Loading...I’ve been sitting on this one for a little while. I’ve been meaning to touch it up. Maybe if people like it I will. All participants are over 18 and fictitious.
…My name is Camille. I don’t usually feel guilty for what I do. I don’t now. It doesn’t worry me, but it should. I feel the need to confess in some small way…
…My name is Audrey. I can’t stand it any longer. I can’t face my minister.
Or sit opposite him in a confessional. But I have to confess to someone. And even if I lose my resolve and burn this note before anyone can read it, at least God will see it, and write down in the Book of Life that I repented. It started when I met a grad student named Camille…
…Do not mistake me. What I’ve done, I’ve done several times before, several times since and will several times again. Maybe I’m writing this because I’m bragging. So while I’m disclosing everything, I’ll cop to that too, and start with the most sinister of my transgressions, which is also my favorite. Her name is Audrey…
…I was immediately enthralled with Camille. I was just a freshman in my first semester. I’d majored in acting…to get over my shyness. So enthralling me was easy. There’s so much to see in art school, but Camille’s image was designed to bait people like me. Confident and sure, she painted and did it her way, and if you didn’t like it or didn’t get it, you were stupid. And I let her lure me into begging to model for her…
…Audrey was a saint. I bet she thinks she still is, or wishes she still was and is trying desperately to be again. I met her during summer classes and and she had to be the only person at MICA who carried a bible around in one of those cover protectors. She wore crosses and didn’t partake in vices and was in herself a blank canvas I needed to spill red all over…
…She looked at me like I was too fresh, too naive, couldn’t possibly understand her work. Like I should still be playing with plastic dolls and watching Veggie Tales. But I didn’t want to be that, and didn’t want her to think I was that. So when a friend of hers passed us by and she asked this friend if she could stand in for a model who had cancelled on her…
…Audrey didn’t even wait for her to finish. Before Danielle could tell me what I already knew, that she’s always busy on Friday, Audrey blurted out that she was free, and fell all over herself to explain (again) that she was majoring in theatre. Her eyes were huge. So when I asked her to stand up and let me look her over…
…I nearly knocked over my chair. I did exactly what she asked from the very start, hoping, hoping, hoping she would choose me, interpret my image and immortalize me, finally pay attention to me and show that I was beautiful and visible and all the things I’d always wanted. My road to hell started with the sin of Pride, and no small amount of envy…
…I think I realized then and there as she voluntarily showed me her body that I wasn’t an artist. Artists want a challenge. Audrey was a gimme. If you look threatening enough, and there’s a fresh carcass lying equal distance between the two of you, even a grizzly bear will go after the easier prey. After killing you to make sure you don’t get it, of course. Or because it can. What was I talking about? Oh, right, my point is, I’m not an artist, I’m a predator…
…I handed myself to her. I might have carried her home on my back if she’d asked. I almost did, but she had her own car. And that was it. I’d given myself over, just like that. I didn’t even know her last name or anything more than her first name was probably Camille and she was a grad student and had stooped to giving me the time of day. I wasn’t even listening when she told me she expected the very best models. And the most compliant. I just nodded and spluttered out promises…
…So fast forward to Friday morning. Wait, Friday? I met her on Tuesday…no, Wednesday. That’s right, ashes on her forehead. So I didn’t engage her beyond simply passing her once or twice on Thursday just to keep her on the edge of her seat, so on Friday she was nearly bursting with hope and joy and excitement and fear and all the things I wanted cooking inside her. She got there early and almost caught me making final preparations…
…Camille even looked frustrated that I was early at the old house. It just made me even more eager to please her and prove myself. It also made me blush even more. She invited/ordered me inside and I was at once hit with a wave of heat. She apologized for the air conditioning being broken…
…I’d turned up all three space heaters, and the radiator in my studio and chased my roommates out for the day long in advance. I’d told her she wouldn’t be posing nude (this time), but she wouldn’t be wearing very much, so she thought I turned up the heat to keep her from freezing. I just do that to help people out of their clothes, maybe take off a few of my own. My skirt and cami would be stifling before too much longer. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
…The living room was cozy. Tidy. Walls covered in silks and paintings, doorways sequestered off with bead curtains. Amazing that an artist of any kind lived here. An elaborate sound system glowed with blue lights in the corner…
…But I’ll get to that. I brought her in and set right about taking her jacket and backpack and putting them somewhere she’d need to ask me for them to get them back. And then I showed her the outfit she’d be wearing. Totally innocent…
…She unwrapped the plastic and handed me a white unitard. I’d worn them before several times for dance. Taking some comfort in it, I turned it over in my hands as she led me to the bathroom, urging me to hurry up. She closed the door behind me…
…I tried not to make it too obvious that I was running across the room to where my easel was as I picked up my Macbook just in time to see her start pulling her shirt over her head. This wasn’t the elaborate part. My iPhone was sitting there on the soap dish. FaceTime. She didn’t even look. Grant money is fantastic…
…It wasn’t until I’d taken off everything else and picked up and unfolded the white unitard that I realized it was starched. There was so much, it felt like it was made of canvas, not a thin layer of cotton…
…I’d positively soaked it in L-arginine. It’s the main ingredient in all those orgasm gels and clitoral sensitizers you see at all the sex shops. You can buy it in powder form by the pound on the internet. She probably thought it was starched. She probably wasn’t going to notice anything until she started sweating…
…I slipped into it. It felt strange on my skin. I’d started sweating with anxiety and the heat and it felt kind of sticky, but I emerged bravely from the bathroom showing as much courage, poise, and grace as possible. She was going to paint me. Right then it was all I wanted in the world…
…She looked almost totally lost. But she tried so hard. So adorable in her white skintight unitard, the legs coming a quarter of the way down her thighs. Not see through, not just yet. She held her clothes, folded with absolute precision, looking at me for guidance. I politely took them from her into the bedroom, putting them somewhere she couldn’t get them back without help…
…When she came back, she directed me to sit on something. I’m not sure how to describe it, like an ottoman with a rounded top covered in a white sheet. She had me straddle it, and lean back, lacing my fingers into my hair. My knees didn’t reach the ground, so my weight was between my legs, and I felt some kind of rubber or plastic ridge press against me…
…I would bet money she’d never seen a sybian machine before, so it didn’t raise any red flags with her, and she climbed sweetly onto it. I’d set it up just high enough she had to take all the weight on her crotch. It wasn’t a sybian machine in the strictest sense though…
…Camille told me she just needed some music to concentrate. She said something about WiFi as she turned on the stereo using her computer. Her sound system was quite impressive. It sounded like the music was coming from everywhere at once. It drowned out the cicadas outside, and vibrated the whole house. The thing I was sitting on vibrated too. I had no idea how I was going to concentrate on sitting still, let alone how she was going to concentrate on painting me…
…The thing she was sitting on started life as an ottoman at a garage sale. Taking a subwoofer pad and attaching it to the inside of another object isn’t as hard as it sounds. If you’re sitting on it, you get a nice buzz in time to the bass sections of the music. If you’re not paying attention, or not very smart, you think it’s the whole house doing it. After a few minutes, if you’ve never used a vibrator before, you stop paying attention to it. A few minutes after that, though, it starts to creep up on you, especially if you’re covered in sensitizer…
…She sat on her bar stool, and started her work. It was exciting. I watched her movements so closely at first, observed her observing me, and knowing I inspired each touch of the brush to the canvas. After a while though, my mind started to wander, and I began to notice how much I was sweating…
…Patience is the key, which I already have from legitimately painting in the first place. She was too focused on the fact that I was finally immortalizing her unique snowflake to notice what was going on between her legs. So I painted away. The cue is the first time I have to ask the model to hold still…
…I’d barely moved, but she caught it and curtly asked me to resume my posture. I snapped back into place, and accepted a sip of water from a bottle she had sitting nearby. Not too much, so as not to send me to the bathroom, and she held the bottle out for me to drink, so as not to disturb my position. Then she switched the music to break the monotony…
…It was time to start laying it on. I selected a Two Steps From Hell radio station, big orchestra music with a full sound. The kind that wouldn’t let up like the trance music would. Then I sat back down, and continued observing her. This arrangement is great, it allows me to stare at my subject almost constantly without arousing any suspicion. So I didn’t miss it when her sweat started soaking through the white unitard. It would start getting transparent soon, and more of the chemical would start to dissolve…
…I was starting to get anxious. My skin was getting all warm. Maybe the music was too much, but I was starting to have trouble holding still. And the vibrating. The music must have been shaking the whole house to its foundations. And with my strangely-shaped seat in the middle of the floor, shaped as it was, it seemed to focus all the vibration on one place…
…Then I saw it. She squirmed. Before, she’d turned her head slightly out of absent-mindedness, but this was an actual movement of the hips. I already knew what she was feeling. A “weird” and “tickly” sensation “down there.” She was trying to shift off the vibrating ridge, but I caught her right away…
…She ordered me back into place again. The seat was always vibrating, and it was starting to feel weird down there, sort of tickly. Like I couldn’t hold still. I tried to find a more comfortable position for a while by sliding about two inches off to the left, but after catching me twice, she demanded to know what the problem was…
…Teaching a woman that orgasms are good is hard when they’re Christian, unless you don’t do it in words. Getting their body to believe it takes a lot less explaining, and after that a girl’s physiology does the job for you. Anyone who does not believe orgasms are good has never had one. That leaves only one way to teach the body to like sex…
…I nervously explained that I was uncomfortable. She told me to shake my arms out. But it wasn’t my arms, I wasn’t even thinking about them. I told her the seat was bothering me. She told me the best way to deal with that was to press down against it, rather than trying to avoid it. She suggested I try that for a few minutes and see what happened…
…While I started turning the music up between each track…
…It was working, sort of. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it did cause a different sensation to contend with. It tickled more, and all over my body with an intensity I could barely endure. I experimented for a while, but soon realized it was actually a lot more unpleasant to try to take my weight off the ridge I was sitting on. So I pressed against it, and as a particularly strong bass sound rumbled in under me, tensed my whole body and tried to hold on…
…Soon I could see she was trying to hold still. Every muscle in her body was taut, and her breathing was becoming rapid. An orgasm is strange when you’ve never had one and don’t know what it is. You’re not that good at comprehending it yet, let alone hiding it. Soon her mouth was hanging open and her eyes were rolled back, and I gently reminded her to hold still as she started to…
…It was too much, I thought my head was going to explode. I pushed harder and harder and the feeling spread around, especially in my chest, until finally, my breath caught in my throat and my hips started twitching…
…she was cumming. I watched her head loll back and forth, her breasts thrust forward and her hips humping away at the vibration. I sat there and experienced her first orgasm with her, and when it looked like she was starting to cum down (get it?) I muted the music and explained to her that I really needed her to hold still, and if she could do that for me, it would be over in less than an hour. She nodded and stammered something, and it continued…
…I tried to hold still for Camille. But it kept happening. I didn’t know what was going on. Maybe it was because I was nervous, and had too much adrenaline. Maybe I was dehydrated, or my skin was just sensitive from the heat, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep the tension down, and soon it overwhelmed me and she had to stop again…
…I liked to listen to her as she tried feverishly to explain. It tickles, I’m sorry, I can’t help it, please, no, I can continue, just give me a moment, no, I’m ready, keep going. Then I’d tell her to make sure to press her weight down on it to keep it from vibrating as much, and then I turned the music back on and started her up again until she climaxed…
…When it got like that, I don’t know, I couldn’t stop myself, I had to push against the vibrating thing between my legs. My whole body demanded I press against it. The feeling was overwhelming, but trying to take my weight off of it was sheer torture. My whole body demanded I experience the vibrations. I had to ride it out to its conclusion, only to have to explain myself to Camille again why I was twitching and gasping like that…
…I could see everything by then, her sweat had soaked completely through the white microfiber. It looked more like a tan line than a piece of clothing now. I kept ordering her to look at me (when her eyes weren’t closed in ecstasy) so she wouldn’t see she was practically naked in my living room. She was starting to get better at having an orgasm without moving around too much…
…Which meant I didn’t have to stop and beg for forgiveness anymore, but also meant that as soon as my body was finished having one outburst it was already well on its way to another…
…It was beautiful. The position I’d set her in looked ridiculous unless the model was depicted having an orgasm, which I was in the process of doing.. Straddling a musical sybian machine, fingers in sweat-soaked hair, eyes closed, mouth open, head thrown back. Thank god these paintings take so long. But our time was running short, so when one track ended, I skipped ahead to a very special one I’d mixed myself…
…It was like these bursts of full-body tickling feelings were getting better with practice. They were getting longer, coming faster, and topping out much higher. The room was starting to spin. When she fast-forwarded the music to a track that didn’t even sound like music, just a low hum, my vision started to blur. I wondered what would happen if the feeling became too much, and got my answer after my vision cleared and I was lying on the floor…
…She’d passed out. I knew I had a keeper. I stroked her hair until her eyes focused on my face, plastered with a look of dramatic concern. If she’d had enough energy left to panic, she might have, but I consoled her that she didn’t need to go to the hospital. Lots of pleasant giggling and laughing, lots of compliments. She just needed a massage…
…Tension. That’s all she said it was. A kind that sometimes happened in women. She related it to the womb, and conception, and that since I was young and not having babies, my womb was getting antsy, and I was full of excess energy. That a good massage in the right place would calm me down, that that wonderful feeling of a vibrating massager or a pair of expert hands on my shoulders was nothing compared to the same in just the right places on a person who needed it…
…She bought all of it. When it came time to sell the part with nudity and intimate touching, I very comfortingly held her and said things about the whole affair being between “just us girls” and that way it was totally safe. I even got her to watch some videos on my laptop (thank you, thank you, thank you Hegre-Art.com)…
…Camille told me that there were a few more painting sessions to go, and that if I got a good “women’s massage” beforehand, things would be easier. And that was it. That was how Camille got me to agree to sex.