The other ladies in the class could have been cabbage patch kids for all I cared. I sketched quickly, capturing upon my pad the model’s handsome face, his muscled shoulders, his lean torso, leaving the good parts, his rugged wool, his sleepy penis, his nestling balls, for last. The model was good, but I knew what I wanted; I’m an artist. I roughed him in, toning his tight belly with my thumb, smudging the wool, drawing his dreamily slumbering shaft up and out with my fingertips, and stiffening the outline with my nails until his cock was full and firm and aimed right at me. Then I measured the dangle of his balls, chalking them, chucking them, cradling the contours and teasing the wrinkles and palming the heft. A single stroke more would do it, but I held off, admiring the cock’s velvet beauty and the droplet of juice welling and gleaming in the tight little slit. I adjusted my pad just in time. The cum splashed like cream. I let it drip for just a moment, then leveled the drawing face up so it could dry. All art needs that touch of reality, don’t you agree?

After class I showed the model my sketch.

“My goodness,” he said. “Looks like you’ve really captured my essence.”

“Not really,” I said. “To capture you completely I’ll need to have you in my mouth, my cunt, and my ass.”

“My goodness,” he said.

For perhaps sentimental reasons, I painted our first blowjob as if it had happened in the art classroom.