Stop Moving!

“Stop moving!” The artist grumbled at us.

I resisted the urge to squirm as my companion’s erection pressed into my thigh.

We stood together, nude, bound together by a strip of gauzy fabric around our legs. Bright sunlight illuminated our pedestal in the middle of the studio. The artist peered at us from behind his easel, pallet in hand. Paintings that would have sold for more than my rent leaned carelessly against the wall. The smell of strong coffee almost covered up the lingering aroma of turpentine, and tinny music played from a cheap stereo in the corner.

Of course, I wasn’t really paying attention to the studio. It no longer held any mysteries for me. I had spent many long hours there, holding poses until my muscles ached, with nothing to do but stare at my surroundings.

Most painters only hire a model for an hour or two, and take reference photos. It’s easier, but pays a lot less. This artist was unusual in his approach. Old-school. He believed there was value in painting from a live model, which meant long sessions.

My companion and I were two of the only models who were up for it, which is why so many paintings on the walls depicted our bodies. The curve of my hips. His broad shoulders. The swell of my breasts. His muscular thighs. My rosy nipples. His uncircumcised cock.

We’d never actually worked together before this, but when I walked in, our eyes met in a crackle of recognition. He paused in the middle of taking off his shoes, and I knew right away that he’d spent just as long staring at the paintings of my body as I’d spent admiring his. He arched his eyebrows, raised a hand in greeting, and pulled his shirt over his head.

I quickly retreated behind the folding screen. I’d always found the screen silly. After all, if I was about to pose nude, why provide privacy for the undressing? But this time, I was grateful for it. I hung up my dress and tucked my underwear into my bag, hoping the blush would fade from my cheeks by the time I walked out.

The artist bustled around us impatiently, and we fell into the usual routine of negotiating the pose, trying to balance what he wanted with what we could hold comfortably. In the end, we found ourselves facing each other, my hands on his chest, his on my hips. The artist wrapped a thin sheet of gauzy fabric tightly around our legs, giving him some texture and color to contrast against our skin.

We rested our heads together, with him gazing down at me, as if we’d just kissed. The artist fussed about our height difference, and I found myself up on my tiptoes, leaning against my companion for balance. My breasts pressed against his chest. We pretended not to notice the way our pelvises were making contact.

Satisfied, the artist retreated to his canvas to sketch and mix colors. I felt an odd blend of awkwardness and intimacy, pressed against his body like that.

“Hey,” he said under his breath. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“You too,” I replied. “I’m Claire.”

“Ben,” he said, “but everyone calls me Tex.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from Texas.”

“I’m not,” he conceded, “but you wear cowboy boots to work one time…”

I snorted. The artist looked up and frowned.

“Don’t make me laugh,” I whispered. “You’re gonna get us in trouble!”

“Sorry,” he said, trying not to grin. “I’m just nervous. I’ve seen so many paintings of you, it’s like meeting a celebrity.”

“Really?” I tried to play it cool. “What’s your favorite?”

“The one by the door, with the red background.”

“Oh?” I risked a quick look over my shoulder. In the painting, I held a hand dramatically to my head, as if about to swoon. A swatch of fabric was draped carelessly over my shoulder, leaving one breast exposed. “Yeah, I remember posing for that one. The studio was freezing, even with that noisy space heater going.”

“How about you?” He asked with studied casualness. “Any of mine ever catch your eye?”

“Hmm.” I pretended to consider the options. In truth, I already knew the answer. “I like the one by the window where you’re sprawled across the couch.” I’d spent hours admiring it. He had an arm over his eyes. One foot propped on the arm of the couch, the other resting on the floor. My eye was always drawn to his cock, prominent, but not yet erect. More than once, I’d imagined kneeling next to him, taking him in hand, and feeling him swell to life for me.

“Oh, yeah,” Ben chuckled. “He told me to imagine I’d just had sex, and was lying there, breathless, after a climax.”

“He did not!”

“Well,” he grinned, “maybe that was just what I imagined.”

“Stop talking!” The artist snapped. “I can’t get the line of your jaw if you’re chatting.”

We fell silent, but all I could think of was his post-coital sprawl on the couch. I wanted to ask him more. Sometimes during a long pose, my imagination would run wild. How elaborate a fantasy had he constructed of this sexual encounter? Was she on top? Did he cum inside her?

Did she look like me?

His chest rose and fell against mine. I felt a flutter in my core. His hands were on my hips, and it was a struggle not to imagine them sliding downward. Don’t, I scolded myself. Be professional. This was a dangerous train of thought. We could be here for hours yet.

The way the artist had positioned us meant his head was angled down, as if gazing lovingly at me, about to pull me into a kiss. I looked up, resisting the sudden urge to press my lips to his. Could he see the spark of desire in my eyes? He glanced away, but unable to move his head, he found himself looking at my breasts pressed against his chest.

I shivered, and my nipples stiffened involuntarily. I bit my tongue in frustration at my body’s automatic response to his proximity. His eyes widened, and he averted his gaze as best he could. I felt a rush of gratitude for him not taking advantage of the situation, undercut by a confusingly contradictory annoyance that he wasn’t.

It was becoming perversely clear that the very act of resisting my growing arousal was only intensifying things. My heart pounded and I struggled not to squirm. If this continued, the heat radiating from between my thighs would be impossible for him to ignore. I stared into his eyes, desperately praying that he couldn’t tell how badly I was losing this battle.

I squeezed my legs together, as discreetly as I could, desperate for some relief. Had I ever become this turned on, this fast? I felt ridiculous, but I also wanted more. Rationally, I knew it was about the situation, more than anything. It was intoxicating, being so close, and unable to move away from this man I’d spent hours fantasizing about. His skin, his scent, his lips, his eyes. I was drowning.

Abruptly, I became aware of a growing pressure against my inner thigh. I inhaled in surprise, and saw the alarm in his eyes. Oh! I’d been worried that he would see my barely controlled lust as unprofessional, but he’d been just as busy suppressing his body’s reaction to me!

His cock throbbed, straining and swelling larger. I shivered as a matching wave of desire rolled down my spine. His hands tightened on my hips, unsure of my reaction, not knowing whether to push me away or pull me more tightly against him.

He parted his lips as if to say something, but I lightly dug my fingernails into his chest to stop him. I risked a glance at the artist. His attention was mostly on the canvas, brush in hand, looking our way now and then. I licked my lips, and risked rocking my pelvis forward, increasing the pressure between us.

He stiffened in surprise, but I felt his cock twitch, trapped between us. I wanted more. I wanted to grind against him. For him to dig his fingers into my hips, then reach down, grab my ass and lift me up, until I wrapped my thighs around him. My insides clenched at the thought.

I gazed up at him, trying to communicate without words that I was just as turned on as he was, that he had nothing to worry about. Just moments ago, I’d been worried that my arousal was too obvious for him to ignore, and now I feared it was too subtle. I needed him to know. What could we do? I considered asking the artist if we could take a break, but it hadn’t been long enough. Besides, what was I going to do? Pull him down the hall for a quick fuck in the stairwell?

Immediately, it was all I could think about. The feel of rough concrete against my back, thighs wrapped around him as he thrust passionately into me. I wanted to dig my nails into his back, bite his neck to keep from screaming as he fucked me senseless.

Without thinking about it, I rocked my hips against him.

“Stop moving!” The artist muttered again.

I resisted the urge to squirm as Ben’s erection pressed into my thigh.

His eyes seemed to plead with me, praying that I would find a way to help. I wanted to move, to drag my aching nipples across his chest. His cock throbbed with every heartbeat, pinned between us, straining to spring upward. I licked my lips, struggling not to raise my mouth to meet his.

Just as I was about to give up and say we needed to a break, the artist stood, stretched, and turned his back on us to refill his coffee.

“Claire,” Ben breathed, “what do we do?”

“Shh,” I hushed him. We only had a moment. My heart was pounding. We had to make this count. Nothing could look different when the artist turned around.

The movement I made was neither graceful nor dignified. Awkwardly, due to the fabric wrapped tightly around our legs, I shimmied, rolling my hips and parting my thighs to guide his cock between them. Ben gasped as his shaft practically slapped against my lips.

Just in time, I resumed my original position as the artist sat down at his easel and returned his attention to us.

I suppressed a shiver at the new sensation. Ben’s cock was now nestled between my thighs, pressed directly against me. He was so close, I could feel his heartbeat. Every time he twitched and strained, it sent a wave of stimulation through my body.

Painstakingly slowly, I started to move in microscopic amounts. Fractionally clenching my buttocks, and rocking my hips in ways I prayed were invisible to the artist. Ben’s cock was hard as steel, and every little motion rubbed us together.

He gazed at me, awestruck and struggling to control his breathing. When he licked his lips, I felt a crackle of lust dance down my spine. I savored the way our bodies pressed together as I leaned against him, grateful that the pose the artist had chosen brought us together like this.

He tensed, and I felt his cock throb against me. My insides clenched, and something changed, a small gush of release. I barely choked back a small moan. His eyes widened in surprise as he felt my growing wetness. I continued to work slowly back and forth, my lips parting and sliding easily along his shaft.

I stared into his eyes, savoring the barely controlled lust I saw there. He strained upward, and suddenly, his bulbous head was pressed against my entrance. He dug his fingers into my hips, struggling to maintain control. My entire body burned with need.

He looked at me with desperation. Please, I could almost hear him begging me for permission. Please let me do it.

I moved my head fractionally, the slightest hint of a nod.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he slipped inside.

“Ohhh,” I exhaled, biting my lip to refrain from moaning his name.

I dared another quick look at the artist, who seemed absorbed in his brushwork, glancing between us and the canvas. Could he really be unaware that Ben’s cock was entering me?

I continued my slow-motion dance, leaning against him on my tiptoes. I willed my body to draw him further in, alternately squeezing and relaxing. His entire body was tense, while trying not to be too obviously straining.

He kept his eyes locked on mine, holding my gaze, though all of our attention was focused on his cock slowly filling my pussy. Maintaining that pose was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. All I wanted was to kiss him, to throw my arms around his neck. I wanted his hands on my ass. I wanted him to throw me down on the ground and thrust forcefully into me over and over and over…

How long had he been pushing into me? It felt like hours, endlessly teasing deeper and deeper. The sensation intensified with every passing second, until it felt like I was going to either scream or pass out. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I continued to bloom around his girth, blossoming like a flower in the morning sunlight. I ached for the moment I would finally feel my lips wrapped around the base of his shaft, to know he was buried completely inside me.

Some part of me was still vaguely aware of the artist, the sound of his brush on canvas, humming quietly the way he did when he got into a groove. I suddenly realized that I couldn’t wait to see the painting. Would he capture the heat? The tension as we tried desperately not to reveal our secret? The hunger in our eyes? I imagined colorful waves of lust radiating from us, like a psychedelic album cover.

The thought slipped away as Ben, at last, filled me completely. His cock twitched, stimulating secret places deep inside, and I suppressed a groan. I bit my lip and savored the sensation. I swear I could feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat. I’ve never been so aware of a lover’s body.

He was breathing heavily through gritted teeth, trying desperately not to make any noise. I struggled against the urge to move, to rock, to grind. All I could do was squeeze and clench around him. He was astonishingly hard, straining and throbbing in my welcoming heat. Through half-lidded eyes, I saw his face through a rosy haze.

I wanted him so badly. God, I wanted to fuck him. I wished he would lift me up, thrusting frantically as I pulled his head to my breast, letting him suck hard on my nipples, until I screamed. Let the artist paint that! The moment of climax, lips and fingers and breasts and cock and pussy and fuck fuck fuck…

My body tensed, pressure building and building. He seemed to sense it was coming, watching me with wide eyes as his cock swelled in my grasping passage. It was all I could do to hold the pose…

“Ben,” I gasped, unable to stop myself as an orgasm washed over me in a sudden flood. All the tension drained away as my insides clenched rhythmically around him. Grasping endlessly at his unyielding firmness, trying to pull him even deeper.

Just as I started to come back into myself, he made a quiet sound, and his cock started twitching. I barely managed not to moan at the spreading warmth inside. His eyes glazed, unaware of anything beyond the sensation of cumming in my still-clenching pussy.

I stared, awestruck, as he continued to hold the pose even as his climax spilled into me. I savored the feeling of his pulsing shaft nestled between my walls. A sense of deep relaxation and relief flooded my brain. I wanted to stay here forever, with him inside me.

We gazed into each other’s eyes, astonished. Even if we’d been able to speak, I’m not sure that I could have said anything coherent. We’d just met, but now we had this breathtaking secret. And the whole time, an artist had been capturing the moment when we fucked without moving, cumming as one, and still somehow holding our pose. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to collapse or laugh deliriously or shout in triumph.

I shivered as his cock shifted inside me, starting to soften. His breathing was less strained, and now that the moment of passion was fading, I was unable to read his expression. I resisted the urge to squeeze tightly, to hold him in place, and prolong the moment.

How did he feel? What would happen when the session ended? Would he get dressed and leave without saying a word? Would he ask me out? Did I want him to? How could any other experience possibly live up to this one? Maybe it would be better to just go our separate ways, keeping this one perfect moment?

He continued to hold me, gazing into my eyes, but the connection seemed to have evaporated. Our pose was meant to express longing, tenderness, and desire. I thought I’d seen all of those in him, but now that he’d cum, I worried it was all in my head.

And frustratingly, my body was still crackling with lust. Every time his cock twitched, I knew we were closer to the moment when he would fully slip out of me. I wanted more! I wanted him to keep going, keep filling me, keep holding me until I came around him again and again. The thought that I’d have to continue standing here, waiting out the rest of the session with his cum drying on my thighs, desperate for more, made me want to cry.

The artist leaned back and stretched, clattering his brushes in a way that I recognized. Any moment now, he’d ask if we needed a break.

Ben heard the same thing, and his eyes widened with concern. Probably worried about how to untangle himself from me without making it incredibly obvious what we’d done. Or trying to figure out how to suggest a new pose, one where we weren’t touching anymore. My body screamed in frustration, clenching involuntarily around him…

“How are you two doing? Need a break?” The artist asked casually, unaware of my inner turmoil.

“Um,” Ben hesitated, still looking into my eyes. “I’m good. I’d, uh, I’d like to keep going. You know, if that’s okay with Claire?”

“Ahh!” I couldn’t help gasping in surprise as his cock throbbed repeatedly inside me, as if sending me a message. I struggled not to moan in animal satisfaction. “Yes! I mean, uh, yeah, that’s cool. I want more, I mean, I’m okay with doing more. Of this, um, pose.”

Ben grinned with obvious relief.

“Well, alright, then.” The artist nodded. “Let’s keep going. Try not to move.”

“I’ll do my best,” I purred, already starting the dance again.