nude modelling

“Do I still get my $44 for this morning’s session?”

“Why not, you more than earned it,” I said, “And I don’t mean for what happened after I stopped drawing.” I added quickly.

“No, I know you didn’t mean that. I just thought that maybe because you’re letting me stay here rent-free, in return you might be expecting me to model for you for nothing. I would if you wanted me to, but I still need money to get my own place, so….”

“Of course you still get paid.” I interrupted her. “Actually, I was thinking of putting your hourly rate up. For the drawings I got out of this morning, $22 an hour is far too cheap.”

“Really? That’d be great, Sam. Thanks. Most of the artists I work for are amateurs who aren’t starving and I reckon they would all be willing to pay a bit more, but I don’t think Steve is a very good agent because he isn’t game to put our rates up. Trouble is, he’s the only art model agent in this city, and he has some strange ideas.”

We were still in the studio, sprawled on the big sofa against the back wall, feeling very relaxed and warm inside. Amy was lying back against me with my arm around her, and I was gently stroking one of her tits, which she seemed very happy to let me do.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well, for instance, one of his ‘rules’ is that to model for his clients, you have to have pubic hair. He says he had complaints about models who shaved their pussies because they looked like lap dancers or porn stars.”

“I think that’s bullshit.” I said. “I can’t imagine any artist complaining about a model not having enough body hair. If you study art history, you can look at any classical nude painted before the 20th century and none of the models had pubic hair. It wasn’t just that artists like Rubens and Botticelli and Michelangelo pretended they couldn’t see it, their models didn’t have any. Men didn’t shave their pubic hair, because you can see that in old paintings and sculptures, but bald pubes were fashionable for women for centuries, right up until the Victorians. I think Steve just likes hairy women.”

“So do I, but if you want art model work in this town, you play by Steve’s rules. When I first decided to model my way through college, he wouldn’t book me for any of his clients until I grew some pubic hair back.”

“Did you used to shave yours off before?”

“Totally. I was really pissed off about having to go wild and woolly again, but what can you do?”

Steve’s personal little fetish helped to explain why most of the art models I had worked with went for the no-make-up and minimal-grooming hippy look. That meant a full shaggy bush of pubic hair, and in some cases, hairy underarms and hairy legs as well. Amy was more groomed than most, because she shaved her legs and armpits and kept her pubes trimmed fairly short.

“What can you do? I don’t know what YOU can do, but I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll tell Steve that from now on I want ‘classical’ art nudes and I’ll only book models that have no body hair at all. That should fix him.”

“Would you do that?” She sat up, very taken with that idea. “But you won’t have many models to choose from. None, in fact.”

“I only need one model right now – you – and we can make sure you meet my new standards in no time.”

“Sam, are you offering to shave me?”

“Is that all right with you?”

“If you want to. Now?”

“Why not? I’ll go get a razor and some shaving cream, we can do it in here.”

Amy looked very stern for a moment and said, “Show me your hands.”


“I want to make sure they’re not shaking too much after such strenuous activity,” she grinned.

I fetched a couple of towels, a new Mach3 razor, some shaving cream, a shaving brush, and a bowl of warm water, and took them back to the studio. Amy was already laying back on the couch with her legs apart.

“Now there’s a pretty sight for sore eyes,” I said, as I spread one of the towels underneath her and knelt down between her thighs. I squeezed some of the cream from the tube straight onto her pubic mound, and worked it into a lather with the warm wet brush. Amy closed her eyes and started breathing heavily almost straight away.

“Hey, don’t get off again just yet, I can’t do this if you’re thrashing around,” I said.

“Well, take it easy on my clit with that brush, then,” she replied. “Sam, why do so many men love smooth shaved pussies so much?”

“Why do so many women?” I asked in reply.

“That’s easy. Because it feels cleaner, and it makes the area more sensitive, which means sex feels better, especially when someone is eating your pussy. But that isn’t what appeals to men, is it?”

“Yes it is, at least partly. Eating a hairy pussy is a bit like what I imagine kissing a man with a beard feels like – and I have never fancied doing that. Smooth pussy is so much nicer to eat. And you don’t get pubes stuck in your teeth.”

“OK, we agree that eating pussy when it’s bald feels nicer for both of us, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Some women say that all men are closet child molesters and a hairless pussy makes them sexually excited because it’s a sign that the girl is still a child who has not yet reached puberty. I hope that’s not true, is it?”

“Well, now that you mention it, do you have a little sister? Ouch!” Amy had quickly clouted me round the back of my head. “Joke, Amy, joke.”

“You men are disgusting creatures, I’ve a good mind to grow my pubes really long and let them turn into dreadlocks. Sam, smoothness isn’t attractive to men because it makes us look like jailbait, is it?”

By now I was carefully shaving down her pubic area, in the same direction as the hair growth, rinsing the razor carefully between each short stroke. The Mach3 left smooth skin in its path.

“I wondered about that myself. I’ve always been very turned on by a completely smooth and hairless pussy, and I used to think that maybe it was a sort of perversion and that it was somehow connected with being a paedophile. But now I know that’s not true, at least in my case. When my daughter was born, I remember being a bit worried in case I became sexually aroused by her as she grew up, but that was such a ridiculous fear in the end. I learned pretty quickly that I am not at all turned on by pre-adolescent girls. A bald pussy on a woman is a huge turn-on, though.”

“So, do you know why?”

“Not for sure, I don’t, but I have some ideas about that. I know it’s not hard-wired into our genes as an evolved human male physiological response, because not everyone likes the bald look, even though I know shaving and waxing is much more popular again these days. It’s fashionable, it’s part of the culture today, but it’s still a personal preference. I had a friend in college who was amazingly turned on by extra hairy pubes on women, he loved it when a woman’s pubic hair was a thick mat that grew out and up as far as her navel and down her thighs towards her knees.”

“Oh, yuck. You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Just the idea of that would make him go weak at the knees. Otherwise normal guy.”

“But, on the other hand, you…,” she prompted.

“But on the other hand, I go weak at YOUR knees.”

Amy had a very pretty smile, and the room lit up when she laughed.

“Very funny, but you’re not answering my question.”

Both of us found it very hard to concentrate on conversation at this point, because I had finished the actual shaving, and with soapy fingers I was carefully and slowly checking every inch of the skin around her pussy with my fingertips, a process which was obviously as pleasant for her as it was for me. I paid particular attention to the area just around and above her clit, and then I tidied up the few remaining bits of stubble I had missed, and wiped her now exquisitely bald pussy gently with the towel.

“I think that’s done. Make sure I haven’t missed any bits, then flip yourself over.”

“What for?” she asked, in obvious anticipation.

“If I’m to do the job properly I have to shave your ass-crack, too.”

I could tell that was not the answer she was hoping for, but she did what I asked, feeling carefully for any stubble round her pussy, but not finding any. Then she knelt up on the dais, with her knees apart, her head and chest down, and her ass sticking up in the air.

“OK,” she said, “if you’re sure you want to do that bit as well.”

“Of course I do. When I do a job I finish it off properly.”

“That wasn’t the kind of finishing off I had in mind.”

“I know it wasn’t, but you’ll have to be patient.”

Amy had been doing a less efficient job of keeping the hair around her ass trimmed and neat, which told me that she must have been doing it for herself. Craig obviously hadn’t been helping her, which told me he wasn’t as keen on bald pussy as I am. I put some shaving cream on the brush and started lathering her up. Her pussy was glistening and almost dripping by now, and with my head so close to it she smelled of sex. My cock, which had been like a length of metal pipe since I first had the idea of shaving her, now felt like it wanted to explode. I knew I wouldn’t get the job finished at all at this rate unless I could distract both of us mentally for a few minutes at least.

“What was the question again?” I asked.

“I want to know why men love smooth shaved pussies so much.”

“Well, for me it’s both a visual and a tactile thing. When I was at school, dreaming of being an artist, I read books and went to galleries to look at paintings by old masters. They painted lots of nude women and I don’t remember one of them that was painted with hair anywhere but on their head. You couldn’t ever really see their pussies though, because they always discreetly had their knees together, but I knew what a pussy should look like because we had detailed drawings in our biology textbooks, which by the way also never showed any pubic hair. So women’s bodies to me were always smooth and hairless – men were rough and hairy creatures, and women were the exact opposite. Then when I saw my first photos of nude women in men’s magazines I remember thinking how ugly pubic hair was and… just wrong. It was an aberration, to me it just didn’t belong on a woman’s beautiful soft round smooth body. Amy, can you pull your butt cheeks apart for me?”

“You have no idea how undignified this feels, with you peering right up my asshole.”

I could tell that she was nowhere near as embarrassed as she was trying to make out, and that this very intimate display for me was just one aspect of her exhibitionism and it was really exciting her. I gently rubbed the shaving cream all round her little puckered asshole, and stroked the opening with my finger.

“But it’s such a lovely asshole.”

“Thank you. You said it was a tactile thing, too.”

“What, your asshole?”

“No, your liking for shaved pussy.”

“So I did. How can I explain that… hmm… Imagine we’re both eighteen years old and we’re dating. My parents are out and we’re necking on their sofa. I want to get into your pants, but I don’t know if you are going to let me or not, or how far I’ll get before you stop me. So we’re kissing, and I have my hand on your waist. I slide it up under your T-shirt and my fingertips stroke your rib cage, then it creeps round your side a bit higher and I stroke the side of your breast through the material of your bra, and then I brush your nipple and squeeze it gently. You don’t stop me, so I reach round behind you and with one hand unhook your bra.”

“But I never wear a bra,” she interrupted.

“Whose fantasy story is this?”

“Yours, Sam.”

“Exactly. Now I slide my hand under your bra and stroke your breasts for a while. You like this and you are getting hot now and your skin is so soft and smooth under my fingertips I think I’m going to cream myself. Pretty soon I slide my hand down your belly and I run my finger in and around your belly button and down inside the waistband of your jeans. Your pants are too tight to get my whole hand down there but now I’m pretty sure you want me to touch you so I undo the button and slide down the zip and now my hand is on your pussy outside your panties…”

“Oh, this is so exciting, I love it when I’m kissing someone and they are undressing me with one hand and feeling me up at the same time – go on.”

I had finished shaving her, and I had wiped the last bits of soap away, and was running my finger slowly up and down her sopping wet slit. Amy reached between her legs and rubbed her clit, breathing more heavily.

“…so I lift the elastic at the front of your panties and glide my finger down your silky skin towards the holy of holies, and ….aaaarrrggghhh!”

I let out a sudden shriek, and Amy jumped off the dais, stood up and turned round to look at me.

“What is it?” she said, eyes wide in alarm.

“Shag-pile carpet!” I said. “A rug, a forest of bristly pubic hair meets my fingers, all rough and tangled and matted, a barrier I have to fight my way through before I can get to the holy grail. Will he ever find the poor lost and neglected pussy? Is there a lonely clitoris yearning for human contact somewhere in that impenetrable jungle? Stay tuned for next week’s exciting episode, folks.”

“You’re crazy. Certifiable.” She was trying to be annoyed with me for startling her, but I could see in her eyes that she was amused by the sudden twist to the story. “A hairy pussy couldn’t possibly feel that bad.”

“Perhaps that is a slight exaggeration,” I conceded. I stood up and put my hand onto Amy’s stomach and then matched my actions to my words. “But it feels so much nicer without any rough bristles when I glide my fingertips down the soft skin of your belly past here where your pussy crease starts, over and down both sides of your clit, beyond the first folds of your pussy lips and into this slippery little pool of heavenly delight.”

I slipped two fingers slowly into her now completely hairless vagina as far as they would go, and she put her arms round my neck and held on to me as her knees almost buckled under her with pleasure.

Straightening up, she pulled herself towards me and kissed me. My cock was trapped between us, pressed straight up against my stomach. I could feel the heat of her pussy on the base of its shaft as she pressed her hips into me. She had her feet and legs together, and hanging on to my neck she stood up on tiptoe and tilted her pelvis forward, trying to get her pussy over and onto the tip of my cock. She was not quite tall enough, so I bent my knees and lowered myself slightly. Amy opened her thighs just enough to let my cock between them a little way, then she closed them tight again. As she lowered herself back onto her heels, there was nowhere my cock could go except up into her pussy, which it did. When I straightened my knees again, we were face to face, chest to chest, and pelvis to pelvis with my cock fully inside her.

It felt sensational.

I hugged her to me while she rocked her hips slowly from side to side and then to and fro. You would not have seen much movement watching us together, but an inch or so either way felt like plenty. It was enough to start Amy making those little grunting noises, and as they got louder and more frequent, she held me tightly round neck and lifted her legs up, crossing them behind my back around my waist. I leaned back to balance her extra weight, which impaled her on me as deeply as it was possible for her to be. Using her arms and knees, she lifted herself up and almost off my cock, then lowered herself all the way down again with a long sighing grunt. All I had to do was stand still and support her with my hands under her buttocks. We both came very quickly and loudly, and afterwards Amy clung to me like a monkey while I held her, hoping my lower back would not give way. She squeezed my cock several times with her pussy muscles, which caused some of our juices to ooze out and run down my thigh.

“Hop off, Amy, we’re leaking.”

“No. Like it here.”

“And my back’s starting to hurt.”

“That’s what I get for fucking an old crock,” she said with a smile as she eased her feet back to the ground and pulled herself off my cock. “You know, that could be a problem.”

“What, me being an old crock?”

“No, sperm running down my leg and dripping onto the ground. That could be a real giveaway.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“I was just thinking we’ll need to find a way to stop me leaking all over the place after the next time we fuck standing up like that.”

“Why would it matter?”

“Because we’ll be in a crowded subway at the time.”

When you look at most artist’s drawings or paintings of nudes you can usually tell if the artist and the model had a personal relationship that was more than just an hourly fee.

Degas produced some wonderful paintings of nude women bathing and combing their hair – ‘a la toilette’, as they say in France. Yet they are all observed sensitively and with great subtlety from a distance, as if the women were unaware that they were being observed. They are beautiful and sensual, but objective and impersonal. Degas was a voyeur, someone who peered through keyholes, he was not a seducer of young girls. The pleasures of the flesh, for Degas, were best kept at arms’ length, and experienced only through his eyes.

Modigliani’s nudes, on the other hand, look like they are only being painted while the artist was taking a break from fucking their brains out. Even though the images of his women are simple and stylized, the way they are reclining, the way they are often looking directly at the artist, is very personal and intimate. There is one painting of Jeanne Hebuterne, who lived with Modigliani for his last few years, where you can almost hear her saying through her gentle smile “Come on, Modi, put that brush down, come over here and fuck me”. Modigliani was a lover, not a voyeur.

I had always thought of myself as more the voyeur type of artist. My approach had always been much closer to Degas than Modigliani, yet the drawings Amy and I produced over the next few days were quite confronting in their intimacy. There could be no doubt in your mind when you looked at these images that the model was not trying to keep her sexuality a secret from the artist, in fact, quite the opposite. She was open and direct and available, wanting you to enjoy looking at the most intimate parts of her body, teasing you with her eyes, and seducing you with her attitude.

I have to admit that I was a little concerned that the work I was producing had overstepped the mark that separated ‘art’ from ‘pornography’. I worried about this because I wasn’t sure that I knew where that line was anymore – or even if there was any such thing as either art or pornography. Amy’s initial challenge to me, and her willingness to go beyond that and explore her own sexuality under my artist’s gaze without any inhibitions whatsoever, had blurred my own flimsily-held notions of which was which. I worried that Greta’s corporate customer was just a lone pervert and that no-one else would want to buy my new more erotic works. I worried that Sally and Mike would come to the exhibition and be horrified by what their old man was doing with a girl their own age who was obviously encouraging him into making a fool of himself with his art as well as his life. And I worried that Amy would get bored with her old fool of an artist and move on as quickly as she had moved in. I knew that whatever the consequences with everyone else in my life I would do anything I could to not let that happen.

“It’s time we stopped this”, said Amy, stepping down from the dais without my permission.

“Why do you say that?,” I asked quickly, anxious that she had been reading my thoughts, or that my own thoughts had secretly tuned in to what was already on her mind.

“Because you’ve been standing there with a frown on your face staring at that painting, and for the last few minutes you haven’t even glanced in my direction once”, said Amy with a smile. “I think you’ve forgotten I exist and it’s time I reminded you.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, offering to shake her hand. “What did you say your name was?”

“And fuck you too, Sam”, she said slapping my outstretched hand away, but laughing as she did.

“Sam, let’s get out of this studio and go have some fun. You’ve been getting too serious.”

“What sort of fun?” I asked.

“I need some new clothes. Let’s go shopping.”

I don’t know many men, at least not heterosexual men, who would use the words ‘shopping’ and ‘fun’ in the same sentence without irony, but I had a feeling that clothes shopping with Amy was going to be a different kind of experience altogether, so I said that was fine by me, and we put some clothes on and drove downtown towards the city center. We parked underground near the big department stores. I would have thought that Amy would have been more the hippy boutique sort of shopper, but she wanted to go to the ladies wear section of the biggest department store.

It was late summer, not yet early autumn, but the shop was already full of winter clothes. I liked Amy in skimpy lightweight clothes, and wasn’t too impressed that she was flicking through the racks of heavy woollen skirts and coats. She eventually selected a couple of what looked like very boring garments and disappeared into the changing room area. When she came out again, her low-cut jeans had been replaced with a knee-length fully pleated grey wool skirt.

“What do you think?” she said, twirling slowly. She was talking to me, but there was a middle-aged woman standing next to me, who turned and looked at Amy and the skirt like she would have as much trouble as me trying to find something complimentary to say about it.

“It would be a good look if you were my Aunt Bessie”, I said, not hiding my disappointment.

“Really?”, said Amy, grinning from ear to ear,” I think it’s great. Look.” She turned around so that her back was to both of us, and for a few seconds she was obviously doing something to front of the skirt, but we couldn’t see what. Then she spun around. The whole of the front of the skirt was bunched up and tucked into the waistband, displaying to both of us her smooth, bare pussy.

I thought the lady standing next to me was going to have a coronary. She gasped and stepped back like someone had pushed her in the chest, and grabbed hold of the nearest garment rack, spilling some of the clothes onto the floor.

“Very nice”, I said, pretending not to be at all surprised, which wasn’t very hard to do, as I had been expecting Amy to do something outrageous at least once while we were out shopping.

“Nice?” said Amy. “It’s a horrid colour and fabric and style, but it’s perfect for what we need. See, I could tuck it up like this to fuck you, but because of all the pleats anyone watching from the back wouldn’t have a clue.”

Heart attack lady gave a little strangled cry and walked away from us quickly, looking over her shoulder at us as if we were about to kidnap her and involve her in our sinful schemes.

“I think my heavy breathing and your grunting will be a bit of a clue for spectators, don’t you think?” I said.

“Did you see her face?” laughed Amy. “I thought she was going to burst a poople valve.” She paused as she realised what I had just said. “I don’t grunt. Do I?”

“Like a feral pig. And what’s a poople valve, for goodness sake?”

“I don’t know, something people burst when they have a heart attack I suppose. It’s what my mum says. And if you’re going to be rude to me, we can go home now.”

“Let me pay for the skirt first. Even an ugly thing like that looks totally sensational on you.”

“That’s better. If you’re paying, you’re forgiven.”

“I think you should let the front of the skirt down now.” Amy looked down at herself as if she had forgotten how exposed to the world she was.

“Oh, yes, I suppose I should.”

But she didn’t. She undid the waistband, let the whole skirt fall to the floor, and stepped out of it, naked from the waist down in the middle of the department store.

“Let’s go get you a dirty-old-man coat,” she said.

“I’d prefer it was a dirty-youthful-man coat”, I said, but Amy was already on her way back to the changing room to get her jeans, watched by several other open-mouthed shoppers, and I was only talking to her rapidly receding bare ass.

The selection of winter coats in the menswear section was not as good. The main winter stocks were not in yet. I wasn’t even sure what type of coat we were looking for, but Amy was on a mission, so I just followed her around the racks until she eventually found a display of leather trench coats. She picked the biggest one she could find and held it out for me to try on. It fitted great, and I loved it. I had always wanted the sort of coat you only see Nazi Gestapo officers wearing in old war movies.

“Das is wunderbar”, I said clicking my heels and trying to look sinister.

“Nein, mein fuhrer, das is no good at all”, said Amy to my disappointment.

“I didn’t know you spoke German. Why not?”

“I don’t. It’s not big enough”.

“But it fits me perfectly”, I protested.

“Exactly. But we need something that will go round me as well as you – well pretty close to it, anyway.”

She moved down the racks again, and pulled out an oilskin riding coat. It was heavy and voluminous, and about two sizes too big, but I put it on. It came down to well past my knees and had all sorts of pockets and flaps, with a big double-breasted overlap at the front.

“Perfect,” said Amy, stepping inside the front opening and putting her arms round my waist. I wrapped the two sides of the coat around her shoulders and back, and it almost completely enveloped her. Over her shoulder in the mirror I could see there was only a small gap at the back where you would be able to see her, and nobody would have any idea what was happening inside the coat.

“I should have kept that skirt on”, said Amy, rubbing herself against my crotch.

“Good grief, you’d fuck right here in the middle of the menswear department, wouldn’t you?”

“Bit tricky wearing jeans, Sam. Even for me. But I’ll have a go at it if you like.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, unwrapping her and taking the coat off before she had a chance to undo her pants, or mine, or both. “I’m not quite ready for that. I know why we are buying clothes neither of us would normally be seen dead in, but I still haven’t agreed to actually… do it.”

“You mean fuck in public.”


“It’s your fantasy, Sam, I’m just helping you carry it out. Because I don’t think you ever would if I didn’t organise it for you.”

“No, I don’t think I would. But that’s the thing about fantasies, you don’t have to make them real. You can still enjoy them as dreams.”

“I think you’ve forgotten how to play, Sam. You’ve lost your sense of fun.”

“Maybe I never had one.”

“Well, it’s time you did. Let’s get the train home, I’m feeling horny.”

No, Amy, let’s not go home on the train. Not today. Let me buy you lunch here in the city instead.”

I didn’t like saying no to Amy, and I thought she would be disappointed by the change to her plans, but she didn’t seem to be bothered by my refusal as much as I had feared. While I paid for the coat, she said she still had a little more shopping of her own to do, so we agreed to meet a little later in the coffee shop downstairs.

It bothered me that I could not let myself be as uninhibited as Amy was, as carefree and impulsively exhibitionist. The idea of going with the whim of the moment and following her in her provocative and erotic behaviour was physically thrilling, but half a lifetime of being a responsible breadwinner and an example to two young children had definitely taken the edge off my ability to be spontaneous. As I sipped my latte, I made a promise to myself not to be such a boring old killjoy when I was out in public with my lovely Amy.

Over the next week or so, Amy raised the general level of nakedness around the resort.

Her open enthusiasm for not wearing clothes was infectious, and whereas before, the Pool Bar and the beach were supposed to be ‘clothing optional’ areas, now they almost became ‘naked obligatory’, and the rest of the resort became ‘topless expected’. Not everyone joined in, but most did. A couple of more conservative guests left midweek even though they had booked for longer, but several men and even a couple of women quietly said a grateful thankyou to me or to Amy at various times for helping to lower their inhibitions and be more open to new experiences.

The stories of these women were strikingly similar. Once their initial barriers were down and they had experienced the joys of a little nudity and a little public exhibitionism, they felt more liberated, and their whole attitude to the resort, to their husbands, to their sex lives, and even to their own life in general relaxed and improved.

The beautiful weather and the now more erotically charged environment kept Amy in a state of almost constant wet horniness, and we made love several times each day, in all sorts of places, on the beach, waist high in the sea, on our deck, even late one evening in the pool of the Pool Bar with a mango daiquiri in our hands. We were always fairly careful about it, but sometimes we had a small audience and just didn’t care. My fantasy had always been to make love in public in such a way that nobody could see or knew it was happening – secret exhibitionism – but now that element of secrecy seemed less important. I was becoming more exhibitionist than before and I now felt, like Amy did, that it was a real buzz to have someone watch you fucking, especially when both you and the watcher – or watchers – know what’s happening.

I was still in the bed one morning, doing what I most loved to do, which was looking at Amy without her clothes on. She was in profile to me, standing silhouetted in the doorway between the big main villa room and the deck, leaning back against one of the architraves. One of her feet was on the doorpost behind her at about knee level, and her head was leaning forward with her hair tumbling over and obscuring her face. At that moment., I desperately wanted something to draw on, but I had decided this was to be a real vacation and I hadn’t brought even the smallest of sketch books with me.

“Amy, I don’t think I can cope with much more of this. You are so beautiful I am in physical pain over here,” I said, drinking in the silhouette that was the curve of her breast and nipple against the light, savouring the taut sweep of her buttock behind the tucked up leg, and enjoying the smile I had brought to her face with my compliment. “What wouldn’t I give for a pencil and a drawing pad right now.”

Amy pushed herself away from the deck door, walked over towards the front door, and pushed a button set into the wall.

“What did you just do?” I asked.

“I called Buckingham. That’s the butler call button.”

“Why did you call him?”

“He said he would get anything we want. Well, you want a drawing pad and some pencils. And if you do, so do I.”

I had no idea where our butler was going to get those things, but I thought there was no harm in asking.

“What do you think of Buckingham?” said Amy.

“He seems very nice. Why?”

“I meant what do you think of his body?”

“He’s in fine shape,” I understated, not wanting to risk being physically compared with Buckingham, even theoretically.

“FINE shape?” said Amy scornfully. “That’s like calling Hurricane Katrina a ‘light shower’. Sam, I think he may have the best body I have ever seen on a man. He’s HOT.”

There was nothing much useful that I could say about that, so I didn’t say anything, and waited. I had a feeling that she had been thinking for some time about what she was going to say next.

“Sam, I want to get him naked, and I if you want to do some drawing that gives us a great excuse. We talked about getting a man to model with me one day, and I can’t think of anyone better.”

“Did we talk about that? I don’t remember any discussion. When you wanted to get Tracey to the studio I recall you said that you weren’t thinking of getting a man to model with you.”

“I said ‘not yet’. And that was then, Sam, this is now. What do you think?”

“He certainly is beautiful. We’ll ask him if you like.” I thought for a moment whether to ask the obvious question, but I decided it was better to know the answer. “Do you want to fuck him?”

“Sam, are you kidding? Of course I’d like to fuck him. Will I fuck him? I doubt it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Well, it’s an idea that’s not without its potential dangers from my point of view. I wouldn’t want to fly home from here alone.”

She looked at me in some surprise and laughed. “Like I might drop out and come and live with our butler in some tropical jungle hideaway? I don’t think so.”

She made it sound like a foolish idea, but I didn’t think that some scenario like that was as impossible as she was suggesting.

“You wanted me?” said Buckingham from our open doorway.

“Come in, Buckingham. Yes we do,” said Amy. “Come and sit out here with us for a minute.”

She took him onto the deck and we all sat round the timber table.

“You probably don’t know this but Sam’s a famous artist, and he wants to do some drawing. We would like to get a drawing pad and some big soft pencils and maybe a few sticks of charcoal and stuff. Can you do it?”

“I’m sure we can. If we don’t have anything like that in the resort Jimmy could buy supplies for you in Kingston when he does the airport run later this morning.”

“See, I told you he could get whatever you wanted,” Amy said to me.

“Buckingham, are you interested in earning some extra money while we’re here?” I asked.

He was not quick to answer this question. Working at the resort was probably a good job by Jamaican standards, and he wouldn’t want to jeopardise that, but the Jamaican dollar was not a high-value currency, and he probably earned about half what a bus-boy at McDonalds would earn at home.

“It depends what you want me to do. The rules here are very strict about engaging in ‘personal services’ with any of the guests.” The way he said the words ‘per-son-al ser-vic-es’ left no doubt at all what he was talking about. “That’s completely forbidden, but you would be surprised how often I get that sort of offer.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” said Amy with a smile. I suspected that inwardly she was disappointed that Buckingham was making it clear from the beginning that fucking any of the guests was out of the question.

“It’s up to you, and I don’t know how they define ‘personal services’, but all we want you to do is model for me for a few hours while I draw you. Amy will model for me as well, and the standard rate is twenty-five dollars an hour. What do you say?”

“Jamaican dollars or US dollars?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

“How about English pounds?” he said, not expecting me to say yes, but I knew that Amy was very keen to get Buckingham buck naked, so I thought ‘what the hell’, and nodded.

His eyes widened. I could tell that was extremely attractive to him.

“That’s more than I make in a whole day. What’s the catch?”

“It’s not a catch, but you have to lose those board shorts.”

“Model nude?”

“Of course.”

“That’s all?”

“Model nude for me, with Amy, that’s all. Twenty-five pounds an hour. When can you do it?”

“I’m on call for you and my other guests 24 hours a day, but unless someone calls, most of the day is my own. As long as I can answer my pager and take a break if someone else wants me, I can be here almost anytime.”

“If Jimmy can get the art supplies, how about this afternoon?”

“First I need to talk to Marlee, my fiancée, make sure she thinks it’s alright if I do this.”

“Your fiancée?”

“You’ve met her already, the night you got here. She was on reception.”

“I remember her,” said Amy. “Beautiful girl. Do you think she’ll mind?”

“No, I don’t think she’ll mind. Neither of us would work here if we had a problem with nudity. She also told me that you made quite an entrance when you arrived. She said I would be seeing a lot of you.”

“She was right. In fact, there’s not much of me that you haven’t already seen.”

Buckingham stood up and headed towards the door. “Jimmy’s leaving soon, I need to get your art supplies organized.” And he was gone.

“I was hoping to get him to audition for the job first.”

“You mean you wanted him to drop his pants.”

Amy was more nervous than I had ever seen her before, anticipating modelling with Buckingham. She wasn’t expecting him to risk his job and have sex with her like she did when she was modelling with Tracy, but the erotic possibilities of both of them being naked and spending some time skin to skin with him, turned her on more than she was prepared to admit.

We had some brunch at one of the cafes first, then we went for a pleasant quiet stroll along the beach, plunging into the surf a couple of times just to cool down, before going back to our villa for a shower and a nap.

The beachside ‘villa’ was really one large airy hut, with a huge bed with a mosquito net at one end, open beams with a palm leaf thatched roof, polished wooden floors with a sofa and some beanbags in the middle, and a shower at the other end. The shower was just a big metal disc with holes in the bottom of it hanging from the ceiling over a small grate in the floor. A chain attached to a valve in a pipe above the disc turned the water on and off and there was no screen or curtain around it at all. It sounds very crude, and was designed to look rustic and primitive, but for all its simplicity it was surprisingly effective. I liked it more than any other shower I’d seen, partly because it gave me an uninterrupted view every day of Amy bathing herself while I was lying drowsily in bed.

Amy soaped her whole body, washed her hair, then carefully made sure her pussy was shaved smooth as silk. Her fingers went from checking for stubble to massaging her clit in about ten seconds, and by the time she came out of the shower, she had had two orgasms, and her pussy lips were swollen and flushed a brighter pink than the rest of her body. She told me later that she thought I was asleep, and that she would have put on more of a show for me if she had known I was watching her every move.

When Buckingham returned he was carrying a small sheet of plywood and two large cartridge paper drawing pads. Marlee walked into our villa behind him, carrying a small plastic shopping bag which turned out to be full of pencils and charcoal sticks and erasers.

I could tell Amy was not expecting this new development and was somewhat taken aback by Marlee’s presence at first, but she was careful not to show her annoyance, welcoming them both. Marlee didn’t seem at all surprised to find neither of us wearing any clothes.

“You understand we don’t want to lose our jobs, so we have to be careful,” said Marlee. “When Buckingham told me he was going to model for you, I googled your names on the office computer. Whooo, you two have done some HOT stuff. You’re famous people.”

She said this in an admiring rather than critical way, fanning her face expressively with her hand to emphasize ‘HOT stuff’.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to watch you work. Just to be safe. Is that OK?”

“Of course,” I said. “I am sure there are some things that you wouldn’t want your man to do, and we respect that.”

I couldn’t see any reason to object to her staying around. She was a very lovely girl, and I hoped that Buckingham might be less inhibited with his woman in the room at the same time. I threw all of the cushions from the sofa onto the bed and put two chairs face to face at the end of the bed. I sat on one of the chairs and propped up the plywood board on the seat of the other as a makeshift easel.

“Ready?” I said.

Buckingham stood somewhat awkwardly next to his fiancée, not sure what to do next. I knew Amy would take control of the situation and she did. She calmly walked towards him.

“I think we should get rid of these first, don’t you?” she said, taking the waistband of his shorts in her hands and squatting in front of him, taking his pants down with her. Marlee stiffened, her eyes widened, and her hands clenched into fists. Her body language said that in any other circumstances, Amy would by now be on her back in the process of losing several clumps of her hair and possibly a couple of teeth.

Amy’s face was now level with Buckingham’s cock, which was gracefully arching forward and straight down. It was not spectacularly long or unusually thick, but it was almost perfectly cylindrical, and very smooth. It was also shinier and darker than the skin on the rest of his body, so it looked like it had been carved from a piece of fine-grained ebony, then polished. Amy paused in front of it admiring its unusual beauty, then stood up. She turned and looked at Marlee, whose eyelids had narrowed into slits and were shooting daggers back. Amy quickly pursed her lips as if to whistle and fanned her face in an exact parody of what Marlee had done when she said ‘HOT stuff’ to us earlier, and both of them burst out laughing, Marlee shyly bringing her hand up to her mouth and giggling behind it.

Having very successfully broken the tension of the moment, Amy took Buckingham’s hand and stepped up onto the low bed, leading him with her.

“How do you want us, Sam?” she said.

I wanted to start slowly and gently to get both the newcomers comfortable with what we were doing, so I sat Buckingham down leaning casually back against the wall, his legs straight out towards me with his feet apart. His cock fell casually to one side resting on the top of his thigh. I sat Amy next to him in profile, hugging her knees, her back against his arm, but facing away from him. I thought she might be unhappy at not being able to look at him, but she didn’t show it, and patiently did what I asked. Together, they looked like two lovers who were not talking to each other, and I quickly tried to capture some sense of their isolation despite their proximity. The tonal contrast between their bodies was dramatic, and I knew that this was going to be a fun and productive session.

Ten minutes later, I tore this first sheet off the pad and tossed it behind me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Marlee pick it up and look at it.

Next, I asked Buckingham to sit up, one leg tucked sideways under him, leaning with one elbow on the other knee. I placed Amy kneeling up to one side half behind him, her arms around his neck, her head down beside his cheek, her hair flowing down his chest. From there, she would be able to feel every beat of his pulse in his neck, be able to smell his skin, and see the slightest twitch in his cock. His body language was immobile and indifferent. Hers was clinging and pleading.

I started to get excited at the ease with which these two contrasting beautiful bodies could be made to communicate powerful emotional relationships. I began to wonder how far I could push this capability, how much erotic electricity I could spark between them.

I dropped the second finished drawing in the same place as the first. Marlee had moved closer to my shoulder just behind me so that she could see the figures as I could see them and see my drawing as it emerged from the whiteness of the paper.

This time, I asked Amy to lie on her side, curled up but facing me, and I positioned Buckingham behind her, spooned into her back, with his arms round her torso, enveloping both her breasts and arms together. I brought his upper leg over her hip so that his foot was on the bed in the space at the center of her curled body. I knew that his cock would now be nestling intimately in the crack between her buttocks, but the pose looked so good, with Amy so diminished and vulnerable wrapped up by this big, strong, man that I was prepared to risk the consequences of pressing them together in this way.

I looked over my shoulder at Marlee to see how she was handling this new level of intimacy between her man and my woman, but I needn’t have been concerned. She was entranced, her breathing quickened like someone whose heartbeat was elevated in the middle of a brisk walk, her eyes wide and active, looking with an intensity she was probably unused to. As I turned in her direction she looked at me.

“I wasn’t expecting…. I had no idea what…” She was having some difficulty expressing herself clearly, so she stopped and took a deep breath. “I mean, some of the newspaper reports I read called your work pornographic, but this is not like that. This is beautiful.”

“Yes it is, Marlee,” said Amy without moving from her cocooned pose, as I started drawing again. “But then it’s a helluva turn on as well, isn’t it?”

Marlee giggled again behind her hand, nodding, then said “Uh-huh. Sure is.”

The pose was beautiful, but I could tell Amy was finding it difficult to remain still. I had my suspicions why this was so, and several minutes later, Amy confirmed them and offered a perfectly timed solution to her problem.

“Marlee, there’s a part of your man behind me that seems to have a mind of its own. I don’t mind it knocking on my back door, but I am in serious danger of breaking one of the rules. I’m so wet, he’ll slip in by accident if I stay here much longer. It should be your ass down here for this one. What say we swap places?”

“Oh, no… I couldn’t…” said Marlee, but she was not saying it with conviction and Buckingham knew it.

“Will you pay the same rate for Marlee, too?” he said to me, sensibly sorting out the business side of the relationship first.

“Of course,” I said.

“Come on, baby. You can do this.”

Amy uncurled herself and separated from her posing partner. Marlee made up her mind, then started to shed her clothes, slowly at first and then more quickly. Amy turned to look at the source of her discomfort which was now fully engorged and a lot bigger than it had been when she pulled Buckingham’s pants off. She gently reached down and felt it carefully with her fingertips, then she cupped it in her hand to feel its weight, holding it tenderly for a moment or two before somewhat reluctantly letting it go.

She stood up and turned to face a now also naked and very beautiful black woman. Marlee was similarly proportioned to her in overall size, but more voluptuous, noticeably bigger in both her buttocks and her breasts, despite having both her arms crossed in front trying to conceal as much of her chest they could. As they passed each other on the bed to change places, Amy reached up and took Marlee’s face between her hands, then closed her eyes and kissed her on the lips, not like a lover would as much as how a very close friend might. As her hands left Marlee’s face, she took hold of the more bashful girl’s hands and gently but firmly uncrossed them and pulled them away from her breasts, so that she could unashamedly admire them. Amy gently felt the shape and heaviness of one of them with a slow caress which finished with one fingertip stroking the very end of an excited nipple.

Marlee knelt down and took up the same position in Buckingham’s arms as Amy had, snuggling her backside into him. She reached one arm behind her and felt his erection with a smile on her face.

“Damn, boy. Did you let some white woman do that to you?”

I was very proud of Amy.

Even though I knew she had been hoping to seduce Buckingham while they were both modelling for me, she had coped very well with the sudden change of plan when Marlee turned up unannounced. I thought the way she respected their relationship and Buckingham’s concern for his job at the resort showed great sensitivity, especially when she was in no doubt that he was as hot for her as she was for him. I was sure that had she wanted to, she could have charmed both Marlee and her man into letting her fuck them both at the same time. Instead, she channelled his lust towards his fiancée, and Marlee’s towards him, managing to enlist her in our undertaking at the same time.

When she convinced Marlee to strip and swap places with her, she introduced a whole new dimension to the tableaux that I had been setting up. I had been concentrating on the visual and emotional contrasts between the dark powerful maleness of Buckingham and the pale elegant femaleness of Amy. They say opposites attract, but they don’t easily meld together, and no matter how closely I pressed these two beautiful nude bodies together they remained distinctly separate, like oil and vinegar in a salad dressing.

But when Marlee curled up inside Buckingham’s cocooning arms and legs, they became one, each an extension of the other, their shadows blending so that I could no longer easily tell where one body ended and the other began. That is how I drew them, dissolving together into one multi-limbed shape, just glimpses of sheen on curved flesh hinting at the boundaries of the individuals’ shapes .

Marlee was as comfortable with Buckingham’s cock resting against her ass as Amy would have liked to have been – and would have been had she not relinquished her place to the other woman. Marlee also seemed to understand and appreciate the effort that Amy had made in sacrificing the opportunity to take advantage of her man, because she looked up at her, nodded, and silently mouthed “Thank you”.

Amy came and stood behind me with her hands on my shoulders while I drew the two spooning Jamaican lovers. There was an easy familiarity about the way they touched and held each other that you couldn’t fake, and it made them easier to draw because they were not coy or shy and they had no awkwardness with each other.

“I’m a good girl, really,” Amy whispered in my ear.

“I know that,” I whispered back. “And I’m glad you chose to remember it.”

For the next pose, I put Amy back into the scene, with her and Marlee entwining themselves in a full body embrace, their heads on each others shoulders, their legs twisted together, Marlee’s thigh pressed high into Amy’s groin. I had them both lean back against Buckingham who wrapped his arms round both of the women. This made a very interesting ménage a trios, and put the embrace of the two women in a different context. I drew this pose as big as I could so that their combined bodies filled the page and spilled over the edges.

Then I put Buckingham in the middle on his back with his arms outstretched, Marlee to the left of him and Amy to the right lying on their sides with their heads on his shoulder, and their free arms across his chest. I was hoping to depict a very gentle and relaxed relationship between the three different people, and it would have been fine if the central figure didn’t have a club you could break rocks with sticking straight up in the air from his groin. Buckingham’s hard-on had not subsided for a second since it had first appeared when it was up against Amy’s asscrack, but we had all been ignoring it and in the other poses it was not so visible as it was now. Both the girls could not help but look at his cock as they laid down, then looked at each other and started to giggle, which in turn set Buckingham off laughing too.

“I hope that’s just because of me,” said Marlee, tongue in cheek.

“Of course, baby. You know I don’t like white women,” said Buckingham, still laughing.

Marlee gave his cock a quick slap, knocking it down but not hurting it enough to stop it from springing upright again.

“You’re a lying sonofabitch, Desmond,” she said.

“One of you three needs to do something about that,” I said, gesturing at what, from where I was sitting, looked like a rubber covered steel truncheon, “or we won’t be getting any more work done this afternoon.”

I saw Amy start to reach out for it, almost without thinking, then stopped herself, hesitating. With an ‘after you’ gesture, Amy deferred to the other girl’s prior claim.

Marlee accepted the responsibility to fix the problem and wrapped her right hand around the base of his cock, then slowly slid her fist up and down its shaft. Buckingham closed his eyes with a sigh. Amy watched, wide-eyed, leaning up on her elbow to get a closer look at what Marlee was doing. Marlee also leaned up on her elbow and increased the speed of her hand movements, going right to the top now, squeezing and spreading the drops of lubricant oozing from its tip. Amy was breathing heavily, and her own free hand was now down and busy in her own groin.

“If you don’t sit on that thing soon, I will,” said Amy quietly to Marlee, looking her straight in the eye to make sure that the other girl took it as a joke and didn’t take offence.

Marlee’s hand didn’t break its rhythm at all while she absorbed what Amy had said and decided how to respond. The response surprised me as much as it did Amy.

“You can. If you want.”

“I meant YOU should sit on it,” said Amy.

“I know that’s what you meant,” said Marlee, without withdrawing her offer.

Now it was Amy’s turn to figure out if the other person was joking or not. She made up her mind very quickly that Marlee really was giving her permission to fuck her fiance, then she leaned over Buckingham’s torso, put her arm round Marlee’s neck and kissed her on the lips. At the same time, she swung her leg over his abdomen and under Marlee’s masturbating arm, positioning herself for impalement. With her lips locked on Marlee’s, and leaning on her shoulder for support, she slowly lowered herself onto him, every inch downwards shortening Marlee’s hand stroke, eventually forcing her to let go and take her hand out of the way, as the black and white pubic bones came together. Amy’s mouth fell away from Marlee’s as she exhaled with a groaning sigh.

I had tried never to let myself get attached to any illusions that Amy was exclusively mine. I knew that her feelings for me – whatever they were – would not necessarily be damaged by a sexual adventure with someone else, which I had always accepted was ultimately inevitable. It didn’t make it any easier to watch, though. I had seen her make love with Tracey several times and I had felt some chunky lumps of jealousy then, but that was never quite the same threat as watching her have sex with another man. I had never before watched another cock slide in and out of her pussy, I had never heard her orgasm build, or listened to her unique little grunting sounds, or seen the familiar contortions in her face and the flush rise in her cheeks when she was fucking a man without being one of the active participants in the process. It was disturbingly painful.

Rather than dwell on my own vulnerability, I drew quickly, forgetting about the subtleties of form and tone, just whipping the shapes and the rhythms of the key lines down onto the page, grabbing key details like the angle of her wrist on his knee or the scrunch of his closed eyes, trying to capture the moment when she threw her head back and pushed herself down onto him as far as she could, and the moment when she dropped her head towards her knees and almost vibrated her ass up and down over the very tip of his cock, tearing out each page of the pad and flinging it aside as I captured some new aspect of what would have been, under other circumstances, a fascinating and enjoyable spectacle.

Marlee was very close to Amy and her man, touching both of them at once without making any connection with either of them, and at the height of the action she turned towards me and our eyes met for just a second or two. We did not speak silent volumes, but there was a momentary recognition, a link of fearfulness and regret that shuttled between us which we both felt and which dulled the undeniable excitement that both of us were also experiencing.

The show was over very quickly, and explosively. When Amy rolled off Buckingham, and then just flopped back over his thighs, her legs splayed, her throat exposed, and her tits facing the ceiling, the two of them looked like they were posing for an ‘after the orgy’ photo. I told them to stay where they were and asked Marlee to join them by falling on the bed and just letting her legs and arms stay where they fell, like she was either drunk or unconscious. If two of the bodies hadn’t happened to be female, the final scene could have been out of a Mathew Brady post-battle Civil War photograph.

All three of them seemed comfortable so I took more time drawing this group than all of the others, but it was worth it. The result had an intriguing post-coital languor about it that was not wholly invented by me.

This last drawing was all any of us had any more enthusiasm for, so we decided to call it a day. Marlee was particularly interested in looking at the collected results of the session, and she helped me spread the sheets of paper out on the floor at the bottom of the bed so that we could all see them. Amy, who had actually dozed off with real post-orgasmic fatigue during the last drawing, stretched herself awake and handed Buckingham his shorts, coming to stand beside me with her arm around my waist. This little togetherness gesture pleased me, and I put my arm round her shoulders and we both gave each other a reassuring squeeze.

“Unfortunately, these are the best ones,” said Marlee, with a smile, pointing to the four quick sketches of Amy and her man in the middle of their brief passionate union. She was right, although I was quite pleased with the more formal first and last drawings which were less sexually charged, but visually very interesting. Together, the whole group of drawings made an interesting series, a documentation of a brief sexual journey.

Although we had agreed to pay in pounds sterling, I didn’t actually have any British currency, so our two extra models were just as happy to be paid in the equivalent amount of local money rather than wait till later. It looked like a big wad of notes, and it was, but that was only because there are more than a hundred Jamaican dollars to the pound. Still, one hundred pounds worth of local dollars was a worthwhile amount of cash to this young couple, and they were very pleased to have earned it.

Buckingham’s pager beeped, he checked it, and with a wave at us all, he started for the door.

“And where do you think you’re going?” asked Marlee.

He stopped, as if that was a silly question, gesturing at his pager. She crooked her finger at him to get his ass back over to where she was standing with her arms outstretched expectantly, which he sheepishly did. As he went to hug his fiancée, Amy held out her free arm as well, hanging on to me with the other one, and suddenly all four of us were in a naked group hug. It sounds like a hippy commune type of moment, and that’s a bit like how it felt to me, which made me a little uncomfortable. The other three were too young to have experienced much that resembled a hippy scene, so they shared each others’ hugs with less embarrassment.

“I hope we haven’t compromised either of you this afternoon,” I said to our model guests, “I mean with the resort, and your jobs.”

“There’s always gossip in this place, but It will be OK as long as we don’t tell anyone what happened,” said Marlee with a smile. “Having sex with guests is a big no-no, and having that rule makes it easier for us to say ‘no’ without offending anyone. We’ve always said ‘no’ before, but after I read in the papers what you two did, I wanted to see for myself how good you are. This was the first time anything like this has happened with either of us.”

She looked at Buckingham, who was pretending to look at his pager.

“At least it was for me, and I sure hope it was the first time it’s happened to my man here,” she said pointedly. Buckingham smiled sweetly and reassuringly at her, then he turned to Amy and kissed the back of her hand.

“Same time tomorrow, then, miss?” he asked hopefully.

“Let’s go home, Sam.”

“We’ve only a few more days. We’ll be home soon.”

“I mean now. Today.”

“I thought you liked this place. I thought you were enjoying it.”

“I do. I am.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want to get to like it too much. I want to get out of here. You know me, Sam. Impulsive is my middle name.”

“OK. If you want to go home, we’ll go home.”

Amy was sitting next to me on the sofa later that afternoon, with her head on my shoulder. She had been very quiet, but I knew it wasn’t just that she was blissed out after a sex-induced dopamine high, she seemed more thoughtful somehow. When I agreed to do what she asked without arguing, she leaned back and looked at me quizzically, as if she had been expecting more resistance. Then she leaned forwards and kissed me, very tenderly.

I didn’t argue with her, because I didn’t want to make her explain her reasons. As soon as she raised the subject of going home early I immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. If I was right, and there was no other way to explain it, then getting both of us out of there as soon as I could was as much in my interests as it was in hers.

I had quickly realized that it wasn’t this place that she didn’t want to get too fond of, it was one of the people in it. Something had clicked between her and Buckingham. She knew it, he knew it, and I was pretty sure Marlee knew it. I was the only one who hadn’t been conscious of it until just then, and it was bothering Amy enough for her to want to conceal it from me.

I guessed she could feel that something powerful was happening between her and our butler, and the fact that she wanted to run away from that meant that she wasn’t able to just play with him any more, she wasn’t able to enjoy the experience with him as just another wild impulse. It meant that she was afraid of becoming committed to this other person, of losing control of her emotions and her independence.

I was less bothered by her attraction to Buckingham than by the fact that she had no such fear of commitment while she was with me, and still wanted me to take her home. The foundations of my current happiness were crumbling, but perhaps the façade would stay up a little longer if I could turn my back on the earthquake and pretend it didn’t exist.

I had my reasons for not wanting to talk about her sudden change of plan, and Amy had hers. And neither of us wanted to talk about why we didn’t want to talk about them.

I got us onto the first flight I could get that was going in our direction, and we left early on the morning after our intense drawing session. I signed and dated the eight drawings, and left them on the bed as a gift to Marlee and Buckingham with an apologetic ‘goodbye and thank you’ note. Greta would have been mortified, but I really didn’t want them, and I had no intention of going to the trouble of trying to get them home in one piece.

Jimmy took us to the airport, and was somewhat surprised that Amy didn’t do anything at all embarrassing during the journey. She had become something of a legend among the resort staff, and a subdued and pensive Amy was not what he was expecting.

“Did you folks not enjoy your stay at Fantasia?” asked Jimmy as he helped us out of the limo.

“No, we had a fine time. We really did,” I assured him. “We have some urgent business to take care of at home, that’s all.”

That was a feeble lie, because Buckingham knew that we had no phone or computer with us, and the other resort staff would know that they had received no messages for us of any kind, but I was not inclined to offer any other explanation to Jimmy. I told him we would be back for another vacation as soon as we could. Another lie.

During the flight, Amy pushed the armrest up and snuggled in to me for most of the flight. She was making an effort to be her usual affectionate self, but her provocative, mischievous edge wasn’t there.

“We said we’d come back at night, so we could join the mile-high club right here, didn’t we?” she said at one point.

“I’m already a fully paid up member,” I said. “And I don’t know about you, but I think we earned our membership in the MHC Hall of Fame on the way over.”

“It will be getting cold back home. Soon be Christmas,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Overcoats and thermal underwear. What fun.”

“I don’t think so. Central heating and bare bodies as usual indoors, pleated wool skirt and riding coat whenever we leave the house.”

“You still want to make my tired old fantasies a reality, then?”

“Of course.” Amy said the right words but they didn’t seem to me to have the same joyful naughtiness they would have before.

Home seemed much colder than before we went to Jamaica. We had become very used to the comfortable freedom of tropical warmth in only a few days, and by comparison our part of the world was that much more wet, and cold, and grey. Greta was happy we were back, but it still took both of us several days to find the energy to heat the studio up and get back into the everyday routine of doing some work. Neither of us talked about what happened in Jamaica.

I wanted to find a way in my art to go past the exploration of the erotic games that Amy had been playing out in front of me on her podium. I wanted to include other facets of her personality besides her sexuality, which had been our entire focus for some months. I wanted to capture more of what I loved about her, which was not visible on the surface of her at all, but was in the goodness of her heart, the kindness of her soul, and the freedom of her spirit. I didn’t have any idea at first how to do that, but all my work with her so far now seemed trivial. It was full of erotic energy, but as my feelings for her had deepened, the art we had produced now seemed shallow in every other way.

I felt a pressure to capture the essence of her quickly, as if it was about to disappear.

I found myself concentrating on her face, so that every piece I started, no matter what the physical pose, turned into a portrait. Her face became for me a window to her inner nature, and I wrestled more and more with the subtleties of the meanings in the fleeting expressions that crossed and recrossed her countenance. Her nakedness in these portraits was almost incidental to the main subject. Her lack of clothes only revealed her body. It was the other less visible masks that I was trying to peel away. I wanted to reveal everything that made her who she was.

The problem with trying to achieve subtle and ephemeral goals is that it is very hard to tell when you are successful. I could look at our earlier work and the excitement in my genitals would tell me how well the piece worked. With the newer, more observant and contemplative works, it was more difficult to judge how close I was getting, or even if I was making progress at all, so I found the task very frustrating.

Amy tried to understand what I was doing, and she tried to help me find a way to do it, but she was less of a creative participant now than she had been before, because I was on such a subjective path of discovery. She sensed how important she had become to me, and was pleased to be held in such high esteem, but the intensity of my determination was spooking her a little, and working with me in the studio wasn’t bringing us closer together as it had in the past. If anything, it was making her more distant, and was becoming a barrier between us.

My search for a way to represent how I saw the real Amy was like chasing a butterfly. The harder I chased it, the more it eluded my grasp. If I could have been more patient, the solution may have simply presented itself to me, like a butterfly that comes and sits on your shoulder when you stop chasing it, but my sense of urgency drove me to keep up the pursuit.

Amy had gone to lectures at college one morning when Greta rang me to ask if she could stop by the studio to see me. She had a publishing contract for me to sign, and I was keen to get her opinion of my latest work so that was fine with me.

I had only completed about six pieces since we had been away that I was happy to show her, and she looked at each of them in turn as I brought them out, carefully, and in silence.

“Oh dear, Sammy, you have a bad dose of it, don’t you?” she said sadly.

“Are they that bad?”

“No, they’re brilliant. I don’t know how well they’ll sell, but they’re ….different.

“Greta, you know Amy pretty well. Do these pictures really get who she is? Don’t bullshit me.”

Greta thought carefully before answering this difficult question.

“They’re very intense, I’ll give you that. The thing is, Sam, do YOU really get who she is? Amy’s a free spirit like neither of us have ever known before, and here you’re trying to analyse her and define her, and nail her to your canvas. It’s like you’re trying to possess her emotionally.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Not in so many words. But that was the general drift. She dropped in at the gallery yesterday.”

“She’s always been able to talk to me. Why didn’t she say something?”

“Perhaps she did. Maybe you’re not listening.”

Had I been so wrapped in my own obsession with Amy that I was no longer receptive to her real needs? Was I trying to own Amy through my art without realizing what I was doing? Perhaps Greta was right.

“You can’t possess her Sam. Let her go. If she comes back, she’s yours…”

“… and if she doesn’t, she never was. I know the saying. Greta, I never thought I’d hear you of all people sound like a fifty cent greetings card.”

“Don’t laugh at me, Sam, clichés are clichés because they’re true. Do you want my honest advice?”

“It’s why you came to see me, isn’t it? You didn’t come to see the new pictures.”

“I came because I care about both of you. You make Amy happy because you let her be provocative and outrageous, you give her the courage to push her own boundaries, you don’t judge her or censure her or try to control her, and your appreciation of her makes her feel better about herself. But now she’s starting to feel smothered and possessed. If she ever starts to feel trapped, you’ll never know about it, because I’m telling you now, she’ll be long gone.”

“What should I do?”

“Sammy, I think you should lighten up. You’re taking her… this… everything too seriously. Play more.”

Greta was right. Thinking back, Amy was at her best and happiest when we were just playing, especially when she was deliberately flouting the rules of conventional behaviour just for the hell of it. My work was also a form of play to me, but lately it had just been work to her.

By the time Amy came home, I had been out shopping and I had a couple of surprises for her.

“Are you hungry?” I asked her, almost before she had stripped off her college campus clothes and dropped the worn old jeans and t-shirt in the laundry basket.

“Starving,” she said. “but I don’t want to cook. Let’s get a takeaway delivered.”

“You just want to give some poor delivery boy a treat when you open the door naked, don’t you?”

“I have to admit, I do love to see their faces.”

“I heard that the delivery boys at Pizza Napoli had a fight in the carpark over which one of them got to deliver our last order.”

“Did they?” The thought of that brightened her up, but then she realized I was making it up.

“If I was seventeen and pimply and delivering in this neighbourhood, I’d KILL for the chance to ogle your tits.”

“Would you really?”

“I would, but I would much rather be me, taking you out somewhere very nice for dinner tonight. With, of course, a chance to ogle your tits.”

It was good to see her smiling again.

“Sam, are you offering me a romantic dinner somewhere classy?”

“More than that. I intend to be in the best restaurant in town tonight and watch someone have a heart attack and fall off their bar stool when you walk in. I expect every man in the place who survives your entrance to be in lust with you before we get past the hors d’oeuvres, and I want you to make the cynical old head waiter drop an expensive bottle of wine on his foot when you shine your eyes on him. Then I want to be so horny I have to undress you and eat your pussy in the elevator on the way up to our suite where we will drink champagne and I will make love to you until you beg me to stop.”


“How does that sound?”

She walked over to me, grasped my hand and turned it palm up, then took my middle finger and wiped it up the inside of her pussy lips towards her clit. She was already wet enough to fuck, and she held the now slippery finger up to my lips for me to suck.

“Will this answer do?”

I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” I said.

My description of what was to happen later this evening had had an enlarging effect on part of my anatomy, and still looking me in the eye, she took hold of it with her other hand.

“Would you like me to put this away somewhere warm and cosy now, or do you want to eat first?”

What a choice to offer a man! If I had been her age, I wouldn’t have thought twice. When you’re young you can always have the bird in the hand as well as the two in the bushes later. In her uncannily telepathic way, Amy immediately understood my momentary hesitation and stopped stroking my cock.

“No, park that thought, Sam, I’m too hungry. Omigod, what am I going to wear?”

“Here’s my suggestion. There’s a cab waiting outside to take you to the Regency Hyatt. Tell them at the desk who you are, someone will take you to our suite. What I hope you would like to wear tonight is on the bed. The hotel has someone from their salon standing by to come up and help you with your hair and make-up – they’ll have whatever you need. I’ll meet you in the bar of the Pinnacle Restaurant on the top floor as soon as you’re ready. But it’s only a suggestion.”

She put her arms around my neck and kissed me gently and slowly.

“Welcome back, Sam. Where have you been?”

August 2018
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