch is courtesy of my very talented friend @ETCostello1.

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