by Lucy Felthouse
There’s never been anything between you and I, except a professional relationship. And I prefer it that way. I walk in, strip off, you tell me how to pose and we get on with it. But posing isn’t just about keeping still. You have to give off an air of sexiness when you pose for an erotic artist; and I find the easiest way to do this is to think about sex.
So I disappear off into my own head, as you in yours capture my naked form and transfer it to paper. I imagine the pencil or brush you are using is fingers caressing my body, whilst I am stock still. I pretend that there are unseen faces trying to turn me on with strokes and pokes, probing into all my most secret places. The anonymous crowd watches me, each touching me in turn until the atmosphere is thick with sexual tension. I want to be touched properly. I long for someone to knead my buttocks with their hands, pry them apart and touch me in my most intimate place… with a finger, or a tongue. Being watched and not touched is a sweet torture.
By now I’m so horny I really need relief and I hope that the juices dribbling from my pussy don’t seep onto your carpet. You’d know then that I’d been thinking naughty thoughts. And that won’t do. We have a strictly professional relationship, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
I leave fairly quickly after our sessions… have you noticed? I have to go home and masturbate… I can’t wait any longer – bye!