A Ladder Backed Chair

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When you don’t have much to show-off, you don’t worry much about showing it. At least, I never did. For example, I seldom wear a bra, even if it embarrasses my girlfriends when my nipples are on display through a tight t-shirt. Big deal, who cares?

In those final weeks of summer, before classes started again, the campus felt as empty as a post-apocalyptic movie. Summer classes were over and fall classes had yet to start. With few students lingering in town year-round the night-time spots felt barren. We met each other in empty coffee shops and got together in tiny groups inside small apartments.

The first time Colleen asked if I would pose for her, I felt flattered. I’m not a modest person. Skinny and small-breasted, I lack the kind of body that attracts attention like my curvier girlfriends. My answer didn’t change after she asked if I would pose nude. While she sketched, I curled up with a book in a state of repose on a sheet draped couch in the living room of her tiny apartment. We joked about how I should have been reading my Kindle or my phone. Who reads books anymore?

When she asked if I would do it again, I didn’t think twice about it. Being naked in front of her had felt fun. Colleen wasn’t gay and neither was I. Still, I had enjoyed an exciting thrill being naked in front of her and in that lull before classes started again, we find our entertainment wherever we can.

I arrived at eleven on a Saturday and found her small living room rearranged to look like an art studio. Most of her meager furniture had been pushed to one side of the room leaving the small, loveseat against one wall. Again, she had draped the small sofa with a clean, white cotton sheet. A straight-backed wooden chair sat behind an easel already loaded with a big pad of paper. A folding TV tray table sat nearby with fat charcoal sticks.

Colleen buzzed about her apartment, filled with nervous energy. She couldn’t stop thanking me for being willing to pose for her. “It’s not a big deal,” I said, first refusing a glass of water and then changing my mind. “You can get undressed in my bedroom if you’d like.”

“Does it matter?” I asked, finding the idea of stripping in another room when she’s about to see me naked as foolish. I pulled off my t-shirt. As usual, I wasn’t wearing a bra. Colleen’s eyes fell directly to my chest before she turned away. Glancing down at my chest, I saw what she had seen, my nipples were swollen stiff. Did it matter?

I wasn’t sure what to make of Colleen as she moved behind her easel and kept her eyes averted from me while I slipped off my sandals, shorts, and panties. It wasn’t until I was naked that she seemed okay to look at me. Artists are weird.

I stood in front of the sheet covered sofa. “How do you want me?” Last time, she had handed me a book and simply asked me to get comfortable while I read.

“Could you stay like that?” she asked, picking up a piece of charcoal and swiping at the pad of paper on her easel.

“Like this?” I asked. I didn’t feel like I was posing as I stood facing her with my arms at my sides. It didn’t feel like much of a pose.

“It’s perfect,” she said in a far away voice as if I had interrupted her from a trance. Her arm moved with flourishes for several minutes while I stood in place, trying hard not to feel awkward. Eventually, she got up, stood behind her chair, and looked from her paper to me and back again several times. Leaning over the ladder backed chair, she made a few smudges on the paper and frowned.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” she said, flipping the page without showing it to me. With a blank page in front of her, the trance felt broken as she smiled at me. It was a funny smile as if she was extra pleased to see me standing there even though I had been standing directly in front of her for the last ten minutes. “I’m doing sketches,” she explained. “The idea is to capture the pose with just a few strokes.”

“Standing doesn’t feel like much of a pose.”

“Oh,” she said, looking at me with her artist’s eyes again. Shaking away the gaze, she looked at my eyes instead of my body and flashed an awkward smile. “Sorry, it’s just that you have such a great body for this. Most of the models they hire at school are full-figured women and it’s all about swirls and curves.”

“I’m skinny.”

“No, you’re perfect!” she insisted, flipping back to the page she just dismissed. “See? Drawing big boobs are easy because you can just make a swish of a curve and it’s fine.” She demonstrated by tracing a swoosh beneath the curve of her left breast. The charcoal dust on her fingertips left a smudge on her t-shirt.

Unlike me, Colleen more curves. She didn’t have giant breasts, just real ones that probably felt better inside a bra than flopping around although I wouldn’t know the difference. A lot of my larger breasted friends complain about wearing a bra. I don’t like them either. Who wants to wear a piece of elastic around their chest all the time? It’s like girls who always canlı bahis şirketleri wear heels and then complain about them. Why wear heels? Because they make your calves look better? My calves look fine without heels.

Colleen turned her sketchpad around, showing me the quick sketch she had made of my torso from my belly button up to my shoulders. Her emphasis had clearly been on my tits. I saw how she had tried to capture their subtle curve and the placement of my nipples. It felt funny realizing that while I had been fully naked, her attention had been only on my chest. “Smaller breasts are so much harder.” She smeared a bit of the charcoal and frowned at the result.

“So, you want to draw my tits?”

“I want to draw all of you,” she said, putting the big pad of paper back on the easel. “The idea of charcoal is to capture the model’s essence rather than drill into the details.”

“Capture away,” I giggled, already noticing the faraway look in her eyes as she studied me with her artist’s eyes. I felt her gaze zeroed in on my chest again. “Would it help if I moved closer?”

“Maybe a step or two,” she said in that far away, distracted voice.

I moved, standing slightly behind and to the left of her easel as she studied my breasts. Her eyes moved back and forth from my tits to her paper and back again. I watched her face and how her pupils would grow and shrink depending on where she was looking, hiding and revealing the green of her iris. It felt funny standing this close and being studied so closely. My nipples felt hard. Did she notice? Did it matter?

Leaning back, she studied her paper for a moment, jabbing at the page as she smudged the charcoal before comparing her sketch to real life. “You have such great nipples,” she said. “But damn they’re hard as fuck to draw!” I felt the heat of a blush that must have shown. “Oh, damn, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re fine,” I assured her, feeling self-conscience. “I’m just not used to having someone study them.”

“Would it better if I asked to turn around?” she offered. “I could draw your backside.”

Turning, I protectively covered my breasts for no good reason. “Should I go like this or something?” I poked my ass slightly backward in her direction.

“Ooo, that’s good!” she said, flipping the page on her thick pad of paper before I heard the soft sounds of her drawing. I watched over my shoulder, unable to see her drawing but able to see her looking back and forth. She made sweeping motions for a few minutes before leaning back.

“Well, that doesn’t suck.”

“Can I see?” I asked. She nodded. I stepped behind her chair and looked over her shoulder as she pointed out her tiny mistakes.

“This curve isn’t quite right. And I could do a better job shading right here.” She used the side of her piece of charcoal to thicken a bottom curve of my ass, improving its shape at the same time.

“It’s amazing how you can do all that with so few strokes.”

“That’s the point,” she said, twisting, turning, and looking over her shoulder. That put her face directly on eye level with my breasts. She quickly looked up at me and gave a shy smile. “Maybe I should do some full figure sketches.”

I moved to the couch, unsure how to pose. Facing away from her, I put a knee on the seat of the sofa and a hand on the back of it as I kept my other leg straight. When she said that was perfect, I held the pose while she sketched. A few minutes later she asked me to try a different pose. “Maybe this?” I asked, putting both of my knees on the seat of the sofa while leaning against the back and pointing my ass directly at her. This time, she sketched for a much longer time.

“Maybe you can turn around and just sit?” she asked. I did as she asked, automatically hugging a single knee. Nodding, she smiled and asked me to hold that pose as she went back to work.

I don’t know what goes through the mind of the artist while they draw. Do they see their model as little more than shapes? She held up her bit of charcoal as if taking measurements before making more motions on her pad as I sat and wondered what she was drawing.

That’s the mystery for the model, you don’t know what the artist is seeing. You don’t know where they are looking, not really. I could guess she was working on my exposed breast, the one that wasn’t covered by my upturned knee, but I couldn’t be sure. Maybe she was working on my crossed arms? Or perhaps she was capturing the way I had laid my face across my knee? I had no idea.

I did know she could see me naked and there was no way for me to hide or ignore that fact. She could see me, all of me, including between my legs if she really wanted to look there. Maybe I should have sat in a more ladylike position rather than with my other knee sprawled to one side? Like a lot of girls, I keep myself well groomed down there. Usually, I shave the sides enough that I don’t have any hair showing beyond my bikini line, regardless of what style of panties I’m wearing. canlı kaçak iddaa Except, while showering that morning, I couldn’t quite get it even. I trimmed away at one side and then the other until I decided, “Fuck it,” and shaved it off. With how I was sitting, I thought about how she could see everything. Everything! While standing in front of her, it hadn’t matter much, but sitting made a big difference.

Colleen sat back and I asked if I could see. When she held up her sketchpad, I saw a bubble version drawn over a stick figure version of me. “This is more a pencil technique,” she explained. “Charcoal is more about smudging and shadows than harsh lines. My instructor would freak if she saw this.” She explained about capturing the fluidity of movement or something like that. I don’t know, it all went over my head. “Once I have the basic shapes, and I know my light source, I should be able to go back into these and make them better.”

I nodded as if I understood. I didn’t, but the model doesn’t need to understand the technique. “What’s next?”

“Do you mind holding that pose?” she asked, moving to a new page. “I’d like to try again now that I understand it better.” I moved back into position. When I slightly closed my legs, she frowned. “It was better with that knee to your side.” Trying not to blush, I opened my legs, again aware of everything she could see.

She began making gestures behind her easel I couldn’t see as my mind wandered. What was this like for her? Did it feel strange seeing another person naked while she was still clothed? Did she even notice that I was naked in a sexual way? Probably not, I decided. I’m probably nothing more than a bowl of fruit.

“Need a break?” she asked, leaning back and making occasional stabs with her thumb at the page.

“I’m good,” I assured her.

Flipping the page, she looked at me for a long moment before glancing around her space as if looking for something. “I really want to try drawing your chest again.” Getting up, she dug out another straight back chair from the pile of furniture against the wall and placed it near her easel. I moved to sit near her. “Maybe you could cup your breast, you know, like this?” She cupped the bottom curve of her left breast and left behind another dark smudge of charcoal. I wondered if it would wash out easily.

“I don’t have a lot to cup,” I said, squeezing my boob. “Like this?”

“Perfect,” she said, without commenting on the way my nipple had swollen. I noticed, though. Looking down at my chest, I could see how long and distended my nipple had become. I saw the color change of arousal, too. My nipple ached for attention I didn’t dare give it. “God, your breasts are perfect,” she muttered, leaning in for a closer look. “I love the shape of your areola. It’s nearly a perfect circle.” She studied her page, quiet as she worked before glancing back at me. “You have great nipples, too.”

“Thanks,” I said, blushing ever so faintly. “So do you.” I didn’t mean to say that, it had slipped out. Despite the thin bra she wore beneath her t-shirt, Colleen’s nipples had made their presence known as subtle, twin points.

“What?” she asked, caught off-guard and glancing down at her chest. She quickly apologized. “It must be cold or something.”

“Maybe,” I said, except I was wearing far less than her and I hadn’t felt a chill. As she went back to work, I watched a faint blush fade from her cheeks. As her name suggested, Colleen was part Irish and her pale skin easily showed the lightest shade of color. I squirmed as I wondered if she was a little excited, too.

“I could get you a pillow if I need one,” she offered in her distracted, faraway voice.

“I’m fine,” I said, forcing myself to sit still.

“It’s just that when you wiggle, the light changes and I’m trying to get the shadow of your nipple just right.”


“Wait. Right there.” She put a hand on my shoulder and steadied me. She kept her hand on my shoulder, looking at me from over her outstretched arm while making tiny adjustments to her page. “There!” she announced, at last, pulling away and smiling at me. I leaned over to see for myself. “Oh, it will look better when it’s done.” Using the side of a tiny nub of charcoal, she enhanced the curve of my nipple ever so slightly. I felt a shiver as if she had done it to my body.

“What else do you need to do to it?”

“Well, I can go back in with some white both here and here.” She gestured at the page with her little finger. “And I’m not quite happy with this part.” She demonstrated on her chest, caressing the inside part of her breast and smudging herself again. “I think this needs brightening to bring out the shading.” She picked up a piece of white charcoal and showed how making highlights brought more depth to the picture. “And I need to add some here.” She poked at the drawing of my erect nipple. “But I’m not quite sure where. Maybe here?” She dotted a bit along the flat tip of my extended nipple. “I really canlı kaçak bahis want to show that its hard.”

Well, that had answered that question for me. She had noticed that my nipples were hard. “I guess it is chilly in here.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” she said, oblivious to how she had contradicted herself. “I can turn down the air conditioning or something.”

“I’m fine,” I said, fanning myself. I felt far from cold. “It’s just that, I don’t know, I guess having someone staring so intently at my nipples has an impact on me.”

Colleen blushed deeper than before as she realized everything we were saying to each other. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to sound like a perv or something!”

“You know how it is with nips. Sometimes we can control them and sometimes we can’t.” I glanced at her chest and the twin points that were still poking through her thin bra and t-shirt.

“Yes,” she said, noticing the charcoal dust on her shirt and swiping at it. Instead of brushing it away, she smudged her top and it made her nipples even more noticeable. “Well, that didn’t work, did it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I smiled, quite unexpectedly appreciating the view. “At least you can tell where the light is coming from.”

“Not really,” the artist said, pointing at her chest. “The light makes the shadow fall this way and the smudge makes it look as if the light is from overhead.” It took her a moment to realize what she was doing. When she did, she blushed and struggled to find her composure. She fanned herself. “It does feel hot in here, doesn’t it?”

“A little,” I said, trying not to look at the charcoal dust rubbing of her nipples on the front of her shirt. I couldn’t help it. For a history project, we had once done rubbings of tombstones in a graveyard. Smearing the charcoal dust across the front of her shirt had accomplished the same thing. As a joke, I added, “You could get naked with me.”

Colleen smiled, looked tempted and suggested a break instead. Part of me felt relieved that she had taken my suggestion the way I had intended it, as a joke. A smaller, more playful part of me wished that she had taken it as a viable suggestion.

I had never been with another woman. To be honest, beyond a playful, stray fantasy here or there, I had never considered doing it in real life. I thought girls were pretty. I could admire an attractive woman in a nice outfit without thinking, “I want to do her!” When I watched porn, I would notice the girl on one level or another. Okay, sure, I was usually thinking “Mm, how would it feel if he was doing that to me!” But I still noticed her. If I didn’t think she was attractive, I’d click away. Or, if she looked like she was really into it, I got more into it, too. Seeing her nipples hard from a good tongue lashing would make my nipples ache for the same treatment.

Being naked in front of Colleen felt strange and pleasing. It felt sexy without it being sexual, though I’m not sure if that makes a lot of sense. I didn’t feel turned on in a needy way. It felt like when it’s been too long between orgasms and you get that itch in the back of your mind that you want to get laid. Or when you crave some chocolate, except it’s late, and you’re already in bed, and the only way you’re going to get some candy is if you get up, get dressed, and drive to the store. If that craving gets strong enough, you’re digging in the bottom of your purse for enough change that you don’t need to risk your debit card being refused because: Dammit, you need that fucking chocolate!

I wasn’t ready to reach out, grab Colleen, and force myself against her soft, full lips. I didn’t feel a need to caress her bigger chest and see if her nipples felt as hard as they looked. No, I was okay with just noticing how her eyes kept drifting across my body in a way that felt different than when she was behind her easel.

Noticing her glancing below my navel made me self-conscience about my new look. “Is it okay that I shaved? I couldn’t quite get it even.” Thinking back, I probably didn’t need to look down at myself and touch as I showed it off.

Colleen giggled, “It’s fine. You know, in most Renaissance works, the women are usually hairless.” She explained that no one is sure why, whether it was a fashion or if by showing the woman hairless, it reduced the sexuality of the woman being naked. “Or, maybe it was just too damn hard to paint all those curls.”

I could think of a few other reasons for being hairless, starting with how it felt good. I made it a point not to touch myself again. My mind headed in a different direction. “Ever try to draw yourself?”

“You mean nude?” she asked as if it was a novel idea. Turned out, she had. “But you can’t get the right distance to see how all the pieces connect. I know it feels like I’ve just been drawing your boobs, but it’s more about understanding how the part fits into the whole. Here, let me show you.” Heading over to her bookcase, she pulled out a big book filled with paintings by the great masters. What she really wanted to show me were their sketchbooks, all the effort they had put into drawing a hand just right or capturing the right position of a person’s body before immortalizing it on canvas or a ceiling of a church.

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