Adventures of a Nude Model: Complete Page 4

  “Awesome!” Annie gushed, giving a winsome smile. “Clodagh's an amazing tutor! We're really lucky to have her.” Her face contorted, as though there were something she was desperate to get off her chest, and then she blurted, “And… you're amazing, too, Sophie. I love drawing you.”

  It was said with such obvious sincerity, it made Sophie blush. “Thanks, Annie. That means a lot to me. I'm glad to be here.”

  Pretty, curly-haired Rachel had been saying a great deal of nothing all this time. She still seemed uncomfortable, immune to the spell of the frilly apron. But Sophie's last remark caught her attention. “So you… doing this really doesn't bother you at all?”

  “Of course it doesn't bother her,” Annie answered on her behalf, wrinkling her nose as though she thought the question were stupid. “It's her job to go nude. She wouldn't do it if it bothered her.”

  Rachel looked somewhat taken aback to find herself on the receiving end of this retort. Sophie was surprised too. There was obviously more to Annie than her mousy exterior.

  “Besides,” Annie finished on a pious note, “you have to remember it's all for art.”

  Rachel's thin, pretty features assumed a sly smile. “Would you go nude for art?”

  Annie reddened. The answer was obviously, not on your life.

  Feeling the need to bail her out, Sophie said, “Horses for courses. An art class needs artists too. It wouldn't be much fun for me, posing, if there was no one here to draw me.”

  Sophie excused herself and went back into the kitchen to dump the tray. On her way, she was aware of all eyes lingering on her behind. She wasn't displeased. I could get used to all this attention, she thought. Suppose that makes me a shameless exhibitionist. What a pity she had left it so late to discover her passion for being naked. But then again, maybe it was getting older that had engendered it? Some urge to flaunt her forty-year-old body that would have been completely alien to her when she was twenty?

  She poured herself a cup of tea. Ick, it was a little bit on the cold side. Deep breath, then back outside, where she walked straight into Annie, clutching her pad.

  “Would you like to see my sketches?”

  “Oh, please!” She stood next to the dumpy teenager, amused because she was practically hopping with excitement. Then she was blown away by what she saw. “Annie, these are stunning.”

  “Clodagh thinks so too,” said Annie proudly, turning a page.

  The drawings had all the boldness Annie seemed, at least superficially, to lack. Sophie recognized herself, but also didn't, because there was something romantic, almost pin-up-like, about the creature captured in these flowing, twisting lines. Breasts and bottoms, thought Sophie, colouring at the sexiness of some of it. As well as the boldness of line, there was an unblushing attention to detail. Annie hadn't hesitated to draw in Sophie's neat little pussy, from the front and behind. That would take a bit of digesting. But any discomfort was far outweighed by her sense of privilege at having inspired such wonderful sketches.

  She looked at Annie – short, wide in the hip, bespectacled Annie – with new respect.

  “You really like them?” Annie flicked to the next dazzling image and peered up at Sophie hopefully through her glasses.

  “Annie, they knock my socks off.”

  “You're not wearing any socks,” Annie reminded her with an impish grin, then, serious once more, “I do think they're the best things I've ever done. I'm a fashion student at the Uni, so I do quite a bit of drawing. But this time I felt such a connection. You know, that bond Clodagh goes on about.”

  Her arm brushed Sophie's almost as if she were moving in for a hug. Sophie was suddenly struck by the difference in their attire. Annie was wearing layers – a denim jacket over a cardie over a long-sleeved T, and some kind of arty cravat thing on top of that. It was almost like she had donned as many clothes as possible just because she could, as a way of rubbing in that Sophie had temporarily lost the privilege of wearing any at all.

  “Oh, by the way,” Annie thinned her voice to a discreet squeak, “do the people at the library know? About the modelling, I mean? If they don't, I won't say a word! Cross my heart!”

  Sophie's face tensed a little. Could this be a hint of blackmail? No, no, nothing like that – just an anxiety to please that reminded her of herself. Relaxing, she said, “If it's not too much trouble. I, uh, haven't gotten around to telling them yet.”

  “No problem, your secret's safe with me, Sophie!”

  She beamed reassuringly. Secret. Sophie sipped her cold tea. Annie seemed trustworthy enough, but secrets had a way of getting out. But then again, if she'd been so desperate to keep her new occupation under wraps, she probably shouldn't have posed for an art class a two minute walk away from her place of work – duh! So don't blame Annie, she chided herself, it's your own bloody fault if your left hand doesn't know what your right hand's doing.

  As she drained her cup, she noticed Clodagh piling brightly coloured cushions on the platform. Time to make an exhibition of herself again.

  “We'll go for one long pose in the remaining forty minutes,” explained Clodagh when she wandered up, having first deposited her empty cup in the kitchen. “Something relaxed, which you can hold comfortably for that length of time.”

  The artists were gathering round, listening.

  Sophie touched her bib. She already knew what the answer was going to be. Just to see the expression on their faces, she asked, “Do you want me to keep the apron on? As everyone seems to like it?”

  Clodagh lifted her fingers to her chin, pretending to give it some thought. But she was always going to say no, and sure enough, she shook her head. “We might introduce a small element of textile at some point, but for now we'll stick with nude work.”

  “Right you are.” Casually, Sophie untied the apron and pulled it off, ducking her head to hide a smile, because she'd seen the artists' relief. They all wanted her naked.

  It was exciting, having her nudity insisted on in this way. For her, and for some of the group, too, she suspected. She thought she saw a glint in old man Gordon's eyes and, God help her, in sweet innocent Annie's. Although that could have been just a reflection off her specs.

  When she handed Clodagh the apron and stepped onto the platform, her nipples were standing up hard. There was a warmth swirling in the pit of her stomach. The artists hadn't sat down yet, they were just moving to their chairs. She was grateful for the extra room. Like a cat, she circled, then curled herself with care on her very public bed.

  She went for a reclining pose, her weight on one hip but with her upper body rolled back so that both shoulders were resting on the cushions. She arranged her arms either side of her head, and bent her legs at the knee, drawing the lower knee halfway towards her chest and sliding the other knee down until it was in alignment with the rest of her body. The result was compact, languorous, easy to hold (hopefully) and it passed the breasts and bottoms test, opening up her form to the artists' scrutiny.

  As she was snuggling down, her fringe scattered itself across her eyes, tickling her lashes. She lifted a hand to brush it back.

  Clodagh said, “Leave it. It's nice like that.”

  The artist moved in, plumping and tilting cushions, pushing down on one that was obscuring part of Sophie's bottom. Her sleeve brushed Sophie's hip. Just a tiny moment of contact, but the blob of warmth in Sophie's stomach suddenly grew larger and more active.

  “Okay. Forty minutes. That's masses of time, so don't rush into anything. Think of it as twenty minutes of drawing and twenty minutes of looking.”

  Sophie gave herself up to the silence, the gently scratching pencils and the support of the cushions, some of which were shiny and cold on her bare skin, others of which were rough and warm like a body pressed to hers. She couldn't seem to stop her chest from heaving, her flattened breasts with their hard pink nipples from rising and falling in the periphery of her vision. Other than that, she was still.

  She'd ceased being a person, wi
th clothes and opinions and personal space. She was an object. She was skin.

  The crown of her head, with her fingers curled above it, felt as if it was right between Barry's knees. She could hear the breath whistling in his nose and the little dissatisfied sounds he made as he plied his pencil. Gordon was behind her, drawing her bottom. By accident or unconsciously, she had given the three girls – Rachel, Leslie and Annie – the frontal view, and she wondered how they were getting on. Would Rachel be embarrassed? And what of Annie? No need to worry about her, she was probably over the moon. That innocent little teenager had a surprisingly keen appetite for nudity.

  The gentle scratching continued. It was like the sound of archeologists patiently unearthing an ancient treasure trove. It was so strange, being still, waiting to be discovered. On the outside, she was calm, but on the inside, she was churning with hot and cold shivers.

  “Remember to draw what you see.” Clodagh addressed the comment to the whole group, but she was standing behind Rachel as she said it, so it was probably meant for her. She looked from Rachel's pad to Sophie, taking in the full-frontal view without embarrassment. “Don't edit nature. Trust your eyes, not that voice in your head which thinks its knows what good art should look like.”

  That's her way of telling them to draw my pussy, Sophie thought with a pant of excitement. A tickling sensation ran behind her groin, as she imagined them studying its folds and trying to capture them in graphite.

  Clodagh was moving around, suggesting, encouraging and, very occasionally, amending drawings with a pencil that she plucked from behind her ear. Sophie listened, fascinated, following her progress as best she could without rolling her own eyes around in an obvious way.

  It really was a privilege to be in the same room with her. Her comments were so lucid and wise. And she looked so graceful, dancing about lightly, as though a heavy footfall might break the creative spell. Her longsleeved T and jeans, while providing plenty of coverage, were in their own way quite revealing, hugging the contours of her hourglass frame.

  I bet she looks beautiful naked, thought Sophie, with a pang of regret because she knew enough of Clodagh to know it was a sight she would never see. Oh God, you're getting such a crush on her, she realized. Worse than that even. You worship her. Don't you have any self-respect?

  Sophie was never one to take herself very seriously. A silent chuckle shook her, making her nipples bob on the tips of her flattened breasts. Her lips relaxed into a smile. Probably not a good idea to change her expression halfway through a pose, but what the hell, she just couldn't help herself.

  The forty minutes seemed to last forever. All the same, Sophie jumped with surprise when Clodagh said, “Five minutes, everyone.” It was as though she had been outside time, and was now back in it again.

  She'd been reasonably comfortable until then. After the announcement her back began to ache. She started to get pins and needles in her left calf. She was glad when Clodagh called a halt to the session.

  There was a final round of applause as she sat up – sincerely meant and gratefully received, but it also gave the artists a good excuse to watch her as she faltered to her feet, stretched, stepped slightly dizzily off the platform and pulled on the wrap that Clodagh handed her.

  Show's over, guys, Sophie thought as she bundled herself up. No more skin this week. The studio suddenly became noisy with the sound of coats being zipped and pencil cases being reassembled and shoved into bags. Clodagh said a few words about next week's session. Sophie seized the opportunity to slip away into the changing room and be by herself.

  She closed the door and sank onto a chair, puffing out her cheeks. Her mood was a strange mix of pride and numbness. She'd done it. The ordeal that had been in front of her was now behind her. She'd posed naked and she'd lived to tell the tale.

  How did she feel about it? She wasn't sure, except that she felt… scoured. As though she'd been through a particularly thorough spa treatment.

  Well, the treatment was over for today. She stood up, dropped her wrap and grabbed her tracksuit bottom. “Hello, clothes, I missed you.” Sitting down, tying her laces, she started to remember what it was like to be a normal person again. Being naked was exciting, but damn, it was nice to have shoes and laces.

  And the good news was, she didn't have to do it again if she didn't want to. She'd been brave, she'd tried it. There would be no shame in leaving it at that, and spending the rest of her days among the legions of the clothed.

  The artists were still out there. She wondered if they were expecting her to emerge and say goodbye. Annie would want to say her farewells, definitely. Sophie couldn't face it; she'd given them all she had and she was done for the time being. So, feeling slightly cowardly, she hid in the storage room until the sounds of voices petered out into silence.

  When she finally mustered the courage to shoulder her bag and crack the door, she saw Clodagh on her own, bent double, stripping the cushions off the platform and stowing them in a black bin liner. For once, she was showing a little skin – a glimpse of taut brown flesh at the waist where her T-shirt had ridden up.

  Hearing the click of the latch, she looked up and flashed a grin. “Safe to come out now.”

  “Sorry,” Sophie hitched her bag and shyly emerged. “I needed a minute.”

  “Tired?”

  “A little bit.”

  “I'm not surprised.” Clodagh dropped the bin liner and straightened, resting her hands on her curvy hips. Tidying had put roses in her cheeks, a blush of crimson on top of her usual tawniness. “You did a great job.”

  “I did?”

  “Are you serious? You varied your poses. You were present. Honestly, I couldn't have asked for more.”

  Sophie let the bag slip from her shoulder. Whatever had been ailing her was suddenly well on the way to being cured. She felt a silly grin go sliding up her face, and a warm glow flicker to life behind her breastbone. “Well, if you're happy, I'm happy.”

  “Ah, in that case,” said Clodagh, pouncing on Sophie's throwaway remark, “do you know what would make me really happy?”

  Sophie's fine, straight hair swayed against her cheekbones as she gave a small shake of the head. She could feel her throat tightening. She wanted to know but at the same time she didn't.

  Clodagh's face was tilted to one side. Her big, dark, gazelle-like eyes seemed to glimmer with pent-up thoughts. But, when she finally spoke, her voice was deceptively casual. “You know how I spout on about the importance of the bond between artist and model? I think the class would have the best chance of developing that kind of a bond if you were to model for us on a regular basis – every week, or as near to as you can manage. Is that something you'd like to consider?”

  Sophie's lower lip detached itself from her upper one and swung there stupidly. Just minutes ago, she had been taking comfort in the thought that today might be a one-off, a singular lapse into nudity in an otherwise average life. Now she was being invited to do it all over again, week after week. It was a huge commitment. And what would she tell Beth? She would need a pretty good excuse to explain why she was disappearing for two hours plus every Saturday afternoon.

  What was she going to do? She didn't know. Or rather she did, but couldn't quite believe it until she heard herself say it.

  “Sounds good. I mean – yes, count me in.”

  “You're up for it?”

  “Definitely.” She squared her shoulders in defiance of her own timidity and brushed the fine chestnut hair out of her eyes so Clodagh could see her face and tell how serious she was. With the words out of her mouth, something had crystalized in her and she knew this was what she wanted. Clodagh was putting a great deal of trust in her, and she felt touched and honoured as well as excited. Beth? She'd think of something to tell Beth. But she was doing this. End of.

  “There's just one thing,” she added quickly, getting it in before Clodagh could wrap things up. “About the payment?”

  “£12.50 an hour. Not to be sniffed at.”
Clodagh crooked one eyebrow and rubbed her finger and thumb together.

  "The thing is, I'm not how I feel about being paid. I want this to be a hobby, something I do for the love of it and..." she hesitated “... and because I believe in what you're doing.”

  “There's no shame in being paid to do what you love. And the funds for a model are already allocated. Take the money. Trust me, I'll see that you earn it."

  The glint in Clodagh's eye made Sophie gulp. To change the subject, she said, “Could you... could you use a hand with those heavy boxes?”

  Clodagh heaved a sigh of relief. “Goodness, yes, thought you'd never ask.”

  It was settled. She was going to be a model. For the love of it. And for £12.50 an hour.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sophie Parrish. Mother, librarian, Virgo, model… No, nude model. Put those two words together, and they sparkled with a special allure. A model who wouldn't pose clothed, who wouldn't pose in lingerie, who wouldn't pose covered in a sheet, who would only pose naked – who was synonymous with nakedness. That was her.

  She was in the shower, amusing herself with these thoughts as she cooled down her body after a hot, sweaty day lugging books around in the library. She turned her back to the shower-head and rolled her shoulders, sighing as the warm jets hit the spot.

  Thursday, and there was still the residue of an ache between her shoulder-blades. For days afterwards, everything had ached, her back, her legs, her bum. But she hadn't minded, in fact she'd revelled in each and every twinge. Mementos, that's what they were. Not that she needed mementos, not that she would ever be able to forget those two hours on the podium.

  She let her head loll back into the water, then flipped it forward. She'd thought she'd heard her phone, or a phone, ringing. But the drumming of spray on the glass partition made it hard to tell. What was that? Was Beth talking to someone? Well… She lost interest, and turned to tilt her face into the full blast of the shower.