Paint Me Like Your French Girls

Once she entered the room, my eyes couldn't leave her. Where I was flat she was full, where I was angled she was curved; and she was naked for me (and the rest of the class) to draw. Her gaze settled near me and she sat down, her body settling to give me the best view I could wish for.

Drawing her was like touching her. The charcoal was me running my hands across her skin, feeling every wonderful curve of her body. Her eyes were unmoving from me, like she was exploring me, undressing me while I savored her. My senses heightened, the texture of the paper vibrating through me like her touch, our passion growing, all in front of a dutifully drawing class.

The instructor ended the session, and I was left quietly buzzing. She put on her robe and walked around, looking at the other drawings while the class packed up. I was frozen, trying to calm down, not noticing her until she put a hand on my arm. "That was fun," she whispered with a smile, before walking away.