The Model

The Model
by David Cain

By the time her knock fell upon my door, I had almost forgotten the model was coming. I am so easily distracted these days. I had retrieved the clay from the back closet and cut off an adequate piece, but then I realized the paintbrushes were still soaking and didn’t want them to get soft, so I attended to them. Then there was a loud crash outside the window and I went over to see my downstairs neighbor washing his trash cans. I went back to the clay and couldn’t remember what it was for. Then her knuckles rapped shyly and I tried to recognize the rhythm but I had never heard her knock before and I had no idea.

“Come in, my dear,” I said. She wrinkled her nose, either at my familiarity or the thick stench of turpentine. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Sure, no problem,” she said, looking around, perhaps relieved to see all the signs of an actual working art studio. Models are always skeptical when they meet a new artist. Art is an often abused lure.

“How long do we have?” I asked, studying her form as I spoke. She looked a little older than she was, her meatiness overshadowing the youthful purity of her skin, her mature mane of hair belying her innocent eyes. I took her for twenty-three, looking all of twenty-eight in the right light. The muscles of her hand suggested musical training. I smiled.

“The afternoon,” she said, taking a seat on a stool, obviously meant for her by its position of isolation. “No later than five.”

“I’ll skip the sketches then and go straight into clay.”

“Okay by me.”


“That’s what Diane told me you wanted.”

“I’m asking you. I only want you naked if you’re comfortable with it. An uncomfortable model reflects badly in sculpture.”

“I’m comfortable naked.”

“Good. I was hoping for naked.”

“Okay then,” she said as she dropped her purse to the floor and lifted her t-shirt over her head. Her hair fell in loose curls onto her bared shoulders. For a moment, the contrast made me want to switch to paint. I chastised myself. There was no time to waste changing mediums. I could paint her next time, if the light was this good again.

The soft hue of her flesh bore the pink markings of elastic. Her breasts hung perched between their weight and her youth, hovering almost magically and jostling with every motion of her arms. Gentle reddish nipples slowly coalesced into a tight and pointed brown. I took a hold of the damp clay and began to stroke. I knew she was going to work out just fine.

She stood and after a moment of fumbling, her pants fell in a heap around her ankles. I stroked the clay more forcefully. Shifting her weight, she pushed her shoes and slacks onto the floor with her feet. She collected her shirt and pants and shoes and purse and walked over to a bare spot on my table and left them there in a heap. I broke off a hunk of clay and began to roll it vigorously between my hard hands. With a sudden deft plie, she pushed her panties past her bare feet and deposited them atop the pile of clothes.

Her legs were strong and her butt was firm in an excessive sort of way. She sat down on the stool with her legs slightly spread and scrubbed her pubes with three fingers, volumizing the light brown muff.

“How do you want me?” she asked.

I gestured with my fingers is a way she could not have understood, pointing and twirling and stopping and bending. Even so, she did a fair approximation of what I intended to convey. I admired the lines of her naked body and told her to stop.

The thick bulge of her labia reminded me of Donna, another model I had worked with years and years before. Soft swells of furry flesh forming a frame around the supple petals budding forth from the shaded crevice between. I had never forgiven Donna for the way she left me. I had never understood how she could leave.

There were other points of resemblance between this model and Donna. Both shared a slight sharpness of the chin. Their nipples had the same exaggerated point. The lines of their calves were almost identical. Elements of their breath conveyed very similar respiratory troubles. I knew what the model’s cough would sound like before she coughed. I could only imagine the same nibbles would excite her.

Staring at the model’s pussy began to affect my dick. In turn, my insistent gaze led her to spread her legs slightly, exposing a reflective glisten. My fingers dug deeper into the clay, pulling the sculpture’s thighs apart accordingly. My fingernails grazed furrows in the surface. I sighed, remembering Donna.

She knew who I was and she knew what I did. I suppose that she never accepted my devotion to my art, expected me to behave in a more normal fashion, but at the same time, she never had reason to think I was otherwise than I am. I lengthened the waist with an indelicate yank. I couldn’t stop sculpting to make Donna secure. I twisted the clay to give a curve to her foot.

“You’ve modeled before,” I said, “I can tell.”

“Some,” she replied, “when I can, when I need the dough.”

She sounded like Donna, not in the tone or timbre of her voice, but in the phrasing.

“I could use you, two or three times a week, if you’re interested.”

“No shit?”

“I have a series in mind. It’ll take some dedication, both from you and from me.”


“And paint. Does it matter to you?”

“No, I’m just curious.”

“Sketches, too. We’ll have to spend at least a week on sketches.”


“Sometimes. We’ll have to talk about costumes, as well.”

“I have some ideas.”

“We’ll see. I have plenty of my own.”


“Good. You can get dressed now.”

“Thanks. That was easy.”

“It won’t always be easy,” I said with a smile, wiping my hands on a cloth.

“I know,” she said.

“What’s your name,” I asked.

“Evelyn,” she replied. Her eyes were a greenish blue. Donna’s were almost black. Evelyn’s smile was broad while Donna had a pinched sort of mouth. Her arms were long and almost spindly. Her knee cackled slightly as she straightened her leg. I noticed the small stripe of an appendix scar when she pulled down her shirt. She balanced for a moment as she slipped her panties over her foot and there was a certain lack of grace. Her voice was like a song, at times.

“I’m glad to meet you, Evelyn. I think you’ll do just fine.”

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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