December 26, 2014

Life Drawing ~ A Friday Free Read

 Life Drawing is a very special, very meaningful story to me... a story paralleling my personal journey in discovering a love of women.



The lines of the model’s arms, crossed over her bent knees, run so smoothly, so perfectly up to her elegant naked shoulders.  She lays her head sideways on her elbows. She is not looking right at me, but at a point behind me and somewhere to my right.  It’s as if I don’t exist to her at all.  I suppose that, really, I don’t.
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Her face is beautiful.  I’m careful with it, adoring the soft shadows and planes as I draw: the sweep of her long, brown bangs across her forehead; her eyes, lightly fringed by thick, full lashes; the blade of her nose, slender and Romanesque, above the thoughtful line of her lips.  She’s not smiling, but not frowning either.  She looks distant, like she’s lost in another world.  Or maybe she's bored, sitting bare-ass naked in a college art studio with thirty students staring as their pencils all go skritch skritch on heavy paper.
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Even if this is the case, she looks utterly natural.  Casual, in fact.  I realize, as I follow the contours of her slim, tan body, that I want  to touch her.  I’d like to feel the smooth line of her jaw, the underside of her upper arm, the curve of her calf, everything.  I want to run my hands down the knobby line of her backbone, kissing the skin there gently as I go, and to trace my tongue over the hollow of her neck or just behind her ear.  My pencil will have to do the touching for me.  I search her, each dimple and freckle and even the small white scar on her hip, and I commit it to memory on the page, painstakingly thorough. 

(original art by kyle mjoen illustration)
(original art by Kyle Mjoen Illunstration)


 I wonder how she got that scar.  Did she fall off her bike when she was little?  Did she bang herself up against the sharp corner of a table?  

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I wonder, idly, if she likes men or women.  
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I love the way her hair falls over one shoulder as she stares off into the empty space.  It’s a natural color—soft, quiet brown, like the velvet coat of a pretty little rabbit.  I love that she doesn’t dye it, try to make it more bold, or darker, or blonde.  It suits her the just way it is.  I wonder if she likes it, or if she looks at it every day in the mirror, like I do mine, and wishes it were different.  I have very straight, very boring hair, the color of dark copper, and I keep it cut short enough to tuck under a ballcap. It’s easy and doesn’t take much to maintain.  Her hair, though, is wavy, just south of curly.  I think I might like to run my hands through it, but at the same time I would be afraid to spoil its pleasant, easygoing cascade if I did.
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My pencil flows down the shape of her waist and traces the little jut of her hipbone, then rounding to the subtle arc of her buttocks.  She is skinny, not slender or curvy but athletic.  Her breasts are like two little brown teacups, her large areolas dimpled in the air-conditioned studio, her nipples dark, hard little nubs.  I can’t help but want to taste them.  
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I indulge myself for just a moment as my pencil creates the negative space of shadow between her folded thighs.  I fantasize that it is just the two of us in this room, no other students, no chorus of skritch-skritches except for my own charcoal on paper.  I am drawing her with the same humble joy that the great masters must have felt in the company of their Madonnas and Mona Lisas, a shy exultation at the intimacy we are so privileged to share.  In my fantasy, I imagine that soon I cannot sit behind my easel any longer, and that I come up from my seat to be with her.   
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I climb onto the table, crawling towards her to kiss her, to take one of her small, perfect breasts in my hand, running my thumb over her little nub and pinching it just a tiny, playful bit.  I nudge her gently down onto her back and start by kissing her breasts, rolling my tongue over the hard candies of her nipples, sucking at them hungrily while her fingers slip through my hair.  In my mind I can hear the sound of her quiet moans, not loud or fake or forced like in bad girl-on-girl skin videos, but calm, just a soft, breathy sigh against my ear.  I trace my tongue down the line of her flat tummy, tasting the little cup of her navel before dipping down to the place of her sex.  Yes, I think I’d like to lick her, right here and now.  I’d like to taste her pussy.
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A smile touches my lips as my mind comes back to class and my pencil comes back to her face.  I shade in the delicate folds of her eyelids and caress the outline of her ear.  
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She is beautiful.  I wonder if anyone else in the studio realizes this. 
The skritch skritch on paper goes on.
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 ***
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It’s days like these when I think of you, Becca.  I think about you every time we have a lady model for us, and I remember how much I always wanted to draw you.  I know the perfect pose: lying on your back in bed, on top of rumpled covers, your arm over your head and the sweet, soft swell of your breasts so innocently open to the world.  Do you remember that day the air conditioner burned out and it was too hot to wear clothes in the dorm?  You lay there in your panties, the slightest sheen of sweat on your skin, fondly reminiscing about skinny dipping back home.  Meanwhile I just sat across from you, admiring you in all your laid-back loveliness.  In all the time we’ve been friends, I’ve never wanted you more than I did at that moment.  That’s what I’d like to draw.
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Did you ever know how much I admired you over the years?  Did you know how much I wanted to crawl into bed beside you in the dark, to mutter into your ear while I caressed you, explored you, ran my fingers along the cleft of your pussy and feel you dewy and wet?  Did you even know I was gay?
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Probably not.  But who knows?  Sometimes you surprise me.
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I’ve always been so goddamned shy with other girls.  I spent most of my life behind an easel, safe with my charcoal and a thick sheet of sketching paper between me and the women I found so beautiful.  I was already two years into my college life before I even kissed a girl for the first time.  We were at a Halloween costume party at one of the frat houses.  She was like my Sappho, spying me from across the room and plucking me out of the crowd, like a lady plucks a sweet plum from a bowl of delicious fruit.  We made out in the upstairs hallway, she pressing me against the wall while her tongue flirted with mine.  She tasted of cherry liquor, sweet and a little naughty, a little yummy.  
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I’d been wondering about it for years, of course.  I knew I liked girls from the first time I had to change next to the others in freshman gym class, and I’d always been happy to admire their graceful bodies in shy silence.  That’s when I started drawing them.  I never found the courage to seek one out, though, to break the fourth wall I kept so solidly between myself and my models.  I liked to look at them, yes, liked to fantasize about them, but I never acted on my desire.  I'm not sure I knew how.  I blame the resources I had at the time: boys and their locker talk, dirty movies my brother kept in a box under his bed.  I didn’t want to fuck other girls.  I wanted to seduce them, to romance them, like a gentleman.  I wanted to connect with them.  To make love.  
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There were no tender, slow indulgences in the skin mags, either, no poetry or artistry—they were just embellished descriptions of the sex act.  I already knew how sex worked.  I’d taken Biology, after all, and the kinky details thrown in might have been arousing, but they didn’t do much to make it real for me.  The couple of videos I could sneakily manage to watch while my parents were out of the house always felt overdramatic and fake.  I wanted to feel how a girl felt when her lover touched her, when her body opened up like an eager flower to be tasted, to be explored, to have her sexual hunger satisfied by a questing tongue, or lips, or fingers.
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At that Halloween party, I couldn’t believe how natural it was, how easily my new friend’s hands found their way under the front of my costume.  I was dressed as the vampire from Underworld; she was a Playboy bunny.  She slid both thumbs over my stiffening nipples, and then slipped palms down my hips and into my leather pants to my ass, pulling me a little closer to her as she did.  She made my skin tingle everywhere she brushed against me, and she was very warm, letting me hold her tight and feel the contours of her body firm against mine.  The smell of her delicate perfume mingled with the sweetness of cherries and amaretto, making me groan softly in pleasure between kisses.  It still makes me excited, even a little wet, just remembering her lips in the dark.
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The first time I had sex with a girl, I was the one who initiated it.  You were gone that weekend, and I had her over to work on a literature project.  We finished our research early, but neither of us felt any pressing need to be elsewhere.  We spent a good hour chatting about school and work and all other manner of minutiae, until she happened to pull out one of my sketch portfolios and started going through it.  Right away, she commented on the nudes: she noticed with ease how few men and how many women I’d collected.  For some reason, it was easy for me to tell her why.  Maybe it’s less complicated, coming out to those you’re less attached to rather than to the one you most admire? 
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She was intrigued when I told her I was gay.  She admitted with a sneaky smile that she thought my careful, loving illustrations of the female form were, well… touching.  Then she asked, a little boldly, if I would ever consider drawing a picture of her.
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 I caught the flirtation well enough. I think I may actually have blushed, as ridiculous as that sounds.  Faced with the prospect of acting on my shy desires, I realized the weight of finally breaking that fourth wall, the difference between being only an observer to my precious models, and of really being.  I’d only just begun to understand the magnitude of my own wants when my Playboy bunny kissed me… and suddenly, here they were in full, tempting abundance, offering themselves up freely for me.
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At first I was unsure whether I wanted to take the chance I was being given.  It was actually you that convinced me, Becca: for just a second, my eyes strayed from my classmate’s pretty face to the pictures you had on your desk.  All your bright, brilliant mementos of family, friends, school, life.  Your smile, it was like a secret, daring encouragement, urging me to go ahead and let that last of my tentative caution sift away for good.
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If she had been dating anyone, dating a boy maybe, I would never have gone for it.  I didn’t want some staged, played-out dorm room fantasy from those movies and skin mags, a dolled-up sketch scene written for hard-ups who like to think that all college girls do is secretly sneak out on their boyfriends and screw with other girls instead of studying.  She was single, though, and she had that look in her eyes… that shy, covetous, not-quite-sure look, a look I was fairly familiar with myself… so I took a chance.
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“Would you like to model for me?” I asked her carefully.
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She smiled, and glanced away.  There was a definite blush on her cheeks, a charming bloom of pink on her light, fair skin that was just absolutely darling.
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“Maybe… but how would you do it?”
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I chewed on the question for a long moment.  Then I reached out gently, slowly brushing the long sweep of her straight blonde bangs away from her face, letting my hand trace down the curve of her cheek and to her throat.  I pictured her in black charcoal, nude and innocent, rendered to parchment by my hand.
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“I’d draw you topless, I think…” I muttered.  “From the waist up… a torso study, something very graceful, candid.  Like one of the Greek sculptures.”
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My hand drifted down the back of her arm, lightly grazing her skin.  I could smell her shampoo, and I liked the feel of her cool cotton shirt under my fingertips.  I thought back to my Playboy bunny and the dark hallway and the cherries, and then, I leaned in to kiss her.  
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For one terrifying instant I felt for sure she was going to pull away in uncomfortable panic, shocked at a grievous misunderstanding—then, though, her lips were there, warm and soft, returning my curious desire. 
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We made love on your bed.  Sorry about that, but mine was the top bunk and we were awkward enough already without the threat of rolling over the edge of a second-story mattress.  It was awkward, and we shared more than a few nervous laughs.  One thing about never breaking the fourth wall is that you never realize how self-conscious you are about your body if you’ve never thought about actually sharing it before.  I suddenly knew with terrible clarity I was too gawky, too tall and very, very boyish.  And I’m not sure if she had ever fooled around with a girl before, either: she seemed just as uncertain as I.  I suppose that was okay, though.  It made it easier on both of us.
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I spent a long time on her breasts.  I hadn’t been lying when I told her I’d have drawn her topless: her tits were beautiful.  They were small, but so sweet, just adorable.  I loved the shape, the rosy color of her skin and the hard little pebbles of her nipples as I rolled them under my tongue, just as I’d always fantasized I would.  The feel of her body under my hands was smooth and cool, as if I had drawn her on high-quality sketch paper and then brought her image to life just as I’d like it.
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Of course, I’m sure everyone tends to remember their first time a little more fondly than it probably deserves.  I know she wasn’t really that perfect: she had a pimple or two on her chin, she was wearing the most unsexy panties, and she was clumsy taking off my clothes.  My stomach let out an ugly growl just as I was trying to decide how to lay her down, too, and I bumped my head against the ladder on the bedframe when I tried to kiss her.  So yes, it was clumsy, and it didn’t progress as smoothly as it did in all my daydreams; it wasn’t as neat and graceful as the figures I draw in my portfolios. Still, I’ve always idealized this memory of my first time.  It’s one of my dearest fantasies, because that is the way that I want it.  Perfect, pimples and stomachs growling and all.
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I do remember she couldn’t finger me for her life.  Her probing digits were sharp and too rough as she slid them into me: they hurt, and I quickly decided I did not prefer it.  I told her to switch with me and let me pleasure her first.
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I had wanted to go down on a woman for so long I could barely remember when it first became a desire.  The thought of her soft, pink labia—the tiny little bead of her clitoris throbbing beneath my tongue—the way the inside of her felt and tasted, like luscious, wet fruit. At least, that was what I imagined, and I wanted it so badly.  I had fantasized about it all through my adolescence, agonizing, watching the girls in high school and letting myself daydream about them.  I used to masturbate in the shower, thinking about licking my dance teacher, or the girl who sat across from me in class, or the model on the cover of that month’s Maxim.  I had wanted to taste a woman’s pussy for years, and when my literature partner spread herself open for me, all I could do for the longest time was admire her.  
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She was so beautiful—like a violet pastel flower, like those watercolor paintings in day spas, soft petals opening up at the gentle caress of my fingers.  Her pussy was prim and neat, the thatch of darker blonde hair trimmed but not shaven, curly and glistening on a bit of a plump little mound.  She smelled excited, sharp and ready and hot, and at first I just nuzzled my face against her inner thighs, loving the scent of her arousal, gently kneading my own clitoris through the thin cotton of my panties.  I savored the warm, thrilling anticipation of tasting a woman for the first time.
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She was very wet, and she was bittersweet as I stole my first kiss.  I shyly dipped my tongue between her inner labia, the thin folds sheened with the pearly juices of her cunt.  Oh—I loved it.  I kissed her clit gently at first, and sucked on the stiff little peak of it like a tiny button candy, rolling the tip of my tongue over it and over it while she giggled quietly and ran her hand through my hair.  It was hard not to go faster.  I wanted to lick her up like honey, lick every inch of her warm sex, slipping my tongue deeper and deeper into her hot, quivering entrance, but I forced myself to go slow.  
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I was kneading my own clit a bit harder, so eager to come while I ate her out, the sparks of my own pleasure begging me to satisfy them.  I was wet through my panties and I slipped my hand under them, sliding my middle finger down to my entrance.  In and out, I slowly fingered myself while my tongue laved curiously at her slick pussy.   
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Oh, God, Becca, it was wonderful.  I swear I almost felt drunk from it.  I wanted to make her come so much, to taste the flood of her wetness when she orgasmed for me…  
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I spread her a little wider with two fingers and licked her deep, kissing her clit just before I slipped in again, breathing in the heat of her body and the sharp smell of her sex.
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She did moan while I was eating her out, but it wasn’t the big, fake moans of a porno actress.  Hers were soft and almost shy, but they were excited.  She uh-huhhed when I slid my tongue in a little quicker, and I knew I had done well.  I licked her in and out and she mm-hmmed excitedly, stroking my head as I tongued her even deeper, moaning in between tastes of her while my fingers still worked desperately at my own wet cunt.  She was rocking her hips against me, and I loved the way she did it as I licked her even more eagerly, more hungrily.
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She hit her climax with a sudden spasm, digging fingers in my hair to hold my face against her, and I nearly died at the taste of her coming in my mouth.  Now I was really moaning, fingering myself with heated excitement until I started coming, too, flooding with high, dizzy pleasure as my pussy quivered and tightened again and again.  
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I remember I started to laugh then, because it was all still so unreal.  I was still a little star-struck, I guess.  I watched women, I fantasized about them in quiet patience, but I didn’t sleep with them.  Now I was actually in bed with one, actually having sex with another girl, and I couldn’t really fathom that this was me.  Why hadn’t I ever taken the chance before?
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I wonder if straight girls feel the same way their first time.
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She and I fooled around a few other times, playfully initiating one another into the world of sensual exploration.  I loved to taste her, every part of her, savoring the salt and sweetness of her skin as though it were always my last chance to enjoy it.  I could tease and kiss her flush pink nipples for hours, slowly sliding my fingers in and out of her cunt while I sucked and adored the swell of her breasts.  She gave me my first licking soon enough, spreading my pussy and tonguing my clit hungrily, kissing it, gently affectionate with it, until I came hard enough I almost cried.  She got better at fingering me, with practice, and then she would pleasure me skillfully with two slender digits until I was just on the verge of climax, stroking me until I arched my back and dug my nails into the bedsheets, wriggling with bliss.   She’d close her lips around my clit at the exact moment I started to orgasm, my body convulsing against her, throbbing with joy.  Afterwards, she’d slip her wet, sticky fingers out of me and let me suck on them, tasting my cum on her before she slid one thigh between mine, pressing our naked clefts together, rubbing clit against clit with thrilling desire...
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I still daydream of my first lover, when we have a model with long blonde hair or those perfect small tits.  She’s studying abroad now, and I think she might be seeing some cute little English girl.  That makes me happy.  I’ve dated a few other women myself, here and there, and I find their company so much more satisfying now, from this side of that fourth wall.  She will always be a very special favorite of mine, though—one of my most precious sketches, hidden in my portfolios with my Playboy bunny, and the slender brown-haired model with the tiny white scar on her hip. 
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And you, Becca, even though I never got up the courage to tell you.  Even though I never found a way to express how much I admired you.  
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I have a lot of sketches in my books that might be you, in some way or another.  One of them might have your hair… another, your cute little ears or your cherubic nose.  Even so, I’ve never captured that perfect picture of you, the way you were that day when the air conditioner was out, lying on your bed so unaware of how beautiful you looked, how much you broke my heart.  Sometimes I wonder if I lost a chance with you, never being able to put these feelings into words.  I never dwell on it too sadly, however: there will be another day, another model, another quiet, unspoken desire while the pencils go skritch skritch on the paper and I carefully commit another beautiful curve to memory, another smooth line of flesh.  
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One day, I will be able to draw you.  And one day, maybe you will see it… and maybe you will know how I feel.


Looking for more lesbian erotic romance?
More F/F titles by Brantwijn Serrah:

 

A courtesan's love...
A vampire's curse.

Reagan's love for her princess
runs deeper than anyone knows...

Even fallen angels
Can have a Christmas Wish

Kylie's looking for something different
in "Graveyard Games",
part of Crimson, Volume 1
(link coming soon)
The sweltering heat of summer
won't stop things from getting steamy
between Shannon and Cora
in "Heat of the Night",
part of Coming Together Through the Storm
Rhiannon gets a delicious surprise
in "Her Dark Rewards",
part of Crimson, Volume 2




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