The Artist by feministpron

“So how many of these sculptures have you done?” she asked, finding her voice again, wanting casual conversation, wishing he would offer her a drink to calm her nerves.

“Twelve,” he said promptly, motioning towards the table.

He was all business. Like he had a schedule to keep. Maybe this really is just a business transaction, she thought. Maybe she’d been foolish to expect anything else. Maybe there wasn’t anything to get worked up over.

“Like I mentioned before, this is going to take about three hours,” he said, leaning against his art table. “You’ll be there, on that table. We’ll make sure you’re comfortable. Ideally, you won’t move from your position. If you get thirsty or hungry, I’ll bring you whatever you need. Are you hungry or thirsty now?”

“No,” she said.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

She felt her mouth open slightly against her will. God, this was all so weird and so hot. “No,” she answered, feeling like a bashful child.

“Then why don’t you take off your pants and underwear.”

He spoke softly to her. He knew he must strike the perfect balance between gentle and commanding. She must understand that she wouldn’t be coerced into anything, but also that she must respect his time, and follow his guidance.

He allowed her a few moments of looking especially shy, laughing behind her hands, covering her face with her hands. He smiled with her, silently acknowledging her feelings, the strangeness of the situation for her. But he didn’t move, communicating his expectations though the stillness of his presence.

Slowly, she obeyed, leaving her socks on. He didn’t say anything about her socks, she thought wildly. What was it about this situation, about him, that totally paralyzed her rational thinking?

He moved forward now, coming close to her, and she willed him to touch her, not being quite brave enough to initiate anything herself.

He only patted the cushion on the table. “Up here,” he said.

She obediently positioned herself, her legs squeezed shut.

He took a calm breath in, the most delicate part of the operation having arrived. “Comfortable?” he asked.

She nodded.

“The way I’d like you to sit is with your legs open, your feet on the table on either side of you.”

“Oh god,” she said, bashfully covering her mouth again. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

This was the point of failure for so many women. Sometimes they needed assistance. But as she slowly opened her legs of her own accord, he felt sure that she would do anything, and everything, he would ask of her tonight.

“More like this,” he said, pushing her knees a bit wider, so that she hung open, her pussy angled towards his art table. “Perfect. And your hands should be holding onto your ankles. Yes, like that. Keep them there the whole time. Okay?”

She nodded.

Producing a white towel, he instructed her to lift her bum off the cushion while he slid it beneath her. He offered her no explanation, allowing her instead to imagine its purpose.

Throughout these preparations, he was careful to avoid looking between her legs. It was all a matter of moving forward in delicate degrees, in order to prevent any undue alarm or clamming up. Once she was in position, he went to his table and began warming up his clay. As he worked it between his hands, he looked her over. She was very tense. Completely normal. Her knuckles were white as they gripped her ankles, like she was holding on for dear life. He was amused by this. Her head was turned to the side, pretending to closely study something interesting on the blank wall beside her. He took his time at his table, letting her acclimate to the position, to her exposure, to him.

Next, the time had come for him to warm her up. Putting down his clay, he dipped his hands into a bucket of water, wiping them dry on a towel. He approached her again, coming to stand beside the table. “Did you read the part in the contract about touching?” he asked.

“Yeah…” she lied. She felt like an admonished school child who’d failed to turn in an assignment.

He knew she was lying. Most of them did. He sighed, letting slip the slightest hint of annoyance. Purely performative, of course. “Tell me, what did you find so compelling about my piece at that party?”

Immediately, she knew what he was getting at–at least, she knew what she found compelling. It was aroused. Sloppy-looking. Engorged. Used. As quick a tongue as she normally had, she could not bring herself to utter any of these words.

“I’d like you to be aroused for this,” he continued. “I’d like you to touch yourself, to keep yourself aroused for the duration of the session. Do you think you can do that?”

Her head was leaned back, gazing up at him languidly. Already, she was relaxing into a different tension, her fear and nervousness gradually replaced.

“There is another option. If you consent, I can touch you instead. I mean, you already signed the consent form for that. But, the choice is yours.”

“Wow, okay,” was all she could manage, covering her face in her hands again. “Is this for real?”

“I asked you to keep your hands around your ankles,” he reminded her.

She felt flushed, certain she was sweating through her shirt. Did she stink of BO now, too? What else could her body do to embarrass her? She knew he was expecting an answer, but could she really say it? Could she actually ask for what she wanted?

“You can do it,” she said, affecting an uncaring attitude. “If you want.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said. Consent obtained, he moved to stand between her opened legs, and began his examination of her. He was delighted to find that she had a full, luscious pussy, just like he liked. Clean shaven, as he’d requested. His first touch was along her smooth thighs, his fingers trailing slowly downwards, glancing up at her every so often to ensure she was being appropriately receptive. He ran his thumbs along her outer lips, massaging them, pulling them open slightly. Already she was swelling, the first hints of wetness appearing.

Abruptly he left, going to his work table where he began manipulating clay.

Her pulse thudded in her ears, between her legs. Never before had she felt so exposed. Sure, she was embarrassed at how aroused she already was. But his gaze from his table, his careful focus as he shaped clay into her likeness, felt every bit like the physical touch she wanted now. That she needed.

Some women deflated easily, and he would need to spend much of his time plumping them up again. Some needed near constant physical attention. He was always happy to provide it.

But the women who could stay aroused even in his absence–these were the ones he saw potential with.

“So you lurk around your sculptures to select your next victims?” she asked, breaking his concentration. “Whoever lingers the most?”

He smiled his crooked smile. “My livelihood does sort of depend on it,” he said. She needed more attention now, but this time it would be to shut her mouth. He wanted her entirely decapacitated. And he knew exactly how he would accomplish this. Selecting his softest brush from his cup, he came to stand between her legs again. He was pleased at the sound of her breath, becoming more ragged as he stood before her.

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