Newsgroups: rec.arts.erotica From: Q0J0@unb.ca (Michael Edwards) Subject: The Beauty Within Date: 11 Jul 1994 17:02:01 -0400 The Beauty Within Shit! This was definitely not the "Key to Perfect Typing" classroom! Honestly, it was as if she was only half-there most of the time these days. The smell of oil paint instead of typewriter grease was only one of the clues that she was in the wrong place -- again. She was about to ask directions from the man standing at the easel, cleaning his brushes, but hesitated. When he rather abruptly motioned her over to the screen and told her to disrobe, she understood immediately that he had misunderstood her entrance into the room. It occurred to her that she should clarify, ask directions to her original destination, the business class -- but she remained voiceless. She could not come up with an explanation as to why she stayed. She was certainly no model, but he obviously thought that she was there to pose for him. Well, she thought, since his model hadn't shown up, he would be none the wiser if she stood in for a day -- and it was not that she had aspirations of being a world class typist. With a slight smile and the "what the hell" attitude that was taking over more and more of her life, she slipped behind the screen and disrobed quickly. Not knowing exactly what the situation was, she didn't want to incur his anger by being slow. It was clear that he was very impatient, a real task-master. She thought she would be more embarrassed than she was when she stepped out from behind the screen totally naked. It was so different from anything else she had done in her life. But he cast a glance her way, seemed to approve, and moved over to indicate where he wanted her to lie. She was surprised at first how casual the whole process was and how natural it seemed to be lying on a sheet without so much as a stitch on, propped up by pillows, breasts offered to the skylight. She should have taken a few minutes to orient herself to the studio; in this position, the only thing she could see was the skylight and surrounding ceiling. Her mind drifted. This was not exactly hard work and did allow her to contemplate the past year of her life. There was something missing, she knew that. But no amount of psycho-analytical sessions with her therapist or discussions with friends seemed to be able to help her. It was as if she was only half living her life. She had not attachments, no permanent relationships -- and even sex was a mundane function in the few relationships she had. She was competent in the workplace, analytical and thorough; surely she could reason out the answer to the troublesome feeling that she was just a spectator of life. Eventually she began to be aware of a slight strain in her back. Although he had positioned her so that she had few single pressure points and was supported fully, sustaining one pose was harder than it had at first appeared. One of her arms fell asleep. Afraid to move, she decided to retreat into her mind -- so easily done these days. It almost seemed as if she was a walking zombie most of the time, so disconnected was she from her body. She could not have described the small mole on the innermost side of her thigh, within a tongue's reach of her mons; she had never paid much attention to her body. As she liked to tell people, it was merely a vehicle for getting her brain from point A to point B. She was comfortable living in her mind, though increasingly she had wondered whether other people led lives as cerebral. Her life was a game of mind control, and she started to make lists of things to do, deadlines pending, bills to be paid. She could tell by the fading light outside that it was getting late and with some temerity she finally asked, scarcely daring to interrupt his work, whether it would be all right if she went home. He looked up, surprised and brusquely dismissed her. He met her at the door after she had dressed, he gave her $24.00. When she looked at it, surprised, he said, "The going rate is still $6 an hour, isn't it? In any case, that is all I'm paying." Nonplussed, she took the money. Finances had been a problem and if she could get money for a day posing in the nude, she was certainly not going to refuse it. Though she had not planned on returned, she knew that she could not turn down the money; the rent was due in four days and her bank account was mighty thin these days. The next day, she arrived and quickly slipped out of her clothes, assuming the position he desired, aligning legs, hips, and buttocks with the marks on the sheet. Under the warm sun and lights, she drifted in her mind again, thinking of a life half-lived. The sudden erotic shock from her tit swept through her body like a fireball. God! Where did that come from? She could not see her breast, her nipple, but she knew instinctively that it was throbbing, hard and aroused; her breast had been drenched in a wave of unrelenting erotism. More than anything else, she wanted to rub her hands over the hardened tits, to have her mouth around them, sucking, pulling, tweaking them to play out the erotic power they possessed. She almost whimpered. Could he see what was happening to her? The hunger and ache to be touched and sucked and caressed? The sensations she had had before, under the groping hands of adolescent boys, paled in comparison to this. But as suddenly as it had happened, the sensations faded away. She became aware that he was dismissing her for the day and in a curious dreamy way, she slowly got up and moved behind the screen to put her clothes back on. Again he gave her money, and told her to come back the next day. She was so shaken; she did not understand this. She left, weak at the knees, wondering again if he had noticed what had happened. She did not sleep well that night. Tossing and turning throughout the night, she found it hard to capture that feeling but she knew that something quite remarkable had happened. Her motions were slow the next morning, unsure about returning to the studio -- but she needed the money. And perhaps she had imagined what had happened. She noticed that he, too, seemed distracted and took that to be a good sign. She assume the position, more aware this time of the placement of her nipples towards the skylight and more aware this time of the moving air in the room, whispering against them. The session seemed a long one and she was just about to ask for a break when it happened again. The powerful wave of eroticism first engorging her breasts, drawing out her nipples -- and then, "Oh, my God!" Moving down, the fiery eroticism drifted down her belly, wrapping around her belly, insinuated itself in her pubic hair and setting up the aching hunger in her womb, the voice inside her pleading, "please-please-please- please-please, oh God, please!" She barely had time to compose herself when she heard his voice, dismissing her for the day. As she slipped on her panties, shielded by the screen, she pulled them up, taunt; she knew without feeling, that she was wet -- and trembling, she noticed, as she slipped on her stockings, clipping them to the garters. He had left the money on the table, by the door, and did not even look up as she left. But as she leaned against the wall in the corridor, she heard the door lock behind her. In the succeeding days, she had waited with anticipation as she posed, knowing that she would feel the wave of arousal, primitive, from deep within her body and her sex, overcome her. The sexual hunger extended into her fingers and palms, the nerve endings so sensitive to the touch, pulsating as if they were wrapped around a hard, powerful cock; the strands of her auburn hair teased the arch of her neck and the rise of her breasts, whiskingO her into acute arousal; even her toes cried out to be sucked, and to penetrate, to be shoved into a cunt. She had wondered how much more her body could take without being satisfied. The day that the erotic charge had danced around her Venus mound, sending licks of fire into her clitoral area, she had instinctively tried to reach down, to finish off the job. But as before, she found that she was unable to move as much as a muscle. It was as if her sole purpose was to pose and to receive the waves of erotic pleasure that emanated from within her womb, the centre of her being. She had to remain open, and accept the intensity of the sexual desire that swept through her. That night, she had stopped off at a lingerie store on the way home. The sessions had been leaving her more and more weak, but she could not get the feeling of sexual craving out of her mind. Why had she never been interested in the fabrics, the textures of women's lingerie before? The silks drew her; her hands roamed through tap panties, and black slips, and long gowns, cut low to expose breasts and high to allow access. Lace -- how had she done without the slight roughness and titillating glimpse they gave of silky skin? Garters, teddies, merry widows, all with a purpose, she understood now. The selection was difficult, but she left the store with a small bag, tissue peaking out the top. She was not surprised, not really, when he left the easel the next day and strode over to her. She did not break pose for an instant, but accepted the splitting of her legs, the parting of the lips of her labia exposed to the spotlight; she held her pose, supplicant to the skylight. She was not even surprised to hear the sound of the Polaroid camera, knowing that it was her genitalia that was captured on film. But it was with a searing disappointment that she left the studio that day. She had not experienced the rush of intense eroticism that she had come to depend on; she had left the studio aching and empty. She had an incredible desire to have her mouth filled, stretched around a penis. It seemed that the express purpose of her lips was for the purpose of giving and receiving erotic pleasure, sliding around a cock and milking it, sucking it to climax, with the thick creamy cum filling her throat. It was an image she held during the next session and may have enhanced the sequence of explosions that rocked her body. Unable to move, seemingly pinned, she had to open up, and her receptive body accepted and rocked with wave after wave of the orgasm when it came. She couldn't stop it, couldn't control it -- It was good, but it wasn't good; she wanted it deep in her but she still wasn't all there, and she couldn't keep up with it. The whimper was audible this time, as the cunt muscles spasmed again and again and again. It was a shock when she felt a burning, searing pain on the soft white curve of her breast. She had been expecting pleasure, and the pain was personal, deep, though she knew it was the actual sensation only lasted a moment. It filled her, vibrating in every nerve ending; a tear escaped from her eye. She had long given up trying to find a rational explanation for what went on in her mind and body in the studio. She just knew that it was moving her back to a fundamental part of her self, that she was close to realizing something critical about herself. It broke something in her, damage far beneath the surface and beyond comprehension. She didn't bother to pick up the money on the way out. At times, she wanted to control the waves of burning desire, to cry out, "go slow, go slow, oh please, let me ride this one!" At other times, it was with exquisite tenderness that the erotism would overcome her, stroking, rhythmic movements, brushing, swirling, absorbing the smells of the paint and her sex, the sense of the viscousness of her own cum. She knew, as surely as she knew the skylight above, that she had been hand-fucked, as opposed to being cock-fucked, again and again. And that each time was so completely different, yet each time was bringing her closer to a feeling of being whole, being alive, being complete. There was never a word spoken between them, beyond cursory directions, but the chemistry she felt was almost palpable. As she walked towards the door, having come within herself til she had to bite her lip to stifle a groan, she had an incredible urge to drop down on her knees and take his cock in her mouth. What was happening to her? This was not her style -- but God, she loved it! It was having a peculiar effect on her, though. Each time she left the studio, she felt weaker as if her vital forces were being sapped, as if she were being drained away. Her friends began to comment on how pale, how delicate she seemed. She decided that this would have to be her last session; she could not continue with only these glimpses of ecstasy. So comfortable was she now with her own body, with he movement of her loose breasts as she walked, with the jiggling of her ass cheeks, and so thoroughly did she feel that he knew her body, that she disrobed as she walked toward the platform; the screen to protect her modesty was no longer necessary. Positioning herself on the sheets again, for the last time, she hoped and prayed that this time will be one to remember, to sustain her. The sound of the brush, first on the palette, then on the canvas -- the smell of the paint -- were so familiar, so relaxing, and so, so promising. It was still a shock when the first shuddering orgasm swept through her body, her pelvis grinding down, clit flickering with delight at the image of a thousand butterflies on her organ, her womb open, as if impaled on an invisible cock. She was transported to that plain of pure sex, vibrating with desire and a base craving. It surely could not get better than this; her body was singing its own song. But in one instant, every fibre in her body was infused with an energy and life that truly took her breath away. In that one moment, she saw herself for what she really was, for a woman. She felt a soaring freedom, aware beyond words, that from that day, she was not a prisoner/person of the mind and of the heart, but of the sexuality of her femaleness. She saw, and fell in love, with the glory of being fully female and fully alive. She had no idea how she ended up outside the studio, in the park. But as she walked away, a spring in her step with the sheer joy of knowing herself as a sexual woman, she stopped to smell the trees, the verdant moss under foot, and caught her breath as she noticed, at the end of one leaf, the most beautiful tear-shaped raindrop...