Chapter 1

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Polygamy/Polyamory, First, Oral Sex, Slow, School, .

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Freshman art student Tony finds out what it's like to be on the other side of the easel when his crush asks him to pose for her final project. Love and sex could save him from depression, but he's still falling behind and hates school. Can his racquetball mentor offer more? Slow start. Sex is integral to the story, but so are racquetball and art. The story is about the characters.

It was only October and I was already disappointed in college. My high school best friend was so excited and having a great time—on the other coast. For me, it was depressing. I was thinking about dropping out before Thanksgiving.

It was my own fault, I suppose. I could have gone to the University of Nebraska and been an art major. Instead, I'd applied to a small and exclusive arts college on the West Coast as my "reach" school and was blown away when The Pacific College of the Arts and Design (PCAD) accepted me. Not only that, but they'd offered me a financial aid package that meant I might escape college only about 30 grand in debt instead of 60. I thought my portfolio was weak, but I'd managed to sell it well enough that the school actively recruited me and I fell for it. Now I was regretting it.

It wasn't very challenging. The school didn't offer a liberal arts BA; I was in a Bachelor of Fine Arts program. I had enjoyed a little intellectual challenge in high school and did well in both AP English and Math. But my only pseudo-liberal arts course in college was Art History taught by a boring old fossil. It was a three-hour class that met twice a week. We walked into class, he turned the lights off, turned on a slide projector, and everyone went to sleep.

The Fundamentals class was no better. We were "taught" all the menial tasks of studio art. That meant six hours a week of stretching canvases, doing paint-overs, and scrubbing the studio floors. Over and over. Freshmen were pretty much the slaves of everyone else in the department. As far as I could tell there wasn't a sophomore who even cleaned his own brushes. How I managed to get both Studio Fundamentals and Visual Concepts the same year is beyond me. I guess it's because I got a pass from taking English Comp because of my high school AP scores, so they moved Concepts up a year.

The one bright-spot in my schedule was my three-hour elective lab on Fridays in Figure Drawing. It combined basic anatomy drawing and live model drawing. There was a lot of sketching skeletons in the first three weeks, but then we had our first live model. Don't get excited. It was the professor's mother who came in and sat for a portrait sketch. In other words, she sat in a rocking chair and knitted for three hours while we drew her face and hands. The good part was that she had a really interesting face and you could tell she'd done this before because she really did hold a single expression for each of the posing sessions. Of course, she had the same expression on her face during her breaks.

Three weeks into school I had my golden birthday. That's when your ages matches the day you're born on. I was 19 on September 19th. I had a phone call that night with my folks and about a dozen text messages with my best friend out East. Nobody else knew—or cared.

Classes continued to drag on. I built frames, sized canvases, sorted fabric, wood, and metal scraps into bins, helped unload a massive rock from a truck, and burned my elbow on the kiln. Everything was crappy, including the weather. It was dark when I went to my first class and dark when I got back to my dorm room. I hardly ever heard from my friend anymore. Too busy. I called my folks every week, but they kept asking how it was going and I didn't want to tell them.

The high-point of my week was when I went to a local racquet club to play racquetball. Dad had insisted that I have some physical exercise while I was at college and I was going to an art school. There wasn't a gym. Still, that was only a few hours a week and I was tempted to quit that, too, if it wasn't for the one hottie that I sometimes got to play against. She was some kind of national champion, so she creamed me on a regular basis, but just watching her work up a sweat was usually good for keeping my spirits up another couple of hours—or until I got back to the dorm.

It wasn't until late October that we got our first nude model. We knew something was up when we came into the studio that Friday and the temperature was about ten degrees higher than normal. Professor McIntyre explained that this was for the comfort of the model. I was sweating. The model was a woman about 40 who I recognized from sketches that decorated the walls from years past. She was a little overweight, but I guess attractive enough. I wasn't going to be beating off to her image that night. I looked around the studio briefly when she had taken her first pose. None of the other students seemed all that enthused about drawing her either. Of course, all the other students in the class were girls. Five of the twenty of us were freshmen. This lady certainly wasn't showing any of them anything they weren't already intimately familiar with. We drew and I actually left with a couple pretty decent sketches. There were at least 19 other women in the class I'd rather have been sketching, though.

On the way out of class, three of my favorites that I had lunch with on many Fridays fell into step on either side of me. I could tell something was up.

"Well, did you get an eyeful?" Sandra asked.

"That wasn't your first time seeing a naked woman, was it?" Melody joined in.

"Didn't she just get you all hot?"

"Did you sprout a woody? You stayed behind your easel the whole class," Amy asked.

"Oh come on, you guys. She's a model. Who's going to get turned on while they're drawing?"

"Don't tell me you aren't interested in women!" Melody sounded shocked.

"All right," Sandra rejoined, "we'll have to hold this conversation after we've had a male model. It's no fun teasing someone who won't get embarrassed." Actually, at that mention I was embarrassed. I was—shall we say—sexually inexperienced, but I wasn't gay. All my life, though, people just assumed that if you were a male artist, you must be gay. Granted, I was sensitive, quiet, and a bit shy around girls, but I was definitely interested in them. Melody, especially. She was about 5'3" and nicely shaped. I'd done a few covert sketches of her when I was supposed to be drawing hands or feet of a model. Back in my room, I'd even enhanced a few of them into imagined nudes. I was fine around her as long as we were just palling around the cafeteria or the studio, but I'd never be able to ask her out. The few times I'd been with her without another friend, I hadn't been able to say two words. Besides, I'd heard she had a big scary boyfriend. I was relieved that Sandra and Amy were always around. The three amigas. I don't think I could have been alone with Melody and survived.

It took me all of two weeks at school before I realized why I'd been recruited so hard by the admissions office. I was the only guy in studio arts who wanted to study painting instead of animation. At first I'd just thought it was weird that I had a Figure Drawing class with 19 girls and me. It's the same as when I was in high school. Guy in art? Of course, he must be gay, right?

I didn't go home over Thanksgiving break. It's over 1,500 miles and we aren't rich. I ate turkey loaf in the cafeteria. We still hadn't seen a male nude in Figure Drawing. It wasn't like we had a lot of body builders in the art school lining up to model. In high school it was like a big initiation for the jocks to model for the senior art class after they turned 18. Pay was never mentioned. Nude models made about $20-$25 an hour, so maybe $75 for the three-hour session, but it wasn't highly advertised.

The first Friday of December, we were finally expecting this older guy who'd done one of our portrait sessions with us to show up as our first male nude.

My art history professor stopped me in the hall before class to ask about some stupid paper I was supposed to write, so I was late walking into the studio. The semi-circle of easels had been drawn a little closer around the posing platform and every single one of my 19 classmates was in position waiting. Don't ever believe that women aren't as curious as men about the opposite sex. They'd been waiting for this day all semester. I got the last position at the end of the semi-circle where, if I was lucky, I'd see a profile of the model's head and one butt-cheek. It was going to be some drawing. Professor McIntyre came into the class and walked to the dais. She gave a sigh.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Mr. Johnson (yeah that was his real name) called in sick. I just got the word from the office. Since we don't have a model, we'll work from a manikin for today."

"No fair!" The girl who blurted out the sentiments of all the girls in the class was Sandra, and her easel was dead center. She'd probably come in 20 minutes early to get that spot. But she wasn't the only one grumbling. There was a general dissent in the class.

"What can I do?" Prof asked. "I can't materialize a model out of thin air. Believe me, this class would be a lot easier to teach if I could."

"Let Tony model." I almost swallowed the pencil I had between my teeth as I was fastening paper to my easel. Me? Who made that suggestion? I looked across the easels and saw Melody grinning broadly.

"That suggestion is flawed. Tony hasn't asked or agreed to model. If he had, it is still inappropriate to expose a classmate. I'd say the same thing if you had suggested a woman. And it would be unfair to Tony to spend three hours posing and not drawing."

"I don't mind." Was that my voice that just spoke? Geez! What was I doing? Prof. McIntyre looked at me. I felt the heat rise in my face and knew I was red. But, shit! Melody had just asked to see me naked. "Um ... I mean ... I'd rather not draw pictures of a manikin anyway. I assume that by 'being exposed, ' you mean my privates and I've got a jockstrap in my bag. I could wear that." I was getting redder the longer I talked. I'd just told a class full of girls that I was carrying a jockstrap!

"You just happen to have a jockstrap in your bag when you attend this class, Tony?"

"I usually go play racquetball after class on Fridays. It's my gym bag."

"And do you have your racquet with you as well?"

"Yes ma'am." There was total silence in the room as Prof. McIntyre thought about it. You could feel the tension from the girls.

"Are there any students here who would feel uncomfortable having Tony model for the class while wearing a strap? Anyone at all in any way? Please be absolutely free to speak up. If it would make you embarrassed to have your classmate up here, say so. This is an art class. Art is not necessarily sexuality. The purpose of this class is to study the figure, not to embarrass or titillate. Please say now if this proposition is not okay with you." I almost raised my hand, but I'd committed. I wasn't going to back down now. No one in the class said a word. If I had to guess, I'd say they were all holding their breath.

"Okay. Tony, if you are sure you are okay with this, then please step behind the drape and get ready. Bring your racquet out with you. I'd like to see some action poses."

While I stripped off behind the drape and put on my jock I could hear Prof. McIntyre continue to lecture the girls in the class quietly. She made it very clear that if they could not maintain a professional attitude when "the model" was on stage that class would be immediately dismissed.

I'd worked with nude models before. We had a pretty progressive art program in high school and students who were over 18 years old were invited to a weekly sitting that was technically not on school grounds, but still had "club" status. It was held at the local art store where several art classes were held. The owner brought a model in from Omaha once a week. None of us knew who he or she was and we seldom saw the same person twice. But I knew what needed to be done.

When Prof asked if I was ready, I took a deep breath and croaked out the word "yes." I walked out onto the dais and kept my eyes focused on Prof, intentionally not looking at anyone else in the class.

"Tony, I know this is your first time as a model. Keep in mind that you need to make sure you are comfortable in your pose and can hold it for 15 minutes. We'll change poses then and again at half an hour. At 45 minutes, you get a 15-minute break. Don't do anything that forces you to hold a strenuous pose. No balancing on your toes or one leg or anything. Let's start with a common racquetball pose. You're waiting for the serve. Feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, racquet in front held in both hands, facing straight forward. I had no idea that Prof knew so much about racquetball.

I'm not particularly self-conscious about my body—most of it. It's not like I'm ripped or anything, but at 19, I'm not overweight either. I love to play racquetball each week—sometimes managing twice in a week if I can escape from homework. Posing like I was waiting for the serve was an easy thing to do. The model platform was raised about a foot-and-a-half above the floor so artists could look over their drawing pads and see the model. That meant that if I looked straight ahead, I was looking over the tops of my classmates and didn't have to make eye contact with any of them. I reminded myself that they were just a roomful of artists and not 19 sexy female classmates. I just stood there in the pose Prof had dictated and when her timer went off at 15 minutes, I found myself in a Zen-like trance. I don't know where I went to while my body posed, but as soon as Prof directed me into a backhand position I returned to there. I held my racquet in my hand in one position and could imagine what it would look like on paper. I could see the strings in their weave and the tension in my own muscles. I knew that if I left the class right now, I could draw the same pose. The class flew by. Before I knew it, Prof told me to go back and get dressed. When I came out five minutes later, the girls all applauded and said thank you. All told, it was pretty cool.

With racquetball after class and getting to play against the cute champion, I didn't get depressed again until I woke up Saturday morning.

I packed my whole dorm room up with neatly labeled boxes to ship home. I hadn't told my folks yet that I wasn't coming back to PCAD. I hated it.

If anything, Christmas break was even more depressing than my first semester had been. My best friend didn't come home. Apparently her parents had arranged to have Christmas in Hawaii and she flew straight back to the East Coast. I hung out with a couple of guys from high school, but all I could see was how much we had become different. I guess that's one thing about high school; no matter how individual you are, you all share twelve years of common experiences. Suddenly you've all gone to college or to jobs and your paths diverge. I was a little envious of them because they all talked like they loved what they were doing.

The UPS truck brought my boxes the day after Christmas. Great. I was having a Boxing Day. Mom asked me about them, but I just said that I didn't need this stuff at school. I don't know why I kept avoiding telling them I wasn't going back. I spent my time in my room writing personal essays for my transfer application to UNeb. It sucked that they don't let anyone know until June or July. By that time, I could be in the Navy. Navy sounded like a safe bet since there wasn't any water around Omaha.

I wandered, too. It was cold and there was a foot of snow on the fields. I trudged out to some of my favorite places to draw and did my best to capture the cold, desolate feeling while keeping my gloves on and mopping my constantly running nose on my sleeve. I realized my eyes were running a lot, too, but I blamed that on the cold wind.

I was supposed to be at PCAD to become an artist. I unpacked my drawings from first semester to show my appreciative parents, but as I looked at them I saw what was happening to me. The technique was good. I was learning a lot about how to control shading and contour. In fact, compared to my earlier drawings and paintings, they were far superior. But they lacked any sense of emotion. When I looked at them I thought a computer could have drawn it just as well.

But winter break was showing me something else. I didn't want to live at home. I'd missed my parents so much while I was in Seattle, but now that we were together all day every day, I was going stir-crazy. I'd never make it till spring if I stayed here. Two days before my flight was scheduled to return me to Seattle, I packed up my boxes and took them to the UPS office. I didn't ship as many back as I'd brought in the fall. I needed clothes, art supplies, and my racquetball equipment. Two boxes, plus the suitcase I'd carry on with me. Yeah. I'd decided that even another semester at Hell U would be better than staying holed up in Nebraska for the rest of the winter.

Grades came out and I hadn't done badly, even in the class I thought I was failing. After the break, I thought I was ready for another term. "Never make a life-changing decision before you go on vacation," my dad had said when I was trying to choose a college in the first place. It seemed like good advice and I was almost looking forward to the challenges of the next semester. It took almost two weeks before I was thinking about quitting and heading back to Nebraska again. I didn't fit in this city. It was constantly gray and drizzling rain. I couldn't imagine ever being warm and dry again. I had no friends and I was spending most of my time alone. Sure there were people I saw every day. There were even a few that I had lunch with regularly. I didn't hang out with anyone, though. Back in high school, at least there were a few people I considered close friends. Here at art school, we were all outcaste. I never saw anyone smile.

The second semester studio class was Figure Painting. The old guy, Mr. Johnson came in twice to model. Maybe it gave the girls a thrill to stare at a real live cock dangling in front of a guy. God he was hung. I fervently hoped the girls didn't think that was how guys were supposed to look. They'd be really disappointed someday. I was playing racquetball three times a week now and just battering the hell out of the ball in the one session I where I practiced alone.

We were told the last half of our Figure Painting class would be spent primarily working on a final project. When we got the assignment, our lunch table was buzzing with brainstorms.

"I know what you're doing," Melody taunted me. "Something with drapes. Probably watercolor."

"Don't forget the nude and the dog," I said. "It is Figure Painting. But, yeah. There will be drapes."

"I'm going to develop that sketch I did of the hippy-chick model in highlights against a dark background," Sandra said.

"She was cool," said Amy. "I might do one of her. In fact, I'd love to do her." She got a dreamy look on her face and we all stared at her. Yeah, lesbians get love-sick, too. She realized we were all staring. "I just don't know what positi ... which pose to do. What about you, Melody?"

"Uh ... I was thinking something classical. Like maybe an oil of The Discus Thrower or something."

"Who's going to model?"

"I'll probably just go to the museum and find a sculpture." I was sure Melody had blushed. Well, old man Johnson was sure no model for that kind of painting. We all had different places to be after lunch and I grabbed my gym bag to go play racquetball. I was suddenly aware that Melody hadn't gone with the others. She was still standing beside me.

"Is it hard to play racquetball?" she asked.

"Not really—at least not the basics. If you get to competitive levels, there's as many nuances as there are in tennis. Anybody can play, but there are really only a few that reach Wimbledon."

"Do you compete?"

"Every match is a competition. When you play at a gym, sometimes you are playing with guys—or gals—who are a lot better than you are. Sometimes, you're the better one. You learn from masters and teach novices. To answer your question fairly, I was in a few YMCA tournaments back in high school, but haven't done anything but gym tournaments and individual matches since I got here. I do it for fun."

"Would you mind if I watched sometime?"

"No. Just let me know and I'll get you a club pass."

"Today?" I jerked around to look at her. Like always, her auburn hair and strikingly lavender eyes just took my breath away. Had she really just invited herself along with me to the gym?

"Sure. If you want to."

"Great! Tell me what the basic rules are so I can understand what's going on."

I told her all about the game rules and the fact that racquetball uses all six surfaces of an enclosed room. That meant people who watched the game, only saw the match through the back glass wall. I also told her that if she got bored she was free to go—she didn't have to wait for me. I went to change and showed up at the court at my appointed time. I'd forgotten that my opponent today was Lissa, a nice lady and a fierce competitor. Okay. Not just a nice lady. A gorgeous lady. An object-of-my-fantasies lady. A sooo-far-out-of-my-league lady. What a day to have a Melody watching. I was going to get my ass handed to me on a silver platter. I was a little self-conscious about having someone I know watching me—especially someone as cute and nice as Melody—but when Lissa's first serve went sailing past me, I got focused fast. It didn't take long before I was fighting for my life on the court and forgot all about my spectator.

"Wow! That was something else," Melody said as we exited through the low door to the court.

"Oh! You're still here."

"Who's your friend, Tony?"

"Lissa, this is my classmate Melody. Melody, this is Lissa. She's a women's amateur national champion."

"That was really amazing. Tony didn't mention that he was playing a lady. A really beautiful lady."

"Thank you. It's nice to meet you, too, Melody. Tony, you're showering here, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I like to get a steam and a hot-tub after a match. You?"

"Yes. I thought maybe your date would like a steam and soak, too. It's better than waiting out here alone for you."

"We're not..." I began.

"Thanks but I didn't bring a towel or anything," Melody jumped in.

"No problem," Lissa said. "We'll get you a guest pass. Everything you need is in the locker room." It was pretty clear that Lissa wasn't taking no for an answer and as I headed for the showers, Lissa and Melody headed for the ladies' locker room. That made showering a little embarrassing. Every time I thought about the two of them lounging around the women's steamroom or spa, I started to get hard. Getting hard is not something I want to do in the men's locker room. I sought shelter in the dense steam until I regained control of myself, then took a cold shower, and rushed to my locker to get dressed. I needn't have hurried. I was the one waiting outside the locker room when Melody and Lissa finally exited. They were laughing like old friends and Lissa gave Melody a hug before the two of us left and started walking back to campus.

"She is so cool!" Melody started. "She told me all about competing and her home and her two kids. Did you know she's a model? I mean a professional model!"

"Wait. Lissa has kids?"

"Don't you know anything? Yeah. Damon is six and Drew is four. She sure is in great shape for a mom, don't you think?"

"No kidding."

"You know what else? I asked her if she'd model for our class."

"No way!"

"She said yes! I'm going to give her number to Prof. McIntyre."

"That's a class I'll never make it through," I said. I was feeling cramped in my pants already.

"Let's get dinner at Dixie's," Melody said. I looked my question at her. She had the good grace to blush. "Sorry. I suppose you've got a date. Never mind."

"No! I mean ... It's Friday night. Don't you have a date?"

"Duh! If I had a date, I wouldn't have asked you out."

"You asked me out?"

"What? I need to be more formal? Tony, would you go out to dinner with me tonight? I know this nice barbecue joint called Dixie's. It's nothing fancy, but if you're not busy I'd love to take you out. There. Is that better?" Melody was turning bright pink, and so was I.

"No. I mean, no, you didn't have to be formal. Yes, I'd love to go to dinner with you. It just surprised me. I didn't ... Wow! I thought you had a serious boyfriend."

"Vicious rumor. Besides, I just want to talk to you about our final project." Oh. So that was it. It wasn't really a going out date. It was kind of a study date. Oh well. I could live with that.

We didn't bother going back to our dorms first. We just changed directions and walked the six blocks over to Dixie's. We were early enough that it wasn't too crowded yet and we split a full rack of ribs that was to die for. I was so caught off guard that I didn't have time to worry about whether I could talk to Melody. It just happened. We had barbecue sauce up to our elbows and were laughing so much that I didn't realize until we were leaving that we hadn't talked about the final project at all.

"Uh, did you want to talk about the final project?" I asked when we were still a couple blocks from the dorms.

"Oh yeah. I almost forgot." Melody was quiet for a long time and I decided that maybe the project was just an excuse to go have a good time together. When she finally spoke it was in a rush and it almost blew me away. "Would you be my model? I want to develop one of the sketches of you playing racquetball into my final project and I'd like you to pose for me."

"You mean... ?" I made a vague gesture at my clothes.

"Yeah. Nude," she said. She was definitely blushing now. "Oh god. This is so dumb. We never had male models in my high school art program. Mr. Johnson is the only naked male I've ever seen. This is so difficult. It's just to pose."

"Yeah, well, I mean ... You might not like what you see any better." Like I said, I'm not particularly self-conscious about my body ... except for one thing. I'm hung like a hamster. Everything is functional, and according to the books I've read, I'm completely average when I'm erect. But when I'm just carrying it around, it shrivels up like prune. The whole time I was posing for the class last semester, I scarcely created a bulge in my jock. And there was no way that Melody wouldn't be comparing me to Johnson's schlong. "I'd like to, but..."

"I'll trade," she squeaked. "I'll model for you with all your drapery hanging around if you'll model for me."

"Sure. That's fair. I don't think Professor McIntyre will let us do that in the studio, though," I said. Who was I kidding? If Melody Anderson was willing to get naked for me, I'd rent a room somewhere if I needed to. "We'll just have to find our own makeshift studio. You'd really do it?"

"I've had it in mind ever since the day you posed for the class. I hope you don't think I'm stalking or something. It's just for the art, you know."

"Yeah. Just for the art."

I left the planning to Melody. She said she had an idea and would let me know when we could work. In the meantime, true to her word, Lissa showed up in our studio the first Friday morning in February.

Sweet Jesus! I had never seen anything so incredible in my life. The woman who regularly beat me to a pulp playing racquetball at least once a month was there in front of me stark naked and looking like a goddess come to life. Lissa is about five-ten, the same as me. She's a real athlete with an amazing rack that just plain doesn't move, even without her sports bra. She's blonde up top and there was no way to tell about below because she was shaved smooth. When she was introduced, Prof said something about a real atelier model in our midst. I didn't have a six pack, but Lissa did. Not the gross body-builder kind, but the kind that was so flat and firm that you could see her muscles ripple beneath her skin when she moved. I knew from playing racquetball that she was graceful, but as a nude model in front of our class, she was like a panther stalking and then freezing with her muscles quivering, ready to pounce.

Yeah, I acted all professional and everything, but as soon as class was over and she stepped behind the curtain, I looked at what I'd drawn and sprouted an instant boner. When I looked at some of the girls, they looked a little glassy-eyed, too. After class, Lissa stopped to talk to Melody and when I caught up she turned and smiled at me.

"We're still on for this afternoon, right?" she asked.

"Huh?" Oh my god! We were going to play racquetball that afternoon. "Yeah. See you later."

"See you later? Don't tell me you have a date with that, that, that goddess!" Amy squealed as we walked into the cafeteria.

"We play racquetball about once a month," I said meekly.

"Yeah, sure. She bats your balls around, I'll bet," Sandra smirked.


"Yeah, really. I'll be there to chaperone," Melody said. I looked at her with my mouth open. She was coming to watch us play again? Since the last time she came to the club and we went out to dinner, we hadn't managed to get together once. What can I say? Stupid school. As boring as most of my classes were, it was still a ton of work. Fundamentals class had advanced from hours of stretching canvases to hours of prepping a huge mural wall that the instructor was doing for the school. It was listed as lab, but it was just grunt work. When Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel there were probably him and about thirty freshman students who mixed paint, plaster, and ran errands for him. If he was working, they were working. That's how the fundamentals professor was. We'd spent most of the past four weekends working or on call for hours to do the grunt work. It's the only other class I have with Melody, but I didn't see her once when I was working.

Melody and I got to the club and she had a guest pass waiting for her. She headed straight for the ladies locker room. I went to change and headed for the court. When I got there, Lissa was already showing Melody the proper stance for receiving a serve. She had her arms wrapped around Melody's waist to reach her hands on the racquet. It was sexy as hell.

"Tony, serve a couple of lobs for Melody. Don't go crazy. I promised I'd show her the fundamentals of play today and then we'll have our game."

"I don't mind," I answered truthfully. Melody was dressed in a tank top over a sports bra and a pair of short-shorts that showed the lower crease of her butt. And every time I looked at Lissa, I still saw her naked in my mind's eye with her perfect breasts and bullet-like nipples and her smoothly shaved pudendum. Of course, they were both behind me when I served, but I quickly back-pedaled to give Melody and Lissa room to return the ball. I was still watching the two follow through when the ball hit me in the chest. Melody screeched and asked if I was all right. Lissa just rolled her eyes at me and threw me the ball to serve again.

We worked like that for about 15 or 20 minutes and then Lissa said it was time for her to get my attention back on the ball, so a very winded Melody left the court to watch as Lissa worked my ass off chasing her serves from one side of the court to the other. I was amazed that I actually managed to score a few points; she really took me to school.

"Mercy!" I finally yelled, falling on my knees after the last point. "I'm no match for you today."

"Tony, you are never a match for me," Lissa laughed. "That's for having your head in a different room this afternoon. You're the only real competition I have here so I need you to have your head in the game." She gave me one of the most evil looks I have ever seen as we turned to the low door. "Now I'm going to take your girlfriend to the showers and get naked with her," she whispered in my ear. "Think about that for a while."

"She's not my..."

"Yeah. Sure."

Melody and Lissa left me standing outside the racquetball court, already getting hard.

"Next weekend," Melody said out of the blue as we were eating that night. I'd done my best imitation of her formal invite and she'd accompanied me to The Twister, a retro café with a lot of 60s paraphernalia hanging on the walls. I looked at her blankly, not comprehending the non sequitur.

"Next weekend is when we work on our final project. We'll have all weekend, so plan to skip racquetball that Friday and not get back until Sunday night. Pack your sketch supplies and paints and the canvas or watercolor paper you intend to use. I've made arrangements to borrow two easels from the studio so we won't have to dismantle one piece in order to work on the other. Don't bother packing much in the way of clothes. I expect we'll be naked most of the weekend."

I blew Coke out my nose.

"Where are we going?"

"I've got it all arranged. I've even got a car for the weekend to transport our stuff. Don't worry about it. Just be ready to go after class."

It was a damn fine day.

True to her word, Melody dragged me away from class without so much as stopping for lunch with our friends. We lugged two easels downstairs to where a Mazda SUV was sitting and loaded them in the back. Then Melody drove us to the dorms to load anything else we needed and in 20 minutes we were on the road. It wasn't a long drive. We drove up Queen Anne, weaving around dead ends where the street couldn't make the grade and finally winding around to the west side of the hill. I assumed we must be headed to Melody's home, as confidently as she was driving, but the place we stopped at was nothing less than stunning. The house was in a nice neighborhood and looked elegant from the front, but when she led me through to the back of the house, I was speechless. From the back deck there was an absolutely spectacular view of the water. The early afternoon sun was sparkling off the surface.

"This place is beautiful!" I said. "Is this where you live?"

"No. I borrowed it for the weekend. We'll be working downstairs. Let's get our stuff." We unloaded the car and this time Melody led me down the front stairs into a walk-out basement. The view was almost as good here as it was from upstairs, but only from the sliding glass doors. The rest of the room had been cleared of everything but the essentials. At one end of the room was a twin sleigh bed stacked with linens, pillows, and fabric. At the other end of the room, easily 30 feet long, was a hardwood floor. It looked like a dance floor ... or a racquetball court. The ceiling was nowhere near high enough, but it didn't take much imagination to see it as a court setting. I was pretty sure Melody wasn't planning to draw the ceiling.

"This is so cool! We can set your scene up at this end and mine at that end."

"You figured it out. I was afraid I was going to have to explain."

"I may be slow, but I'm not stopped. I don't know how you managed to arrange this but you are brilliant. But there's like ... um ... one thing ... You might not like everything you see and ... um..."

"Look, just set up your scene and I'll set up mine. We can flip a coin to see who goes first." With that she started setting up her easel and sketchbook while I started working on the drapery the way I imagined it.

"This bed is perfect. How did you manage this?"

"That Watteau painting you said you liked when we were talking about drapery—The Toilet. And the picture you showed me by Boucher—Resting Maiden. This reminded me of those. I just figured you could alter the headboard and fabrics when you paint."

"You put a lot of thought into this, Melody. Thank you. This just happened to be here?"

"Pretty much."

I wasn't sure what that meant, but I was so excited about setting the scene that I didn't investigate any further. Behind the bed, there was an adjustable coat rack to hang the drapes over. I made up the bed with pillows and hung my tricot drapes. When I framed the image between my hands, the drapes looked like they were suspended from skyhooks. I had a few props that I'd brought with me, as well. I positioned the ewer and bowl that I found in the theater props closet on a small table at the end of the bed. I went up to the kitchen and washed the purple grapes that I'd bought that morning at the market and brought them down in a bowl. I positioned candles strategically around the scene. I knew exactly what I wanted and where. When I was finished, I turned toward Melody at the other end of the room. She didn't have much in the way of props, but she'd thought to bring two flood lights with diffusion screens with her to create a bright corner of the room without casting shadows.

Melody looked at my setup and nodded. I looked at hers and wandered around under the lights checking for shadows as well. We met back in the middle.

"Should we... ?"

"You want a Coke?" We spoke at about the same time and laughed at our own nervousness.

"There's no rush," Melody said. "Why don't we go upstairs and have a little lunch before we get started. My stomach's growling." I'd been so focused on getting set up that I forgot about food, but as soon as she mentioned it I became acutely aware of my own hunger pangs.

"Great idea. Should we go get burgers?"

"Our ... um ... host left us food in the fridge."

"Is our host coming back while we're here?" I asked as I followed her up the stairs.

"Maybe. But she won't disturb us. Oh. We have the bedroom on the left down the hall."


"Um ... or any of the others, I guess. That's just the one she pointed out to me." Melody pulled a platter of cold cuts and cheese out of the fridge with mustard and mayo. There was a loaf of bread and a knife on the counter. We made sandwiches and drank Cokes in silence.


"Melody." We started at the same time again. This time she nodded to me to go first.

"Melody, this place is cool and all, but are you comfortable here ... I mean, alone with me? You know I'm not pushing for anything but our paintings, don't you?"

"I kinda suggested it, remember? And I should be asking you those questions. I mean, I understand if you really don't like girls, but Lissa said we all had that wrong. Still, if you're not into me, I still want to do the painting with you, and I won't ask anything else."

My heart was beating like a thousand times a second. Melody, my secret fantasy girl, was telling me she was available if I was interested. When I stood up I wavered a second, afraid I was going to pass out from lack of oxygen. I went around the little breakfast bar and stood in front of Melody. She looked up at me with ... I wanted to say hope, but I thought there was fear, too. I took her hands in mine.

"Melody, there isn't anything you could ask of me this weekend that I wouldn't give you. It's really more than okay." I pulled her up from her seat, thinking that we'd head back to the makeshift studio, but she melted against me and pressed her lips to mine. It was soft and gentle and lingered with tastes of hope and promise.

"Let's see how it goes," she whispered.

The next order of business was to determine who went first. Would I model and she paint or the other way around? Melody pulled out a coin from her bag and told me to call it in the air. She tossed the coin up and I yelled, "Heads!" The coin hit the floor and started rolling across the hardwood. We both chased after it, laughing. It rolled all the way into the corner and ended up leaning against the baseboard.

"Okay, I guess we know what that means." I looked at her blankly. "We both go at the same time."

"We can't both paint and model at the same time."

"No, but we can both undress at the same time. That's what all the uncertainty is about, isn't it? I'm afraid you'll think I'm not beautiful like Lissa and you're afraid I won't like your cock as much as old man Johnson's. So, we both undress at the same time and we just stay that way this weekend. Ready, set, go. Please don't hesitate or I won't have the courage to keep going," she said as she peeled off her t-shirt and reached behind to unsnap her bra. I quickly pulled off my shirt as well and then we both kicked off our shoes and shimmied out of our jeans and underwear in one move. In less than fifteen seconds we were both naked.

Oh god, she was beautiful. My eyes started up from her toes and got stuck for a minute on her bare pussy. She'd shaved it like Lissa's. I don't know why I kept thinking about Lissa except that she'd been modeling for us last week and ... I wrenched my eyes further up and saw two of the most exquisite breasts I'd ever imagined. I couldn't wait to touch ... I mean paint them. When my eyes reached her face I discovered hers were still glued to my crotch, her mouth hanging open.

My tiny little cock. Shit.

"Tony?" I glanced down and realized that my cock was rapidly expanding from a one inch flop to a six inch monster as she watched.

"I ... I'm sorry. It kind of does that when I ... well ... whenever I even think about you naked." At last her eyes rose to meet mine.

"You think about me naked?" I nodded. "That's so sweet!" She rushed at me and the kiss she planted on my lips this time extended all the way to the back of my throat. My cock was throbbing against her stomach as she pulled back away from me. "Maybe we should wait until it's dark outside to start painting. So we can control the light better."

"What should we do till then?"

"We could go unpack our things in the bedroom and see if the bed is comfortable."

"We have a bed right here," I said, pointing to the draped setting I'd created at the end of the room. She kissed me again and I lifted her, carrying her to the bed I'd set for my painting.

"Tony," she whispered as I began trailing kisses down her neck and torso. "Oh, Tony. I've been hoping for this since we first met. I was so afraid that you didn't like girls, or at least didn't like me."

"God, Melody. I'm so stupid. I just thought a girl like you ... I mean someone who's so pretty ... would never be interested in somebody like me. I should have said something but I was just so busy hating school that I couldn't imagine you wanted anything more than a lunch partner." I reached her left nipple and kissed it, caressing it with my tongue. The whimper she made and the pressure of her hand on the back of my head told me I was doing something right. I'd studied all the basic mechanics of the human body as an art student, but I didn't really have any practical experience. She pulled at me and lifted my head to return to her lips.

"I want you to explore all my body this weekend and I want to explore you, too, so don't think I don't want you to lick me. But what I really want first, is to feel you in me. Tony, before we do anything else, can we just make love?"

"Like I told you, darling. We can do anything you want."


"Melody ... I've never..."

"Me either. But I really want to. I want you."

I could feel her fingers wrapped around my penis and stroking the head up and down her moist slit. The combined fluids quickly coated both of us. When she positioned the head against her opening she began pulling me slowly into her. I was holding myself back, afraid I'd hurt her or lose control—not knowing what I was doing and not wanting it to ever end. When I was fully inside her she gasped and locked her lips on mine again. We kissed long and deep, not moving below the waist, but just feeling the magic of being joined together—realizing that in those few moments we'd made the transition and were no longer virgins.

For a moment, I was frozen. No wonder I hated school. It was why I'd never asked Melody out. I'd almost let this beautiful woman pass by. And now, she'd just reached into my heart and started it beating again. We pulled back from our kiss enough to look into each other's eyes and found that we were both crying. I hugged her, kissed her, wept with her, all the time just joined as deeply as we could get. I didn't care about having an orgasm. I didn't care that I was no longer a virgin. All I cared about was that I was so profoundly accepted by this incredible woman. Not just accepted. Loved.

When we finally began to move and slide together and apart, we simply kept looking into each other's eyes and holding each other in awe. We were one. We were all there was in the world. When our orgasms came crashing over us it was enough to knock us both out. I succeeded in getting an arm under myself so all my weight wouldn't crush her. With our cheeks pressed tightly against each other, I couldn't tell if I tasted my tears or hers.

"Wait," I whispered. "Don't move." I'd somehow slid off her, out of her. She still lay sprawled back across the bed. Her left leg was pulled up and leaned close to her outstretched right leg. Her head was thrown back against the pillows and her left arm was raised over her head. Her right hand lay on her stomach now that I no longer did.

I lit the candles, reached for my sketchbook, and began working furiously. It was perfect—the drapery, the light, the position of the ewer. Her breathing was music to me and I lost myself in that gentle pulse. Her eyes as she looked at me—their violet depths captured my very soul. I placed a small bunch of grapes in her left hand, dangling above her head. She barely glanced at them. A perfect model. In fifteen minutes, I had captured a sketch that I could transfer to my watercolor board. I was completely in love.

"You know," she said softly, speaking for the first time since we'd made love. "You're going to have to do that every time you want to get me to pose this weekend."

I figured I could live with that.

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