Modeling for Art Class

By NAMB

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and/or sexual activity of preteen and young teen children. This is fantasy, and the author in no way endorses or practices these things on real life. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.
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Modeling for Art Class

I was proud when I got my first car. It was a collaborative effort between me and my parents. They probably could have bought it for me outright – it was an older car – but had me put in what amounted to a down payment as a measure of responsibility.

Still, I had the best end of the deal. They paid the insurance and maintenance, although I was responsible for the gas and getting the car to the shop when needed.

My parents told me about how when they were teenagers, gas was under 20 cents a gallon. Now it’s much more than 10 times that amount and it wasn’t easy to keep the tank full. I needed a job.

Girls were lucky: they could earn good money babysitting and make more money in a couple of hours on a weekend than I could make all week stocking shelves at the supermarket. Some of my friends had it even worse – they flipped burgers. At least I had regular hours.

I was complaining about this to my tablemates at school. The boys sympathized but the girls remained silent being content to know that they had the greater earning potential at this point in our lives.

Later that day, one of the girls, Ursula, caught up to me. I really liked her and trusted her. She was a friend and a girl, but not really a girlfriend. “Kev, you know what you said about needing a better paying job?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I think I have a solution for you. My mom belongs to an artist’s group and they are always looking for models to draw or paint or sculpt.

They meet on Friday night and I hear that the pay is pretty good. I’ve seen you in a swim suit. You have a nice body. I think they’d like painting it.

Do you want me to ask my mom about it?”

“Of course!”

The next day, Ursula met me in the hallway. “I talked with mom. She says she’d like to meet you. Can you come over on Saturday at about 9 AM?”

“Sure.”

Saturday came and I went over to Ursula’s house. I met her mom who offered coffee and doughnuts. “Ursula tells me that you are interested in modeling. Do you have any experience?”

“No Mrs. Wilson.”

“Mrs. Wilson was my mother-in-law. Please call me Nancy.”

“I couldn’t do that. It’s improper for me to call an adult by her first name.”

“Will Ms. Nancy do?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“OK, Ms. Nancy or ma’am will do although the latter makes me feel like an old lady.”

“No experience? Well, that doesn’t matter. We’re an amateur group and can’t really afford professional models. I can teach you some of the basics and you should do well. Let’s do an evaluation, shall we?”

She led me over to the window and opened the curtains. “I want to see what you look like in natural light.

You have a nice face, rugged enough to show your masculinity, yet soft enough to show your youth. It has nice skin tone. Oh, there’s a blemish of acne or two, but we can ‘paint around them.’ It’s natural on a boy your age.

Do you shave?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “Just once a week on Sunday before church. I did it before I came here today though.”

“That’s good. You’ll be required to be clean shaven for posing.”

“That should not be an issue.”

“Let me look at your hands.” She took them and I allowed her to manipulate them into multiple positions.

“Hands seem to be the most difficult part of the body to draw; they’re so intricate. Maybe that’s why most cartoon characters have less than five fingers. You have very nice hands. We’ll have to do a little work on the nails so they look clean and are filed down properly. One of us women, or even Ursula could help you with that.”

“Take off your shoes. I need to see your feet.”

I did.

“Next to hands, feet also are difficult to draw. We’ll make sure you get a pedicure so the nails look nice there. It won’t be much: just trimming and such. No need for nail polish.” She ended with a giggle.

“OK, I need you to strip now.”

“I can’t”

“Oh, you don’t have to go all the way – at least not here and not now. All I need you to do is strip down to your underwear.”

I blushed.

“It’s Ursula, isn’t it. You don’t want her to see you. I can understand. I’m old enough to be your mother, but my daughter is a pretty young woman about your age. Don’t worry about her. She knows what boys look like. Besides we’re not going to see more than what you’d be showing if you were wearing a bathing suit.”

Not really true. I didn’t wear speedo-type bathing suits. I preferred baggier types.

“You will have to get over your modesty though. You will be required to pose nude for certain exercises. If it helps any, you’ll be paid extra when you do. But for now, down to your underwear is enough. If you can’t do at least that, then I’m afraid the job is out of the question.”

I did as she instructed. It felt funny lowering my shorts and standing there only in my underwear, I’m glad I ditched the “thighty whities” a couple of years ago and that I was wearing an understated pale blue pair of briefs.

As I stood up, she commented, “Ursula was right. You do have a nice body. Do you work out?”

“Not really, but I am active in sports and the yard work my parents make me do is probably as tough as any gym workout.”

“Come; stand. Let me look at you.”

In spite of my underwear, I felt very exposed with both Ms. Nancy and Ursula looking at me.

“Turn around, slowly,” the woman commanded.

I felt like a was a figurine on a pedestal behind a glass enclosure being rotated for the viewing pleasure of the spectators. I was being examined critically and I knew it. It was embarrassing, but I also hoped that I could pass the test.

“Nice buttocks,” Ms. Nancy observed as I got about 180 degrees into my turn. “Good leg development. Nice muscle tone on your back.” I felt a bit like a piece of meat at the butcher that she intended on buying.

“Oh yes, you’ll do nicely. Do you mind if I take some pictures? I have to show the girls what they are purchasing.”

This she did, taking detailed pictures of my face, hands, feet and full body from just about every angle imaginable.

I got dressed and left and felt strange about the experience. I was both humiliated by being nearly naked and inspected, but on the other hand proud that I was considered acceptable as modeling material.

When Ursula saw me on Monday at school, she gave me the good news, “You got the job! My mom says to give her a call and she’ll give you the details. She’ll see you on Friday.”

I showed up at the appointed place and at the appointed time on Friday. It was a very small shop in a strip mall that was converted into an artist’s studio. The widows had blinds and as you opened the front door, there was a screen directly in front of you that you had to pass either left or right to get in. It was set up so that nobody could look in from the outside.

In the center of the room was a small stage, maybe about a foot tall and two feet square. This was the posing podium. There were several blocks of different sizes in the corner of the room apparently to be used on the stage to sit on or put a foot on.

In one corner of the back wall was an open closet with a small selection of outfits and other props. The rest of the wall space was occupied by art supplies.

An array of art “stations:” small tables and easels surrounded the podium.

I was introduced to the women as they came in. I was expecting a bunch of “old ladies” much like Mrs. Wilson (who was in her 40s, but still attractive). However, two of them seemed to be young colleges students – maybe 20 years old, if that. They were hardly any older than some of the girls in my school and the type that featured in my sexual fantasies.

The women made some of the comments that made me blush, “You picked a good one Nancy; he’s not hard on the eyes.”

“Let’s see how hard he is elsewhere,” another woman responded. I was not sure she was talking about my muscle tone.

Fortunately, my first assignment was fairly easy. I was directed to open a screen in front of the closet. Behind this screen is where I would change into my outfit. The first was a toga-like affair and I was able to keep my underwear on.

I stood on the podium and one of the women directed me how to stand and made the final adjustments by actually touching me and moving parts of my body into position. Once the body was posed, she re-arranged the toga on me. It was modest and exposed about half of my nearly hairless chest.

I got over the initial shock of being on display, and I found that the hardest part of modeling was holding the desired pose for an extended period of time. I eventually learned how to do that.

I really enjoyed the paycheck or rather I should say – cash. Like girls who babysat, I was paid in cash and Uncle Sam didn’t take his cut. I was making a lot more than my female counterparts who were chasing kids around on a Friday evening. I was making enough money that I could buy enough gas to drive coast-to-coast. Life was good.

The outfits became more revealing as the weeks went by and after a couple of months, I got my first nude assignment. It took every bit of courage I could manage to step out from behind the screen and take up my stance on the podium.

However, the women took it all in stride. They were all adults, even the two college girls, and had studied art and the naked male form. For my part, I had been on display in front of these women for weeks now and I was comfortable with their presence.

About six months into my modeling career, Ms. Nancy came to me with a new offer. “Kevin, you’ve been an excellent model. The class really likes using you as a subject. How would you like to do some more modeling and make even more money in a second art class: this time on Saturday?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“There is one catch.”

“What’s that?”

“These students are the daughters and nieces of my Friday night group.”

“You mean girls? Girls my age?”

“And even younger.”

“I won’t have to pose nude for them, will I?”

“I’m afraid you will, but it won’t be so bad. All they are going to do is look and make art. They won’t be touching you and all you have to do is stand there and model for them.

Think of it. You’ll be making twice as much as you are now. Even more than twice as much since there are more students.

Of course, one of us women will be around to chaperone.

Don’t think of them as little girls. Think of them as budding young artists and you can help them launch their career.”

As much as I liked the idea of helping young girls with their artistic future, it was financial incentive that won me over. I agreed.

The class was populated by girls aged 8 to about 16. Ursula was one of the students. Now I know what her mother meant by “she knows what boys look like.” I was undoubtedly not the first naked male to stand before her.

(End of File)