I never thought agreeing to help Jamal would lead to this.

It started innocently enough. Jamal—my old co-worker from the nonprofit days, now running community programs—called me a couple weeks ago. “Hey, we’re doing a sex-ed workshop for some recent immigrant guys. They’ve had zero real education on this stuff back home. Videos feel too impersonal, too clinical. A live model makes it real, helps them ask questions without shame. You’ve done life modeling before—would you consider it? Just standing, pointing out anatomy. Nothing crazy. I’ll be there the whole time, translating, keeping it respectful.”

I laughed it off at first. But he kept talking about how these men—mostly in their twenties and thirties, from places where sex ed is taboo or nonexistent—needed basic knowledge to navigate relationships here. “It’s empowering,” he said. “You’d be helping open minds.” I’ve always been the type who says yes to things that scare me a little. What’s the worst that could happen? I thought. A bit of nudity for a good cause? I can handle that. So I said yes.

Now here I am, standing in the small back room of a nondescript community building, heart hammering under my thin robe. The space smells faintly of coffee and old carpet. There’s a raised platform with a padded mat, a couple of folding chairs arranged in a loose semi-circle, and—unexpectedly—a large flat table tucked in the corner. A small table nearby holds bottles of lube, a box of gloves, a few sex toys still in packaging, a mirror on a stand, tampons, and some other items I can’t quite make out. My stomach flips. This looks more medical than “life modeling.” What did I sign up for? I wonder, a flicker of doubt creeping in. But Jamal said it was basic. I trust him ... right?

Jamal knocks softly and steps in. He’s tall, calm, always steady. “You good?” he asks.

I nod, though my mouth is dry. “Yeah. Just ... more props than I expected.”

He smiles reassuringly. “Some of the guys are curious about practical things. We’ll keep it educational and rather show then tell. If anything feels off, you say stop. I promise.”

His words ease me a little, but my pulse races. I slip behind the small privacy screen, untie the robe, and let it fall. Naked. The cool air hits my skin, tightening my nipples instantly. I feel so ... exposed already, even alone back here. My mind races: Am I really doing this? Standing bare in front of strangers? But it’s for education. It’s empowering. Isn’t it? I take a deep breath, step out from the screen, arms at my sides, chin up.

The eight men are already seated—quiet, watchful. Ages vary; some look nervous, others openly curious. They speak in low voices to each other—languages I don’t recognize, maybe it is Arabic. Jamal stands beside me like a translator and moderator.

The murmurs hush as I appear. Eyes roam over me—breasts, belly, the smooth bare mound between my thighs, the faint glint of my clit piercing catching the overhead light. I feel the heat rise in my face and chest, a vulnerable flush spreading. They’re staring. Judging? Curious? I shift slightly, fighting the urge to cover myself. This is just anatomy class, I tell myself. I’m helping. But God, why does it feel so raw, so intimate already?

Jamal clears his throat and begins speaking in a calm, measured tone, switching between English and what sounds like a mix of the group’s languages. He gestures toward me, pointing out basic terms—breast, nipple, abdomen—while the men nod, some jotting notes, others murmuring questions back. I catch fragments: the word for “breast” repeated, a soft chuckle from one corner that makes my cheeks burn hotter. He’s explaining something about function and cultural differences; I can tell from the way he uses his hands to demonstrate shape and purpose. The room feels like a classroom, but I’m the living textbook, and every eye is on me.

He turns to me. “Please turn slowly, so they can see all sides.”

I do a slow circle, feeling every gaze like a physical touch. They have seen a naked woman before, right. I assume some of them are married, but maybe not. My skin prickles under the scrutiny—back, ass, the curve of my hips. When I face them again, I stand still, hands loose at my sides, but inside I’m a storm: What are they thinking? Do they see me as a person, or just ... parts? The vulnerability hits hard, a mix of nerves and an unexpected thrill bubbling under the surface.

A pause stretches out, the room quiet except for a few whispers and Jamal’s low voice continuing to explain something about female anatomy in their language. Then the first question comes—soft, hesitant, in accented English from a young man in the front row.

“Why do women have breasts?”

Jamal smiles, translates the question fully for the group, then says to me, “Good starting point. Breasts are for feeding babies, but also part of sexual response. Sara, can you lift them slightly so they can see the shape and the nipples?”

My heart thuds. Already? I hesitate for a split second—This is fine, it’s educational—then cup my breasts from underneath, lifting them gently. The motion makes my nipples stand out more, and I feel a fresh wave of exposure. The men lean forward slightly, murmuring among themselves. Jamal speaks again, pointing to the curve and the areola, explaining something about milk ducts and sensitivity. I hold the pose, seconds ticking by like minutes. Their eyes on me ... it’s overwhelming. Am I breathing too fast? Can they tell how nervous I am? My arms tremble faintly; I hope they don’t notice.

The murmurs fade, and another voice speaks up, deeper this time. Jamal translates: “Why do the nipples get hard like that?”

Jamal looks at me, his expression neutral. “It’s a natural response to cold, touch, or arousal. Want to demonstrate?”

I nod slowly, though my mind screams: Demonstrate? How? One of the men stands at Jamal’s invitation, approaches carefully, and—after a quick glance for permission—gently pinches my left nipple between thumb and forefinger. The sensation is electric, shooting straight between my legs. My breath catches audibly. He rolls it lightly, watching it tighten further. Oh God, this is happening. A stranger’s fingers on me, and I’m reacting. Wetness stirs below—please don’t let them notice.

Jamal continues speaking to the group, gesturing toward my chest, explaining the physiology of erectile tissue while the man keeps his fingers there, testing the change. The others watch intently, some nodding as if taking mental notes. I feel like a specimen under a microscope, every twitch and flush on display. Shame floods me, but so does heat, pooling between my thighs.

The man steps back, nodding thoughtfully. But the room doesn’t stay quiet long. Another man gestures, and Jamal translates again: “Difference between fake and real breasts?”

Jamal turns to me. “They mean implants. Can they feel them, prove yours are real? They think all western women have fake breasts.”

I swallow hard. Feel? My vulnerability spikes—This is escalating already. But I nod, whispering “Okay.” The same man returns, cups my right breast fully, squeezing gently to test firmness. Then another joins, his hand warmer, firmer. They take turns, groping, comparing notes in their languages. Jamal keeps explaining—something about tissue density, natural vs. augmented—while their hands knead and press. My moans slip out unbidden—soft, involuntary—as fingers explore. I’m standing here, letting them handle me like fruit at a market. Shame floods me, but so does heat, pooling between my thighs. What am I doing? This was supposed to be simple posing.

Jamal smiles at me. “You’re doing great. They’re learning a lot.”

Distracted by what is happening, I didn’t notice that a man in the back reaches for the plastic cup of ice water and fishes out a half-melted cube with his fingers. Before Jamal can react, the young man pops the cube into his mouth, sucks on it for a second to clear the meltwater, then pulls it out, glistening with his saliva, and presses it directly against my right nipple.

A sharp gasp escapes me. The cold is immediate, shocking, laced with the faint warmth of his mouth. My nipple tightens so hard it hurts, a bright, aching peak under the freezing burn mixed with the intimate trace of his spit. I flinch, but I don’t pull away. My arms stay at my sides, breasts still lifted slightly from the earlier pose.

Jamal’s voice cuts in, gentle but firm. “Hey—easy, brother. We ask permission first. Always.”

The man freezes, ice cube still pressed to my skin, looking sheepish. He glances at Jamal, then at me, murmuring something apologetic in his language.

Inside I’m reeling. The cold sears, spreading through my breast like frostbite in reverse, but now there’s this extra layer—the knowledge that his saliva is coating my nipple, melting into me. My nipple is so hard it feels raw, throbbing with every heartbeat. Water starts to drip, a slow, icy trickle running down the curve of my breast, over my ribs, toward my stomach. I can feel it inching lower, a cold path toward my navel, then lower still.

I swallow. My voice is small, shaky. “It’s ... it’s okay,” I say. “He can keep going. It’s part of the lesson, right?”

Jamal looks at me, eyebrows raised, checking. I nod quickly, not wanting to make a scene, not wanting to be the one who stops everything. I’m here to help. I’m supposed to be the brave one. However, how long is he going to ice cube there, as it is very cold.

He exhales softly. “All right. If you’re sure.” Then he turns back to the group, resuming his calm explanation in their language, gesturing toward my chest, pointing out the areola, the way the nipple contracts, the physiological response to cold versus arousal. His voice is steady, teacherly, like he’s discussing weather patterns instead of my body under ice. Is he not noticing that the cube is still on my nipple? Hello!!

The ice cube stays pressed there, unmoving. The man holds it steady, fascinated, watching the water bead and run. The cold is relentless—my nipple aches, sore now, overstimulated. The meltwater traces a slow, chilly line down my sternum, pooling briefly at my navel before continuing its path, dripping toward my mound. I feel it reach the top of my smooth lips, a cold kiss against my heated skin, then trickle further, mingling with the growing wetness between my thighs. My clit twitches involuntarily at the contrast. God, they’re going to see it. They’re going to see everything. I want to use my hand and remove his hand with the cube, but I know they can be weird about certain aspects, so I decide to just toughen it out.

While Jamal speaks—pointing, explaining, using words I don’t understand—the men start to move. They rise from their chairs one by one, drawn closer by the demonstration, forming a loose circle around me. The room feels smaller, warmer, the air thick with their presence. They’re close enough now that I can smell faint cologne, coffee breath, clean soap. Hands reach out casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One cups my left breast fully, squeezing gently to test firmness while listening to Jamal. Another follows, his palm warmer, firmer, kneading the soft flesh, thumb brushing the side of my nipple. A third joins, fingers tracing the curve, then sliding under to lift and weigh. They take turns groping, comparing notes in their languages, hands overlapping sometimes, brushing each other’s as they explore. Jamal keeps talking—something about tissue density, natural vs. augmented—while their hands move over me like I’m a shared exhibit. I stand frozen, trembling slightly, letting them feel, letting them learn. My mind is a whirlwind: This is insane. I’m dripping from ice and touch and shame. Did I okay this? I think I did.

The cold water finally reaches my crotch, a thin, icy thread slipping between my folds and move by pubic hair. One of the men notices first—he points, says something quick in his language, and the group quiets for a moment, eyes dropping lower. Jamal pauses mid-sentence, then translates the new question, his tone still calm:

“All females have lice?”

My stomach drops. The ice cube is almost gone now, just a numb ache on my nipple, water still dripping, and now they’re asking about lice. Down there.

The lice question hangs in the air like a bad joke I can’t laugh at. Jamal translates it again for clarity, his voice steady as ever: “They want to know if all women have pubic lice. It’s a common misconception in some places as western pubic hair is different and they saw you move.”

He looks at me, waiting. “Sara, would you mind showing them the area so they can see there’s nothing there? It’s important for them to understand hygiene and grooming.”

My heart slams against my ribs.I feel so exposed. Still, fuck why not, how much worse can it get. I am already naked and now chilled and wet. I nod, throat tight. “Okay.”

I step my feet wider apart, knees soft to keep balance. My fingers tremble as I reach down again, parting my outer lips, then gently spreading the inner ones wide. The cool air rushes against my slick, heated folds. My clit is swollen, the piercing glinting, arousal shining openly now. The cold meltwater from the ice has left a wet path that mingles with my own wetness, trickling down my inner thighs. I’m mortified. They can see everything.

The men move closer without being told. The loose circle tightens into a near huddle around me, heads dipping low, faces inches from my crotch. Their breath brushes my skin—warm, uneven puffs that make me shiver, but nice compared to the chill of the ice. Jamal steps in too, leaning over my shoulder, pointing with a gloved finger (when did he put gloves on?) as he explains in their languages: grooming habits, shaving vs. trimming, signs of infestation. His voice is clinical, patient, like he’s teaching a biology class.

Then he adds, in English: “Many women groom and remove some or all of the pubic hair. It’s a common practice here to feel cleaner and to attract more men.”

The words hit me like cold water. To attract more men? In my head, they twist instantly: He’s saying I’m a slut. I mean, look at me—bikini line neatly trimmed, everything smooth and bare except for that tiny patch above my mound. I did it for myself, for confidence, for summer swimsuits ... but right now, with their eyes on me and Jamal saying it out loud like it’s just a cultural fact, it feels like he’s announcing to the room that I’m the kind of woman who grooms to get fucked by ‘more men’. My face burns hotter than ever. I’m not just a model anymore; I’m the example of the “easy” Western woman. Shame coils tight in my belly, mixing with the humiliating throb between my legs.