They were silent for a moment—Wesley just standing there and Jennifer in her chair, looking up into the admiring eyes of the youth that she admired at this moment more than anyone else in the world. Under that blanket, he was still naked. Wonderfully naked and perhaps still as erect as he had been while posing. All it would take was one gesture to pull away that blanket and expose his beautiful tool once again. There it would be, right in front of her. She would need only to reach out and…and…
And remember that this was a professional session, that she was an artist and he was her model! She set the sketch pad back on her easel and stood up before him. “Well,” she said, “for a first session, that went wonderfully. And it was a first session. I would absolutely like you to come back, for the price we mentioned. And it’ll be worth every cent.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I really want to see some more of what you can do.”
There was a remark fraught with meaning if ever there was one, but Jennifer pushed that aside. “Then we’ll absolutely have another session.”
She let him go to his bag and pick out his clothes, but she couldn’t help but feel a little let down as she watched him get dressed again. It seemed a mortal sin to cover up what he had between his legs and around back with a jock strap and khakis, and to put a tank top over that chest again. But she would see him again in all his glory soon enough.
Jennifer saw Wesley to the door, and they thanked each other one more time before he left. She shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, drinking in the memory of the hours that she had just spent with him. Then she went briskly back to the studio, took the sketch pad from the easel, and carried it to the bedroom with her.
She flopped down onto the bed like a teenage girl and spread across it all the drawings she had made, savoring her work on every one—especially the ones she had tucked in the back. She ran her eyes over her renderings of his face, chest, arms, thighs, stomach, and buttocks—and the part of him that he couldn’t stop from stiffening and stretching while she worked.
Leaning back against her pillows, her work spread out before her on the bedspread, Jennifer permitted herself the long, deep sigh that she had not made while she’d had Wesley in the studio. It was a very satisfied sigh indeed.
It was good to be an artist.
CHAPTER THREE
Wesley’s question when he returned to the penthouse and Jennifer proposed that he come over three days a week, as his schedule permitted, for three-hour sessions in the afternoon or evening at his convenience, was, “Are you sure you wanna spend that much money on just me? I’m just one guy.”
Her response was, “You should only know what some of my friends spend in a week for just an hour with a psychologist. And they don’t enjoy sitting on their therapist’s couch nearly as much as I enjoy you sitting for me. And believe me, I can very well afford it. Besides, think of all the money you’ll be making to put toward your Personal Trainer business. You’ll be set up very well and be able to make a real go of it.” With that latter point, Wesley certainly could not argue.
And with that, the deal was struck. Wesley worked Jennifer into his schedule around his hours at Diamond Gym, his personal workouts, and other daily activities. Jennifer blocked out their sessions on the calendar in her iPad; Wesley logged them in the calendar on his phone, and they were in business.
Jennifer went to the art supply store and bought new pencils, charcoals, and graphites. And colored pencils and markers. And watercolors and brushes. In all her years of drawing and painting, she had never felt as ambitious as she now felt working with Wesley.
Ambitious. Was that really the word for the way Jennifer felt? Was it only ambition that made her heart beat just a little bit faster whenever she thought of him sitting or posing so awesomely nude in her studio? Was it only ambition that she felt tingling up and down her spine when she ran a pencil, pen point, or brush over a sheet of paper to capture the lines and contours and shading, and the delicate bristling of hair, on Wesley’s body?
Did ambition alone curl her lips into a smile of delight every time she drew in tender detail the erect member and plump basket of berries that lay between his legs, or the sensuous curves of his buttocks when he displayed them for her rendering? Could she call it ambition when she counted the days, and then the hours, before she could see him again? Or when she felt a hot spike of excitement in her bosom when he rang the buzzer to be let upstairs into the penthouse?
Jennifer could have chalked all of that up to pure ambition. Or, like an artist, she could have attributed it to her muse. In which case, her muse would be telling her, You have pure twenty-five-year-old hotness sitting wooden in your studio. You’re the luckiest artist alive.
To keep things professional, Jennifer never remarked on Wesley’s inability to suppress his erection when he sat for her. One, she didn't want to make him self-conscious and uncomfortable. Two, she allowed herself to think of his young manhood as showing that he found it as stimulating to pose for her as she did having him for a subject. And she loved it that he felt comfortable enough with her to be so openly, casually aroused in her presence.
Besides, it made for such absolutely wonderful drawings.
The other thing Jennifer had to admit that she enjoyed was talking to him while they worked. It was not only that Wesley was young and male and almost unimaginably beautiful. There was a purely emotional side to his company as well. He was filled with energy and life. Though he was not wild and unfocused, though he was very disciplined, there was a feeling of pleasure and contentment about him, the pleasure of just being alive and being in the world. He expressed himself very youthfully, with a young person’s directness.
But there was a quality about him that was very genuine, very sincere, and terribly sweet. The pleasure of just talking to him made the hours seem to gallop by, making their sessions feel as if they were over as quickly as they began. This always left her back where she started, with a stack of drawings and paintings of his breathtaking nakedness and the “ambitious” feeling of looking forward to seeing him again.
One day, their conversation turned to a subject that seemed inevitable.
As Wesley lay stretched out on the futon, propped up against a pillow with one leg in the air and his long, hard tool curving upward from his bush, Jennifer sketched him in colored pencils and asked, “What do you do when you’re not posing for me and not working in the gym? You can’t work out all the time.”
“I work out every other day, though,” he replied. “One day working out, one day for a break. No excuses, no slacking off. The body needs the routine.”
“But you have friends, though. You must have friends—people you like to spend time with, go places with, do things with.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I’ve got workout buddies, guys that I hang with. After we work out together, you know, we go out for a drink, a bite to eat, sure.”
“And are those the only people you see outside of work—just the people you work out with?” she asked, her eyes moving back and forth from the image of him on the paper on her easel to the reality of him lying on the futon.
“Well, they’re the ones I’ve got something in common with, mostly,” he said. “You know, I’m not a big-city guy, and I haven’t been here that long.”
“I see,” Jennifer said pensively. “So, if you don’t mind me asking…where do you like to go, when you go out with your friends?”
“Mmm…different places,” he said. “Places around town. Places where, you know, people our age like to go. Clubs, bars, that kind of thing.”
“I see,” she said again. “I remember when I used to go out clubbing and bar hopping. I don’t do so much of that any more. Seems like your whole life revolves around that kind of thing at one point…and then things change. You meet someone, you get involved…” She lowered her hand from the easel and let the pencil rest in her lap. She looked out from the easel, but seemed not to be looking at Wesley, but someplace a long wa
y off—a long way and a long time. Almost dreamily she said, “…and everything you do and everything about your life…changes…”
Wesley watched her looking at something that only she saw, or looking for something that wasn’t there. He asked gently, “You were married, weren’t you?”
His question restored Jennifer’s focus, bringing her out of her momentary distraction. She still seemed a bit dreamy, however, as she returned her attention to Wesley.
“I’m sorry if that was nosy,” he said. “I just kind of expected…”
“I’m not offended,” she said calmly, and she meant it. She honestly wondered if it were even possible for him to offend her. “You’re right. I was…married. I’m divorced now. I got an excellent settlement—plenty of money, a car, some other holdings. I got this place. I’m very well taken care of; that’s obvious. Those are all things I have. What I had—but don’t any more—is the marriage. That’s gone.”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” said Wesley. “It’s none of my business.”
“No, no. Listen, it’s not as if it’s a secret, and it’s not as if it’s anything to be ashamed of. Marriages end all the time. People think being alone is this horrible thing because everyone always thinks in twos. But being alone isn’t a death sentence, you know. A lot of people don’t appreciate this about artists, but we’re people who learn to enjoy our own company. We pretty much have to learn that, because what we do isn’t something you usually do with someone else, or with a lot of other people, not unless you’re taking a class. When you’re an artist, you learn to appreciate…I guess you’d call it the companionship of your own thoughts. Does that sound…strange? Odd?”
“No,” said Wesley. “It kind of makes sense. It reminds me of being back home, back in Osborn Wood. There are a lot of chances to be alone there, too. Not like you are with your art, but… I kind of learned to like being by myself, too. Outside, outdoors. With just the air and the hills and the grass and the trees. Nature kind of teaches you the same thing art does.”
Jennifer nodded, understanding, and resumed her drawing. “Nature and art are very close,” she reflected.
They were silent for a moment, Wesley reclining on the futon and Jennifer picking up her drawing where she’d left off. Then she continued: “I have to admit, I find it a little difficult to believe someone like you has been alone that much.”
“What do you mean, someone like me?”
“What I mean is,” she said thoughtfully, “you’re a very bright young man. Very bright, very nice, very personable, easy to talk to, and easy to get along with. You make excellent company. And it goes without saying that you’re very, very attractive…”
He broke into a wide grin at the tenor of what she was saying. “Are you trying to ask me if I’ve got a girlfriend?”
“It stands to reason you would,” she said, watching him now with an eye that was more than just artistic. “As attractive as you are, you would have a girlfriend. Or…even a boyfriend.”
“No,” said Wesley, “I’m into girls.”
Jennifer’s interest was definitely picking up now. “Ah. So you do…date. And perhaps there is…someone you’re seeing?”
“I’ve been with a few girls since I moved here,” he said. “But nobody serious.”
“Oh,” Jennifer said. “Then was there ever…anyone ‘serious?’” As quickly as she asked the question, she waved her free hand in front of herself to dismiss it. “No, you know what? Never mind; that’s not my business. It’s outside of our working relationship, and I shouldn’t even ask. That’s your private life; I’m sorry.”
“No, no, that’s okay,” Wesley insisted. “I’ve got a past, just like you; it’s not a secret.”
“I’m sure your past isn’t at all like mine,” Jennifer said. And did not say, even as the thought hung in the air between them …and my past is twenty years longer than yours.
“But I’ve still got one,” Wesley said. “There was somebody. Somebody back in Osborn Wood. We were pretty serious. We were really into each other. Boyfriend, girlfriend—lovers. Me and Adela. We were really together, close, intimate as can be.”
Jennifer knew she had no business feeling this way, but she felt a pang of something in her heart to hear him talk about being intimate with someone else—a girl his own age, young and new to life and the world, who must surely have enjoyed that sexy, sumptuous body of his for so many nights.
She felt something twist up in a knot inside her at the thought of Wesley lying naked in bed with Adela, kissing her with the depth of passion of a young lover, wrapping her up in those awesome arms, folding those spectacular legs around her thighs. Caressing Adela’s breasts. Lying atop Adela and entering her, going so deep, sharing with her the thing that Jennifer so enjoyed drawing.
She had no right to feel any of these things, she knew. She had no claim on his past and only an artistic relationship with him now. But in spite of herself, she envied this Adela. Why had she ever let Wesley go?
Delicately, Jennifer asked, “Is Adela still in Osborn Wood?”
“Yeah,” Wesley replied. “I had things I wanted to do with my life. I wanted her to come with me, but she liked it there. She didn’t want to leave, and I couldn’t do what I wanted to do and stay there. It was hard, especially when she cried. I hated seeing her cry. I even begged her to come with me. It’s the only thing I ever begged for in my whole life. But she didn’t want to leave. So I left without her. And that was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I had to, but it was hard.”
Jennifer actually felt his pain and sadness at remembering his breakup. Empathizing with Wesley almost felt like remembering the end of her marriage to Ken—except that Wesley did not leave Adela for another girl, and she was sure that if Adela had left that place with him, they would still be together now and Wesley would be nothing but faithful to her. It made her ache to wonder why Ken could not be for her what Wesley was for this girl.
“I’m sorry,” Jennifer simply said.
“Yeah, me too,” said Wesley. “But I just had to get over it. I moved here, and I’ve dated around a bit. I mean, I don’t sleep around; I’m strictly one girl at a time. But there hasn’t been anybody else serious. Not like Adela.”
Another interval of silence followed that. Jennifer began to put shading and shadows on her nearly finished drawing, and they seemed to be symbolic of the mood in the studio at this moment. At length, she asked, "Have you ever been back there? Back to Osborn Wood?"
"I've been back a few times," he said, "passing through there on my way back up to visit my folks."
Delicately, she asked, "Have you...seen her since the two of you ended it? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"No," Wesley answered softly but flatly. "I asked after her, but...I guess she's been keeping mostly to herself since I left. I felt kind of bad about it. I wanted to go to her, to tell her I hope she finds somebody else and gets on with her life. She's a great girl; she deserves that. But I never got a chance to see her again."
"You still care, though."
"Sure, I care. I'll always care about her, even if I can't be what she needs. Breaking up doesn't mean you just stop caring, right?"
Jennifer nodded wistfully. "Right." And she thought of the number of times she and Ken had spoken since the divorce had become final. She could count them on one hand. He was truly gone from what had been their home and from her life. Sometimes she searched her heart for some remaining vestige of the love she had felt for him when they were first married. She found that what had once been a huge thing that seemed to fill up her entire being was now very small, rattling around in an empty space like a single marble in a big box. Did that mean she didn't care anymore? Did that mean Ken no longer cared? Or was it only that her life and his were now completely separate things?
This latest drawing was finished, and Jennifer was not interested in working any more now. The session was over. She put the pencil she was using back in its box on
the table and closed it up. With a sigh of satisfaction at the work she had done this session, she said, "Well, I think we're done for now. Want to come and have a look?”
“Sure,” he said. “Hold on a minute.” And while she waited, he sat upright on the futon and began to stretch. She organized the drawings of the day, as usual tucking the ones of just his male area and his buttocks in the back of the sketch pad, and from the corner of her eye she watched him flex his arms over his head and in front of him, then lean forward and stretch his arms behind him. Then he stood up and did some bends at the waist and at the knees, and stood with his legs apart and bent at the waist from side to side.
All this he did while still so superbly, arousingly naked, and the foreskin delight between his legs bobbed and swung with his movements, dwindling from an erect curvature to a soft but still long and thick hose of flesh.
When at last he bent down to pick up a towel that he had left on the floor in front of the futon and wrapped it around his waist, Jennifer wanted to say, Please, you don’t have to do that. But she refrained, knowing that if he brought his fully naked body near her with that awe-inspiring tool fully exposed, she would be fit to pass out.
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