“We have a prop for you today, Johnny,” purred the avant-garde lesbian-feminist art instructor I thought of as Ms. Muff. I hated the way she used the royal “we,” and I hated her version of my French-Canadian name, Jean.
There’s something about being naked in a roomful of fully-dressed people that makes it hard for me to assert myself. In fact, trying not to get hard usually took up most of my energy. I stood quietly, forcing my arms to stay at my sides, while Ms. Muff strutted around me in her black jeans, tossing her sun-bleached hair and looking amused. She probably fantasized about cutting me up and serving choice bits as hors d’oeuvres at the next lesbian brunch or gallery opening.
“Face the ladder,” she ordered, “then hold onto the rung at your chin-level. Can you hold that pose without moving for thirty minutes?”
Even with the eyes of twenty-five students, mostly women over thirty, on my boyish derriere, I had my pride. I couldn’t refuse the challenge. “Sure,” I answered loudly enough for my audience to hear.
As I settled into my pose, I could almost hear the silent laughter of the mid-life dyke set as they studied my chestnut hair, the long muscles in my back, my firm ass and my hairy legs. I was a young male specimen to them. On their Amazon planet, I would be lucky to be kept alive for stud service.
I could see the clock with its slowly-moving second hand. Ten minutes into my pose, I was feeling the pull in my shoulders. Then I felt something else: a steady look like a hand squeezing each of my asscheeks.
I looked around as far as I could, listening tot he sound of charcoal pencils on newsprint. Terrance was sketching my body with long, strong strokes, glancing up from time to time. Catching my eyes, he gave me a warning look: don’t move, boy.
His attention made me shiver. I wanted to stay in position for him, but my arms were aching and my back was in knots. I had only served half my sentence, and I already felt crucified. Obviously my summer job at Burger on the Run hadn’t turned me into an Olympic athlete.
I tried to take my mind off the strain on my arms by thinking about Terrance: his solid build, his hawk nose and crystal-blue eyes, his neat wood-brown beard, his long, experienced, nicotine-stained fingers. He looked like an old man to me. I had never thought of myself as a daddy’s boy, but I had never met a daddy like him before.
I had ten minutes to go. Hanging onto the ladder for dear life, I could feel my whole body sagging lower. I wanted my watchers, including all the women, to know how much I was giving for their art. I am Man, hear me grunt.
I didn’t want Terrance to think I was a wuss, a sissy-boy who was not up to his standards. I thought he needed to find a David to inspire him to the achievements of Michelangelo.
“Time’s up, Johnny,” soothed Ms. Muff as she touched my shoulder. I uncurled my fingers, then slowly moved my burning arms away from the ladder. I told myself I was a professional model and should act like it.
I straightened up. My buns still tingled as though every hand in the class, from the softest to the hardest, had had a feel. I could see some of the women looking confused and looking away, as though I had turned back into a human being as soon as the witch in charge had released me from her spell.
I pulled my robe over my shoulders as casually as I could. I strolled from one easel to the next to see how the students had drawn me. I knew this embarrassed them, and I thought it was only fair.
I came to Terrance’s sketch last, and he made no effort to hide it from me. When I looked at his image of me, I felt as shaken as a rat in the jaws of a terrier.
The picture was amazingly precise and detailed. It showed a strained and stretched body pushing its gluteus maximus toward the viewer as though begging for attention. The thighs beneath looked like patient Greek pillars, and their straight lines pointed to the ass which served as a focal point, a magnet for the viewer’s eyes. Its two globes looked like ripe peaches drawn by an Old Master with a talent for shading. The mysterious darkness beneath the crack suggested unseen treasures.
I knew then what Terrance wanted from me. My willie was rising, and I tried to cover it with my robe. Before I could tie the sash, Terrance grabbed my hand possessively. “Put your clothes on,” he told me, “then we’ll go for coffee.” He made “coffee” sound like a code word for something too delicious to be named in public. Terrance studied the front of my robe and patted my butt. He didn’t seem to care who saw us, but I suspected that his touch would have been more demanding without a female audience.
I could smell my own sweat when I left the room, wondering if I really heard muffled giggles. In the men’s can, I pulled on my shirt and jeans as quickly as possible.
Most of the women had gone when I walked back into the studio, but I noticed Ms. Muff running a hand through her hair as she talked to Terrance. Hot resentment burned in my stomach, confusing me. I wanted to slap the gamey smile off her face, even though I didn’t really think he wanted to be her pet.
Terrance glanced at me. “See you tomorrow,” he tossed at her over his shoulder, grabbing mine. He seemed to be treating Ms. Muff as a younger woman, not necessarily an expert in anything, and I was ridiculously relieved. His grip on me wasn’t gentle, but it soothed my soul.
We walked silently to the parking lot, where he let me into the front passenger’s seat of his car. The man who now felt like a date drove smoothly to his apartment building, parked, and guided me with a hot hand on my back to the elevator that took us to the twelfth floor.
A picture window in Terrance’s front room showed a bright blue sky over miles of city and the vast prairie beyond. I felt as if the whole world was speeding past my eyes as the Man pushed me to the sofa. “Face down, boy,” he growled, his teeth against my neck.
“Terrance,” I answered, wanting him to know I would give him whatever he wanted.
“Take them off,” he ordered, pulling my shirt out of my pants. I pulled it over my head, hoping the muscles in my arms showed to advantage in that gesture. I unzipped my jeans and began pulling them down, shimmying a little to ease their way.
My host wasn’t impressed by my flirting. He slapped my covered butt to stop me from moving. Then he yanked my pants down to my knees and slapped me again on both bare cheeks. Echoes from his right hand ran down my legs, up my back and into my groin. My shaft jumped smartly to attention.
“Ah,” laughed my new Master, noticing my reaction. “He likes it. He’ll get all he needs.” Terrance continued slapping each of my buns by turn until I realized that his slaps were meant to enforce his earlier command: lie down. I bent over to pull my pant-legs off my feet as quickly as possible. This move exposed me to more of his stinging impatience.
My hot ass was starting to register pain when I threw myself onto his sofa and his mercy. I groaned as my swollen dick met cool leather upholstery.
A pair of competent arms held my shoulders down. The manly chuckle that went with them sounded more threatening than the bark of a sergeant-major. “You like to show off, boy,” stated a powerful voice. It wasn’t a question. “You show me your ass, you take the consequences.”
I wanted to make some gracious speech, offering him my basket as though it were a Van Gogh or at least a Tom of Finland, but my position made it hard to talk. A finger coated in cold grease slid into my anus as though it belonged there. I couldn’t help wriggling as chills ran from my invaded hole to my neglected cock and up my spine.
I could feel more fingers joining their neighbor. They felt like snakes burrowing deeper into their new home as they stroked the walls. I felt myself opening and spreading. “Whose ass is this, boy?” asked the voice of the man above me. His sharp teeth suddenly nipped my ear, making me jump. My ass clutched his fingers, and he responded by digging deeper. He was working up a slow fucking rhythm.
“Yours, Sir,” I responded.
“Then don’t shoot your wad until I give you permission,” he warned me. Too late: a groan burst out of me as hot juice spurted from my young, untamed dick. The evidence lay smeared on his leather sofa like Exhibit A for the prosecution.
Terrance’s hand in my hair pulled my head up and turned me to face him. “I’m sorry, Sir,” I mumbled. I felt like a failure and I wished I could disappear.
“You have a lot to learn, Twink,” he snarled, spitting in my face. “I bet you were always a Mama’s boy, allowed to do whatever the hell you pleased. Not in my home, Johnny. Here you shape up or you get out.”
The possibility of being kicked out of Terrance’s digs like a burglar or drunken party guest made me briefly think of proving myself by throwing myself off the twelfth-floor balcony. Even that, I realized, would probably make me look immature and out of control. Not to mention banged up.
I felt very naked when Terrance pulled me off the sofa by my damp hair. “What do you think you should get, greedy slut?” he demanded. “What would teach you some self-control?”
To this day, I don’t know what made me say what I said next. “Your belt, Sir,” I begged humbly, even as I shivered in dread.
He laughed and casually twisted one of my nipples between two fingers. He smiled sarcastically as I winced. “You think you could take it, boy? You seem pretty thin-skinned. Well, someone has to toughen you up. Over my knee.”
Terrance already had his belt coiled around one hand, and I didn’t dare provoke his temper any more. I lay across his lap, desperately hoping I could make good on this added chance to impress him. What I felt under my stomach seemed like a good sign.
The first stroke made me yell. He gave me just enough time to gather my breath before the next one, and this time I was able to turn down my volume. As he steadily set my ass on fire and sweat rolled off my forehead, I learned that I could control my outward reactions. I was proud to know this.
I could feel tears prickling my eyes when he let me up, but I wasn’t really crying. I was broken apart but calm, if that makes sense. Terrance looked mellower than he had a few minutes before.
The Man studied me, and I remembered that he was the artist who had first seen me as a body on display. “You’re marked, Johnny,” he told me, gently touching my sore skin. “You’ll heal, but a photo will help remind you.” I continued standing as Terrance gracefully stroked his own thick, marble-veined shaft.
“You want to get fucked, Johnny?” he teased me. The sight of his solid tool combined with the heat in my butt made me feel faint, but my new knowledge of my own endurance made me unwilling to refuse anything. Before I could answer, he opened his mouth in a hearty laugh. “You’ll get it, man, but not yet. Can you give good head?”
I kneeled before him and let him hold my head as I guided his hot rod between my lips. The taste and the feel of him felt like a promise. As I worked him with my eager tongue, I heard him call me his “best boy.”
I knew he would take my ass soon. That was guaranteed, and his ownership would be recorded in photos, sketches, and probably even paintings and sculptures in due course. His vulnerable power in my mouth made me willing to wait. In the meanwhile, I could feel my proud buns glowing like a neon sign.
© 2001 by Jean Blanchefils (Jean Roberta). Not to be reproduced without author’s permission.