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...