Ladies' Art Class

Ladies' Art Class by Susan Selton

Passing under the shadow of the university bell tower, Anne cast her gaze across the quad.

Students leisurely strolled from one building to another either walking solo or engaged in chatter with fellow students. Evening classes draw an older crowd, including pensioners wishing to explore a given subject as an avocation, maybe even an adventure. Most students who crossed Anne's path, however, were twenty years her junior, some still studying for their A-Level qualifications.

All told the university comprised an eclectic mix of the talented, the beautiful, and the curious.

The looming shadow of the bell tower followed Anne to the Art Department where a gust of wind caught the hemline of her long skirt as she rounded the last turn of her walk. "Mustn't let that happen," she said aloud, clutching her purse tightly whilst clumsily traipsing through the public setting.

Resolute, Anne always felt that she possessed an innate artistic streak, a curious gift, but her principal reason for signing up for the ten-week Life Art class was to meet a man -- but not just any man. Art attracts a gentler, more refined man, she was convinced, and what better way to meet a room full of distinguished men than to take an art class at the university? Anne reflected upon the possibility that there might also be one or two societal misfits in the class. Art also attracts these, she imagined, but I shall avoid those blokes as best I can. With a beaming smile and an unconscious touch of her left hand down the side of the long, thick skirt she was wearing, with an inadvertent sigh Anne wondered if she would be the only woman in the class.

Anne possessed a pretty face and an attractive body, but the latter she always kept covered up.

Gathering her courage, Anne entered the assigned classroom -- that for obvious reasons was set up as an art studio. Several students were already present, all women, and Anne felt self-conscious that she might be the youngest.

The art studio extended a mere fifteen or so metres in each direction, a cozy arrangement filled with a dozen or so standing tripod easels, adjustable stools, and miniature tables -- configured into an informal semi-circle surrounding a slightly raised centre stage. Spotlights fixed to boom stands punctuated the room and an adjustable lamp set in a reflective dome and attached to a shoulder-height adjustable mechanism loomed overhead.

The smell of paint was ubiquitous. A fan was directed to the centre stage, aimed at a two-metre padded bench.

A stave here, a collection of colourful backdrop curtains there -- bunches of paint brushes wrapped in rubber bands sat obediently in the far corner, adjacent to a modesty wall haphazardly propped up. The exterior windows facing the parking area were covered with blocking paper, and amongst the mishmash of colours and textures was a sign that read "mind yourselves."

Completed paintings remained in the building, locked in the storage room for three days, as they required this much time to properly dry.

The other students deferentially filled the seats away from the centre stage, wryly commenting about who would take the hot seat -- that is, the seat closest to the stage. A plump dark-haired woman sat in it, to the garrulous laughter of the other women. It immediately became evident to Anne that several ladies knew one another, and that they signed up for this art class semester after semester. Anne found it odd that the other ladies left their purses open on the floor at their feet.

A slender woman dressed in loose slacks stood in the corner, sorting through paperwork, official looking -- Anne thought, and who apparently was the instructor. Only occasionally did she look up, toward the students, but primarily glanced back and forth at the clock.

Rather abruptly, the instructor introduced herself to the assembled students as Olivia, inviting the students to each take a seat. To Anne's dismay, when class began it was entirely comprised of women -- each trying to find herself, she thought -- and now that registration was closed, the instructor intoned, there would be no new students. Olivia added that the ladies paid for materials, instruction, and 'access' -- a word that elicited an eruption of giggles throughout the room.

At this point Anne still didn't know what Life Art is, thinking that she would paint pictures of bowls of fruit or flower vases, and that her finished projects might make nice gifts for her neighbours.

When a young man entered the art studio the ladies laughed and applauded -- some greeted him by name as Tommy. A ruddy British lad of average height and with curly red hair and deep-set brown eyes, Tommy apologized for his late arrival before slipping behind the modesty wall in the far corner. This didn't keep Olivia from publicly chastising him, however; she had been speaking for twenty minutes, having already let each lady give a brief presentation about herself and her experience with art, then after allocating the paint and brushes to each student, began with an introductory lecture on art theory, and specifically, the role of nudes in art history.

The depiction of the nude figure in art can be traced back to the ancient world. In Greece, the nude was celebrated for its idealized beauty and became a common subject in sculpture, votive pieces, and frescoes. These works of art were intended to inspire and educate viewers, showcasing the human form at its most perfect and divine. Similarly, in Rome, the nude was also a popular subject, frequently depicting mythological figures or victorious warriors.

Over the years this university class has metastasized into a female artist and male model discipline, focused on both the male figure -- how he is perceived and represented, as well as the female perspective and experience of the male. So often we clothe ourselves in garb that obscures who we really are. But when we strip the male of any pretense, in the process, we discover ourselves.

The central question of this class, therefore, is how do women perceive and experience males?

What Olivia left unsaid was that the dynamic had become a sexually charged interplay between older women, who remained fully clothed, and much younger males, all of whom were nude.

Then, donned in nothing more than a standard-sized bath towel, Tommy tip-toed from behind the modesty wall to sit on the padded bench before the assembled women, only then drawing back the towel to expose the nether regions of his young naked body. It was at this point that Olivia lit the incense and put on the music.

"I want to make it clear," Olivia began -- as the ladies prepared their palettes, "that all the models we contract at the university are at least eighteen years old. Tommy is a return model, and just turned twenty. His first pose will be for twenty-five minutes, then we shall give our model a break and I shall provide you preliminary feedback on your first art project."

Anne watched the other students start with broad gentle strokes to frame the lad's silhouette, then work their way down to capture the details of his anatomical features. The ladies were dressed casually -- in wrinkled slacks and equally unattractive tops, which made their work look effortless. One woman reached into her purse, bypassing her lipstick and opting for a piece of chewing gum. Occasionally a student leaned forward, held out her brush, and intensified her gaze.

The plump dark-haired woman sitting in the hot seat pursed her lips, hoping to get a twitchy reaction from the naked boy just a short distance from her. It was a game nearly all the ladies played at one time or another -- a competition of sorts, to see which woman could best arouse the flaccid penises of the young male models. Models were to maintain their pose for the duration of the session, "but this is one muscle that lads can't control," the women cruelly shared amongst one another.

The floor fan sitting before the model was turned on, and other than soft music playing in the background, the only noises in the art studio were the sound of brushes lightly passing over the canvases. Alternating from brush to brush, the image of the lad filled the ladies' canvases, each image from a unique perspective.

The scent of cinnamon was now pervasive throughout the room.

Anne's canvas remained blank, however, and it was all that she could do to keep from staring at the young man's flaccid genitalia. The lad was immobile -- and it struck Anne that in his nudity he made himself perfectly submissive before a roomful of ogling women, most of whom were in their fifties or sixties.

The ladies furthest from the young male model worked at a leisurely pace, seemingly spending more time admiring the boy than painting. Seated in the middle of the room, Anne was happy that she wasn't sitting any closer. The plump dark-haired woman continued pursing her lips and staring straightaway at the model's penis.

Then in a flash, Anne grasped the closest brush in her tray and outlined the lad's face in deep blue, unlike the other ladies who each opted for black or charcoal. Switching out to a finer brush, she started on his eyes -- in mahogany, then turned the brush backwards to crudely apply a mixture of yellow and red for his hair. From there the work went quickly -- his neck, shoulders, and torso -- then onto his lower body.

On Anne's very last brushstrokes, Olivia announced that it was break time and made her way from painting to painting. "You stated in your intro that you're not formally trained, is this correct, and you've never worked professionally?"

Anne nodded.

"I mean, you adopt something of a painterly style, clearly -- unrestrained by conventional methodologies, and unlike anything this class has ever produced. Your finished work will be locked in the storage room for three days until it dries. At that time, you can retrieve it. Anne, I hope that you remain with us the rest of the semester."

At the break, the ladies looked forward to the return of a particularly well-endowed lad named Rogelio, the following week, in fact. "We'll put you in the hot seat next week," the plump dark-haired woman taunted. You're good, but let's see how good you really are when a big boy shows up."

Anne heard the fabled stories about Rogelio -- and that the ladies were relentless in their childish quest to stiffen him up. Anne was also cautioned that although Olivia was aware of their tawdry game, so long as their womanly antics weren't obvious and school administrators didn't get involved, 'Olivia doesn't care one way or the other' -- although Olivia accommodated the ladies by playing a selection of sensuous music, setting the fan to a higher speed, and lighting a special blend of incense anytime a big boy was scheduled.

Olivia found the ladies' behaviour amusing -- continually gobsmacked over good-looking lads a third their age and relishing the lads' vulnerability, but she didn't blame them. She also knew that nude modelling attracts a certain type of bloke.

"It doesn't take much to get these lads to twitch for us, or more than twitch" one woman confessed -- her playful eyes darting back and forth, "even though many of us are old enough to be their grandmothers." Her voice had a cheerful tone, Anne noted, and she suspected that the woman with the cheerful voice wasn't at all displeased by the spectacle of nude lads becoming sexually agitated in the presence of fully-clothed older women. "Next week we'll put you in the hot seat, and see how good you really are," she said, repeating the words of the plump dark-haired woman.

The following day Anne received a telephone call from Olivia, ringing her up to ask if she had Anne's permission to place her painting of Tommy on display, once it fully dries. "The Department Head is very impressed with your work -- your first work, and he thinks that it should be part of the current exhibition at the university art gallery. The Department Head would also like to meet you, Anne, and he hopes that his busy schedule permits him to attend our next class meeting."

"What is his name?"

"The Department Head's name is Mr. Baxter."

For the rest of the week, Anne's imagination wandered. What is this exhibition and why was my painting selected? More importantly, who is this Mr. Baxter and why does he want to meet me? Anne envisioned Mr. Baxter as refined and cultured, a good dresser, and probably tall. Yes, he would definitely be tall. The day before the next class Olivia called Anne once more, reminding her about class the following day.

"You'll be here, won't you?"

The day of class, Anne arrived at the university an hour early, first making her way to the Art Gallery to see the exhibition. She had walked the campus several times previously, navigating the paved walkways between a succession of stately grey buildings, and enamoured by the leafy trees following the dreary British winter. Spring brings so much promise, she thought. Amongst the other works of art on display in the gallery she found her painting of Tommy where three women were gathered.

"'Tommy' is extraordinary," an elegantly dressed woman exclaimed. "The lines, the depth, the unconventional perspective. And of course, the tone. It speaks to me."

"The artist is European," another woman added, but I can't definitively place anything else about its style. Anne noted that this second woman wore high-heeled boots and equally thought it odd that she would wear a hemline not normally associated with women her age.

"There's no name ascribed to this work, nor is it signed, but it's obviously by a female artist," replied the third, a woman with disproportionally large breasts. Then with a tittering giggle, "it's positively scandalous -- I mean, she's declaring their relationship out in the open, but I feel like its MY relationship. I can't look away, although I feel that I should."

"Yes, it's by a female artist," the first woman repeated. Then tightening her lips, "the lad is her muse and they have a sexual relationship, obviously, and by extension, the viewer now enters into that relationship. 'Tommy' is truly extraordinary."

The third woman continued her tittering giggle. "Ladies, forgive me for saying so, but I find this work of art, well, arousing. Not because the subject matter is nude -- we regularly see nudes, but that he's nude for HER."

The elegantly dressed woman charged, "I didn't know quite how to articulate it, but yes, I find it arousing also. I mean, the artistic quality of the piece is unsurpassed -- and perhaps that's what makes it so... so..."

"Positively scandalous," the large-breasted woman blurted out, her giggle having turned into laughter.

The high-heeled woman coolly concluded, "It has its appeal."

The first woman stated, "Ladies, I think she's arrived -- the woman we've been waiting for."

Anne didn't know how to respond to hearing this critique of 'Tommy' -- and particularly that her painting left three grown women sexually aroused and comfortable enough to discuss this publicly.

Anne crept away, walking the campus aimlessly.

The reason I joined the art class was to meet a man, she lamented, but men ignore me. It's as if I'm invisible. Her wandering ended in the Students' Union, but not before she passed a thicket of trees and an adjacent memorial for boys who died in war, a monument with a dozen or so bayonets turned upward. Sitting at an empty table in the far corner, Anne drank a cup of tea.

Two lads approached her, introducing themselves as Charlie and Luca, asking if she would tutor them in Composition. "You're a teacher, aren't you?"

In anticipation of Rogelio's appearance, and despite the rain, the ladies of the Art Class dressed smarter than they did the previous week, wearing brighter lipstick and more colourful outfits.

"One of our big boy models will be here tonight," the plump dark-haired woman chirped. "Let's see if Olivia lights the jasmine incense and plays the bedroom music this time."

The ladies then recounted an experience from the past semester where, between sessions, Rogelio walked about the room, from canvas to canvas -- entirely nude -- speaking with each woman about her painting. "He put his hand on my shoulder whilst he was chatting me up," the plump dark-haired woman purred.

"And he was in 'fine form,'" another lady giggled, referencing the partially developed erection the well-endowed lad was sporting at the time. "A brilliant todger on that one."

One woman claimed to have intentionally brushed the back of her hand up against his leg whilst he stood next to her. "He liked it, of course, and he winked at me. I wanted to run my hand all over his body."

"Only Olivia is allowed to do that -- when she has to re-set a pose."

"All these wankers twitch whenever Olivia re-sets a pose," the woman with the cheerful voice replied. "Lads can't help but respond to a woman's touch -- handled by a resolute woman and all. Something about a woman's soft hands freely running up and down their naked bodies arouses those naughty peckers. The same as when lads are forcibly stripped, or so I've been told."

It was also rumoured that Rogelio made himself available for private modelling sessions, although none of the ladies had personally ever contracted Rogelio or any of the other lads for this. "These boys are desperate for work and can be coerced into doing anything," one woman said. "There's a private studio located behind the storage room for this sort of thing."

"He's such a randy boy, and it's well-known that this lad fancies grown women," the plump dark-haired woman added. Moreover, Rogelio was said to know his way around a woman, but this conjecture was also unsubstantiated.

"Forcibly stripping this randy lad would put him in his place," the woman with the cheerful voice insisted. "Doing so makes even the most strong-willed lad submissive. But only a resolute woman could play the part."

Upon entering the classroom, Anne was directed to the hot seat by the plump dark-haired woman, with the admonition "try not to gasp -- Rogelio usually selects which ever woman is sitting in the hot seat to serve as his inspiration, his muse. Just show him a little leg or unfasten a button. You know, he fancies grown women."

A moment later Olivia arrived, having just shared a brolly with a handsome young man, tall and of muscular build -- who was immediately greeted by a roomful of jeers and silly smiles.

"Ladies, I'm sure you all remember Rogelio from the autumn semester," Olivia announced.

Attired in a white shirt and tan slacks, the boy's olive complexion was prominent. Universally described by the ladies as dishy, his tussled jet-black hair effortlessly fell to his broad shoulders, their breadth accentuated by his tight waist. He was very good-looking -- his face so kissable Anne thought, but privately chagrined by the mischievous meanderings of her womanly imagination.

Anne's eyes locked on the lad's face before moving down his torso -- resting on each button before darting to her empty palette, where her gaze steadfastly remained. Darker tones, she thought, trying to concentrate on the task at hand.

In short, the boy was a specimen, possessing a lean male physique that makes women swoon. Without Anne noticing, Rogelio disappeared behind the modesty wall.

Anne's thoughts drifted to the memorial to boys who died in war, a dozen or so bayonets turned upward, then to Charlie and Luca, whom she just tutored, albeit briefly.

Composition always came naturally to me, Anne reflected, and considering the limited hours and flexibility of my remote editing job, stopping by the campus to meet with these two lads wouldn't be a burden. Such tender boys. One a British boy -- whose accent immediately gave him away as a Geordie, and the other an international student. They needn't know that I'm not a member of the faculty.

She wondered if Tommy or Rogelio were students. I'd be mortified to bump into either of them whilst walking about the campus, she worried.

Anne was convinced that she wasn't like the other ladies in the art class, merely pursuing a hobby and in the process trying to find themselves. The others are unlikely single and childless, isolated in a lonely flat, going on holiday alone, and waiting for a man to sweep them off their feet, she thought. Anne wasn't looking for a hobby; she needed a connection, a relationship. Maybe even an adventure.

Something that could be confirmed by simply taking hold of a man's hand.

Rounding the corner from behind the modesty wall emerged Rogelio -- confidently strutting to the stage and simultaneously smiling at the ladies. Unlike Tommy who sheepishly covered up in a towel whilst readying himself for his pose, Rogelio was forthright in putting himself on display. After the initial chorus of deep sighs taken in by the women, the room became unnaturally silent.

Olivia had laid out a black-and-grey patterned bedspread across the stage, upon which the lad could select his pose -- although it was customary for Olivia to make this decision on behalf of the models.

The pose the boy assumed was on his knees -- spread far apart, slightly arched back, with his hands interlaced behind his neck -- a full-frontal pose directly facing the hot seat. Positioned a mere two metres away from Anne, his piercing eyes and smug facial expression were abjectly confrontational. Anne imagined herself a matador, squaring off against a charging bull.

"This session will end half past the hour," Olivia stated.

On their phone conversation Olivia had indicated to Anne that Mr. Baxter might stop by class tonight. 'Tommy' was quite a success. Everyone on campus was buzzing about it. Hoping that Mr. Baxter would join them, Anne picked out a fashionable shawl, matching knit hat, and smart boots to wear to the evening art class. She also wore a shade of lipstick reserved for special occasions.

"Mr. Baxter is an admirer of your work and he'd like to meet you" replayed over and over in her mind.

Then, looking up at the lad, in a flurry of brushstrokes Anne attacked the canvas. Selecting deep reds, she outlined his silhouette and dimensions, then focused on his face. Their eyes locked as each stared deeply inside the other. An unbroken gaze where neither looked away.

There was something red about him. Aggressive. Charging. Dominating. Anne kept reaching into the reds. Albeit silent, their communication was deafening -- mind to mind, soul to soul. The lad kept coming at her. Like a charging bull. Yes, Anne and the boy were developing a connection, an intense relationship in fact.

They looked deeply into one another, and little by little, the finished art emerged. Anne was in her element and didn't hear the gasps coming from the other ladies.

Then she noticed, but Anne kept painting. Anne was in her element and nothing could stop her.

How does a grown woman describe the feeling of seeing a beautiful boy get a massive erection just for her? He was looking me dead in the eyes -- an unbroken gaze when he became sexually aroused.

Aggressive. Charging. Dominating. This lad indulges women the pleasure of running their gaze over every bit of his gorgeous body. This isn't nudity so much as nakedness. He fulfils a role in society I suppose -- to give women pleasure without shame, remorse, or guilt.

Yet he chose ME, and I feel it too.

The lad is toying with me. He's teasing me. Seeing his penis climb higher and higher, turning upward -- just for me. It's larger than what I imagined a male member could possibly get, and it's all for me. I'm so sexually aroused right now; I couldn't refuse him. He could ravish me. This is our illicit relationship, and there's nothing I can do to fight my feelings.

When the thirty-minute session ended Rogelio sauntered through the room, first approaching Anne.

Admiring her artwork, still in 'fine form' and turned upward, swaying side to side with just the slightest movement of his body, the lad placed his hand on her shoulder whilst running his fingers through her shawl. Anne reached back and placed her hand on his, squeezing it tenderly.

Anne spent a string of tumultuous nights in a lonely bed thinking about her interaction with Rogelio.

It's all so bizarre. He fancies grown women and knows his way around a woman, and he's so free with his body. Am I daft to dismiss an international student like Rogelio? No woman is immune to temptation, so why should I be any different? He's young, but there's obviously a sexual attraction between us. I'm his muse. He was in 'fine form,' after all, swaying back and forth - practically daring me to reach out and touch it.

But I mustn't do such a thing.

Two days passed before Anne received another phone call from Olivia.

"Mr. Baxter regrets that he couldn't attend the last class," Olivia began, "but there's a request to put your second work of art on display as well, straight away."

"Do you really think it's good?"

"Anne, your talent is unmistakable. They're calling you the next Van Gogh. Mr. Baxter and the committee were very impressed by it. In fact, they've given it a name, 'Young Lover' -- I hope this is alright. And just as before, we'll honour your request to omit your name in the display."

"The committee?"

"The committee is a group of art patrons, primarily women, who are influential regarding the department's budget. They said your painting was extraordinary -- the lines, the depth, the unconventional perspective. And of course, how successfully you provoked the model. They'd like to meet you. Can you pop by the campus tomorrow morning?"

Provoked the model? Anne didn't know what to say.

"They'd also like to know if you are open to commissioning select paintings for the university. Auctions and the like. The committee's influence over this department is very strong. For the upcoming auction they want a total of sixteen paintings. There's a benefit to the boys who pose for these as well, the pay, the notoriety and all. It's a win-win situation."

"The boys?"

"I meant to say lads. They work for a fair wage and beg me for more sessions. We can provide you a key to the private studio so you can come and go as you please. We never use it. The committee can explain it all to you Friday. There's no reason why the perks shouldn't also extend to the boys. Shall we see you at half past ten?"

"Can we make it half past eleven?" Anne offered. "I have an appointment earlier that morning with a couple of students and I don't want to break it."

"I see," replied Olivia, a tad amused. "Half past eleven will be splendid. The committee has other matters to discuss that morning. Meet us at the Humanities Office. We shall expect you then."

Friday arrived, and making her way to the far corner of the Students' Union, Anne was met by the two boys she tutored, Charlie and Luca, who greeted her with formal handshakes. She wasn't certain if she had spotted Rogelio across the quad, but if she did, she hoped that he didn't recognize her. At a distance I can't much tell these boys apart, she thought.

Charlie and Luca's previous composition was straightforward: 'describe a relationship with someone close to you.' The new assignment was to 'write about a time in your life when you were put in a situation where you had to decide between benefitting yourself or someone else.'

After reading their manuscripts, Anne gushed, "these are promising. I see real possibilities here. A few edits and I think that each of you will receive high marks."

Charlie's rosy cheeks blushed at the compliment.

During their conversation, Anne learnt that neither boy could afford professional tutoring but were told that faculty occasionally make themselves available for free tutoring, sitting in the far corner of the Students' Union. She also discovered that it was common for the university to pair a British student with an international student to accustom the latter to the culture.

Such a sweet gesture, Anne reflected. She likewise found Charlie's diminutive height and subtle facial features endearing -- the face of a cherubim, albeit the lad possessed massive shoulders, chest, and arms. But when the term 'cutie tootie' passed through her thoughts, she recoiled and pulled tight her outer garment.

"I can't stay long -- I have a committee meeting at half past the hour in the Humanities Building."

Taking hold of Anne's hand and looking her straight in the eyes, Charlie implored, "Let me know if there's any work available at the university. Anything at all. I meant to ask you this at our last meeting. My financial situation is desperate; the gymnastics scholarship only pays for a portion of my board and tuition, and I can't depend on my mother for more money or I'll have to drop out."

Anne fell silent as her hand melted into his.

"Charlie, you have so much going for you -- both of you boys do." Her thoughts strayed to the war memorial. "Nobody wants you to drop out of university. Something will turn up for you. It always does when we least expect."

Exiting the building, Anne was approached by two other boys, introducing themselves as Esteban and Myles. "Ma'am, we saw you seated in the corner. Could you tutor us as well?"

The Humanities Building was situated adjacent to the Performing Arts Centre and Art Gallery, but remained a lengthy walk from the Students' Union. Anne was nearly out of breath as she climbed the stairs and entered its lobby. Tidying herself up a bit first in the ladies' room, she then introduced herself at the check-in counter.

"I am here to meet with Mr. Baxter."

"Ma'am, what is this regarding?"

"I have an appointment at half past the hour. He and the committee are expecting me."

A moment later, Anne was chaperoned down a hallway and ushered into what resembled a board room, where she was enthusiastically greeted by Olivia, who in turn introduced her to the committee members, Valerie, Harriet, and Beatrice, and the department head, Mr. Baxter -- who straightaway took her by the hand. Anne immediately recognized the committee members as the three ladies she observed two weeks prior, critiquing 'Tommy.'

"We're all very impressed with your work," Mr. Baxter began, raising Anne's hand to his lips. "And permit me to kiss the hand that creates it -- and how soft it is." At this gesture, Anne nearly swooned. "'Young Lover' is now on display in a distinct area of the gallery from 'Tommy' and is itself creating quite a stir."

"I think it's bold," interrupted large-breasted Harriet, her 'girls' once again prominent in a colourful snug-fitting top. "Breaking barriers and all. Anne, you are a pioneer."

Still clasping Anne's hand, Mr. Baxter continued. "It turns out that the young man who modelled for 'Tommy' has now become something of a campus celebrity, and a fair bit of speculation has arisen regarding the mysterious woman who painted him."

"And here you are," beamed Valerie.

"Anne, you are truly gifted. Olivia and I think you might be the next Van Gogh." With these words, Mr. Baxter finally released the affectionate grasp he held on Anne's hand. "I would consider bringing you on staff if the tone of your work wasn't quite so, well, ahead of its time."

Anne had the impression that Mr. Baxter selected those words long before this meeting. She also caught that Mr. Baxter wasn't wearing a wedding ring, was tall, and look smartly dressed in a tailored suit. "Thank you all for your kind words. I'm truly honoured."

Beatrice, dressed again in high-heeled boots and dark tights -- and a hemline more appropriate for a woman half her age, commented on the dishy subject matter of Anne's paintings. "I suppose that's one of the perks of the job."

"I just paint what's before me."

"Van Gogh had his sunflowers, Toulouse-Lautrec his caricatures, and Degas his ballerinas. You have your boys."

Valerie interjected, "No one is judging you for your choices or preferences, Anne, you bring a unique perspective to the art world. You're resolute, a proxy for what other women feel but don't articulate. Pushing the boundaries. Wasn't it Tolstoy who said that art should stimulate?"

Upon hearing the word 'stimulate,' big-breasted Harriet broke out in laughter.

Mr. Baxter did what he could to rescue the conversation, "Tolstoy stated that art evokes feelings and communicates emotions, and that a successful work of art must not only originate from the artist's authentic emotions but also compel the audience to share in those emotions, thereby achieving a sense of connection and universality."

"I paint what I feel."

Valerie proceeded, "Your artwork clearly communicates that. Society has never welcomed the thought of women our age entertaining such interests. Your paintings are extraordinary and put the matter of female desires front and centre."

"I didn't mean to be harsh," Beatrice said. "It's just that women our age aren't supposed to dally in such imaginings, but of course we do. What was the word? Stimulate? Perhaps what I meant to say is that, given your relationships with lads, the feeling you have when you paint them, well, seeing your art, we have those feelings too. It is stimulating."

Harriet blurted out, "Fighting female sexual repression, one brushstroke at a time."

"What a lovely shawl," Olivia said, changing the subject. "This is different from the one you wore to class the other night."

Olivia went on to say that Anne would be well-served to paint on her own, but welcomed her to remain in the Ladies' Art Class. The committee ladies chimed in with a flurry of questions: How many other works of nude young males do you possess that potentially are for sale? Are these other lads students at the university? How do you initiate these relationships?

Beatrice gushed, "You know, the campus is crawling with docile lads, and Olivia tells us that ever since 'Tommy' went on display, she has received innumerable requests from boys who want to sit for you. Several are developing all-over suntans, just for you. My dear, a resolute woman like yourself could have any one of them and nobody would blame you -- a legion of submissive boys at your beck and call."

Valerie interjected, "Ladies, the art speaks for itself and Anne has her own magic to attract the lads, and to provoke the best art possible from her models."

Harriet stated, "the benefit a boy incurs by sitting for you is immeasurable -- no one faults you for expecting something in return, for the part you play" then added, "I wouldn't mind if you introduced me to a few of the dishier ones, particularly the international students."

This comment set off a round of giggles.

Mr. Baxter took control once again. "The university holds two auctions annually, at the close of each semester -- your collected works would sell quite well and raise needed funds for this department."

After another round of questions from the committee ladies -- including a follow-up request from Harriet for Anne to introduce her to dishy international students, a deal was struck where the university would make the private studio available to Anne for one-on-one sessions, a total of sixteen paintings, and split the sale of Anne's paintings equally.

Mr. Baxter then pulled from his pocket a key, which he placed in Anne's hands. "This key opens the art studio as well as the private room. The university will cover the modelling costs, whatever they are. Get the best artwork, no matter what it takes, but discretion is key."

"I've observed Anne with the models," Olivia interjected, "and her behaviour is exemplary. She's professional and very discreet."

"We're in the process of curating a dozen or so paintings for you. Committee members will work with you regarding set-up, positioning, and props."

Anne looked at the key, then back at Mr. Baxter.

"Consider this office your personal studio. Things turn up when we least expect," Mr. Baxter concluded. "Anne, you have so much going for you." Then he kissed her hand once again.

A week later, stepping briskly from the Students' Union, Anne couldn't stop daydreaming about Mr. Baxter, fantasizing that he would soon invite Anne to a formal date -- dinner in an upscale restaurant, one with white linen tablecloths and fancy settings of crystal goblets and Stirling silver cutlery.

A date like this would merit wearing a sparkly evening gown, silk stockings after an afternoon trip to the beauty parlour. Anne was an attractive woman, but was content to hide it from the world. This would be her opportunity to glam up and appeal to the hungry eyes of a worthy suitor.

Rounding the corner past the Administration Building, the thought then crossed Anne's mind, "and how many other men shall I soon meet, faculty or wealthy patrons, who might also want to romance me, whisk me away on holiday?" After a boisterous group of a dozen lads passed by her, chatting amongst themselves, Anne laughed out loud, not remembering the last time she did this in public.

So many boys, so little time, she mused, and according to Harriet, every lad on campus would make love to me in a heartbeat, if given the chance. She laughed again. How many are there now? Charlie and Luca I've tutored three times, and now there's Esteban. In addition to Tommy and Rogelio.

With a smile she reflected that Charlie once put his muscular arm around her whilst he read her his composition. Anne always found his northern accent and demeanour endearing.

She speculated that a big boy would be selected for tonight's class, now that 'Young Lover' had become more popular than 'Tommy.' Anne further wondered what pose tonight's lad would assume, and how high Olivia would set the fan, to further aggravate the unsuspecting boy with a constant stimulation of concentrated air flow, directed straight at his hapless male member.

The woman with the cheerful voice mentioned that fact, Anne smirked, 'or so she was told.'

One of these days I'll show up wearing a tight satin top, short leather skirt, shiny tights, and high-heeled boots, Anne thought, just like Beatrice, to test out those hungry male eyes, regardless of their age. Be sufficiently resolute and play the part -- 'provoke the best artwork, no matter what it takes.'

Passing under the shadow of the bell tower, and nearly at the art studio, Anne remembered that Olivia had a boy lined up for her to paint later in the week, privately, and wanted to know if Thursday morning would work.

"Given how cathartic you say painting is," Olivia commented, "I wanted to give you a few days to unwind after the Ladies' Art Class. Valerie will be there -- it's one of the commissioned paintings she curated. Another first-time model."

For today's campus visit, however, Anne opted for a modest but stylish appearance -- a dark skirt that draped to her ankles, and boots. And of course, one of her many shawls. One of these weeks Mr. Baxter will attend the Ladies' Art Class, she thought, but better not to make a change of outfits or lipstick so obvious.

Olivia greeted Anne at the door, "I was worried that you wouldn't be here. The committee ladies are all in attendance -- I've asked them to sit quietly in the back such as not to disrupt your work. They've never attended class before, so I'm a little nervous."

"Will Mr. Baxter be coming?"

"Regrettably," Olivia intoned, "Mr. Baxter can't make it tonight."

Olivia escorted Anne to Valerie, Harriet, and Beatrice, sitting in the back of the room, repeating that the committee ladies are in the process of curating a dozen or so commissioned paintings, thoughtfully staged and often semi-nude, as these would be regarded as more appealing for the non-artsy women who might make a purchase at the upcoming auction.

"Tonight, you will paint a first-time model, Parker. Both the boy and pose were selected by Beatrice. The lighting and staging too. They even ordered the sand. But please, Anne, take the primary seat so we can begin."

Olivia then turned to address the ladies of the Art Class.

"Ladies, we have a treat for you tonight -- three distinguished members of the Art Committee are in attendance, Valerie, Harriet, and Beatrice, who selected tonight's model and curated the composition."

Valerie promptly rose to speak. "Thank you, Olivia," she began. "The members of the Art Committee are launching an initiative that will run coterminous with the remainder of your semester, to enhance the viability of Life Art, benefit your experience in this class, as well as present you with both greater artistic challenges and rewards."

She proceeded to state that the committee reviewed a broad selection of compositions and was in the process of interviewing nearly a hundred models. "Class, please welcome Parker, a very handsome boy indeed."

The roomful of ladies let out a collective sigh as an attractive sandy-haired boy appeared from behind the modesty wall, attired in nothing more than a towel, tightly wrapped around his slender waist. Good looking and possessing soft features, Parker was notably younger than the usual models.

The lad approached the stage, decorated with white sand -- to look like a beach, and illuminated by an aggregation of bright overhead lights, replicating the sun.

"Parker just turned eighteen and this is his first time modelling for an art class."

The ladies eagerly watched as Olivia applied a sheeny coat of baby oil to the lad's shoulders, back and legs, before directing him to lie on his stomach, and only then she relieved him of his towel. Following this, on her knees, Olivia covered the boy's derriere with layer after layer of baby oil.

The ladies sat wide-eyed and gasped as Olivia's hands freely slid up and down the boy's naked body, fully expecting that, although hidden from view, he was responding to her touch.

"It's just part of the job, ladies."

The boy squirmed, and Olivia teased, "your job is to lie there, baby boy."

Uncrossing and recrossing her legs, Beatrice nonchalantly adjusted the hemline of her short skirt whilst Valerie tightened her lips, then Valerie resumed speaking to the group.

"We call this composition 'Sun Kissed.' The staging is a beach under the intense glare of the midday sun."

Lying on the gentle folds of white sand, the sun-kissed lad spread out his youthful frame for all to see -- his iridescent skin beckoning the gaze of unwary beachgoers. There's a voyeur within all of us, after all. Perhaps an exhibitionist too.

The lad's unbroken tan indicates that this is his midday routine.

Pleasure is reciprocal, for the watchers as much as for the watched.

Amidst the commotion of so many rustling garments, the plump dark-haired woman leaned over and whispered to Anne. "You'll have to give us the update on Rogelio -- you did take him up on his offer, didn't you? He's attracted to grown women you know, and he's a randy lad at that."

"Pert little arse on this one," the woman with the cheerful voice commented, "You could have sport with him too, if that's what you like. Some women are attracted to this sort of thing. Scratch their nipples and these little wankers turn to butter."

But Anne was lost in her thoughts, needing to remove herself from the distraction provided by these women. Olivia is right -- I am better served on my own, Anne thought. This other woman had a point however, some women are attracted to this sort of thing. Beatrice, for one.

Olivia positioned the boy's right leg to seductively lilt in the air, and spread his knees further apart. She squared off the lad's shoulders and raised his buttocks a centimetre or so. "Newer models struggle to hold positions, but keep your back arched and this muscle taut," she cautioned, patting his tight derriere several times. "Your buttocks is the focal point of the piece, its raison d'etre."

Anne stared down the lad, who in turn was directed by Olivia to give his full attention to the woman in the primary seat. "You have undoubtedly heard of our artist; two of her paintings are on display in the Gallery. Look at her and her alone."

Olivia continued positioning the boy, pointing his toe upward -- to give the calf a more attractive look, and applied additional baby oil over his buttocks, repeatedly sliding her slippery hands in and out of his crevice. Looking toward Beatrice, sitting in the back of the room, Olivia proceeded until Beatrice motioned that it was enough.

"It has to glisten," Olivia murmured to the class of ladies, who watching the spectacle, were visibly sexually aroused, jostling about in their seats.

Anne's inner stirrings raced to last week's encounter with Rogelio, who whilst standing at her side and tenderly squeezing her hand, sported the largest erection ever, freely waving it back and forth. Olivia reported that he has constantly asked about her, calling the office almost daily -- if Anne would be interested in a private sitting with him.

Perhaps Beatrice said it best, Anne thought, I could play the part and have any one of these lads. Nobody would blame me. Be resolute and have some sport with them. Better than remaining isolated in a lonely flat, sleeping alone in a lonely bed.

Anne's palette suddenly filled with golds and yellows. Outline the head. Then on to shoulders and back. Soft facial features. Neotenous. The boy's pale blue eyes see right through me.

Her gaze jumped to the small of his back, then again to his eyes. Staring at his arse made Anne's eyes dilate, and she was sure that the boy saw this, so she went back to his eyes. Then to his arse. Anne reached for one brush after another, only momentarily taking her eyes off the boy. Primarily the arse. She couldn't take her eyes off his arse.

Some grown women are attracted to this sort of thing. A woman's hands all over a boy's naked body.

Pert little arse on this one, and it glistens.

Anne was dismayed that she had already forgotten this boy's name. Sun Kissed.

He catches me staring at his arse. He knows that I can't look away. He enjoys the power he possesses. But what's his name? I bet he's in 'fine form' right now, back arched and buttocks taut, looking back at me. Digging a hole in the sand. Fiendish little muse. What woman wouldn't want to run their hands all over him?

Lilted leg and toe pointing upward. Sheeny baby oil. The lines and lighting draw my attention back to his arse. His tight buttocks. The focal point of the piece, its raison d'etre." It has to glisten.

But what if I turned the table on these boys -- make them dig a little deeper?

Anne's thoughts jumped again to the memorial to boys who died in war. A dozen upturned bayonets. From a distance I can't distinguish the names, she reflected. Maybe that's a good thing.

Then to the boys she tutored: Luca, Charlie, and Esteban.

Luca wants to be an engineer and has passed the TOEFL but requires assistance with grammar that only native speakers seem to know. Charlie is an only child of a single mother who lives in Newcastle. He needs extra money, and he's a first-generation university student. He wants to go into physical therapy, but he requires help with composition. Esteban, equally muscular, is an international student. He'd model well -- possibly also a big boy should he ever decide to model for the Tuesday evening Ladies' Art Class.

Anne's concentration was broken when Sun Kissed squirmed again and Olivia had to re-set him.

The lad smiled broadly when Olivia was obligated to place her hands on his nude body -- again leading to the rustling of so many garments throughout the room. Lilted leg back in position, toe pointing upward, knees far apart, arched back, taut buttocks. And more baby oil needed to be applied.

"It has to glisten," repeated Olivia to the class, as her hands ran all over the boy's oil-slick nude body, including in and out of his anal crevice. Then to the lad she remarked, "I think you're enjoying this. In fact, I KNOW you're enjoying this," whilst giving a more forceful thrust to his anal crevice than she did previously.

Throughout the spectacle, the lad's gaze remained resolutely on Anne who wondered if she could ever take charge of a lad like this. Provoke him to get the best art possible. Or forcibly strip one. She also wondered if the boy was secretly ejaculating, given the glazed look on his face.

"Naughty boys like this should be punished," chirped the woman with the cheerful voice, privately to Anne. "A pert little arse like that is begging for the strap, and his bunghole deserves the middle finger."

Just then, a visitor rushed into the studio to alert the committee ladies, 'Tommy' had been stolen.

The story of the theft of 'Tommy' immediately made the local news, and a week later was picked up by The Daily Mail and spread worldwide. Requests for background information on the mysterious woman who painted it -- called 'the next Van Gogh' -- elicited calls from as far away as Tokyo and New York. When the university reported that the female artist in question preferred to remain anonymous, and 'Young Lover' was subsequently discovered, speculation arose that this woman's desire for anonymity was due to sexual affairs she was carrying on with young men.

A guard was posted at the Art Gallery in front of 'Young Lover,' which drew more visitors than ever before, and the committee ladies considered asking Anne if she would paint a duplicate of 'Tommy' with the same young male model.

"Her works are more valuable than ever," gushed Valerie, dressed as elegant as always, but now pacing back and forth in what served as a conference room for the Humanities building. In just a few minutes Harriet and Mr. Baxter were scheduled to join Valerie and Beatrice for their weekly planning meeting. "Every day bids are coming in for her future works, sight unseen. It's turning into a bidding war. We couldn't pay for this kind of publicity."

"And with 'Sun Kissed' now on display and 'First Hunt' in another two days, who knows how many special patrons will place an order for personalised paintings, to have their images captured in the finished works as ancillary models," replied Beatrice. "I have some positively wicked compositions in mind. Nothing bawdy, but decidedly erotic."

"I'm meeting with Anne tomorrow," offered Valerie, "for a private painting that I curated with a specific first-time model in mind."

"That big Norwegian?"

Valerie sighed. "To be held in those muscular arms, against that chest, would make any woman melt. A man like that could ravish me. I said as much to Anne."

"The other day Olivia referred me to a lad like Parker, a gymnast, but with a delectable upper body," Beatrice noted, thoughtlessly touching her hand on her sheeny tights, then tugging downward on her short skirt. "Like the other lads, he's working on his all-over suntan. What I have in mind for him is a tad racy, but not pornographic or anything. 'Suggestive' might be a better word. 'Young Lover' pushes the limits of what the university can display."

The ladies finally sat down, hearing familiar voices approaching from the hall.

"They're all taking the blue pill," Valerie confessed, in a whisper. "Olivia tells me everything; lads approach her in the halls, asking to model. Their all tanning up. Has the whole nation gone nudist? The list of lads is now well over one-hundred."

"The sessions are getting a tad saucy as well; the loincloth for 'First Hunt' scarcely held together, and didn't Olivia say that she discovered that a few of the lads inadvertently discharged for her?"

"She did," Valerie confirmed, following a round of awkward giggles. "All of that said, we finally have our artist, the one we've been waiting for."

The following day, Anne was scheduled to meet with Charlie. Traipsing through the Students' Union, Anne was unaware that her hips swayed as they did, from the high-heeled boots she newly purchased.

Mid-terms were underway and it was impossible to find two seats together. Anne and Charlie decided to take their tutoring session outdoors, sitting side by side on the lawn under a canopy of trees, each tree a smattering of greens and browns.

Even in the Garden of England an exceptionally warm day in Britain isn't an opportunity to lose, cloistered environments being what they are. For Anne and Charlie, the university campus sprawled out endlessly before them, one grey building after another, but between them, lush grassy lawns and so many trees.

Spring brings promise, she was reminded. Anne noted in their immediate vicinity a couple holding hands, for beauty, in its myriad forms, has always been a muse.

Charlie's latest writing assignment was to describe a favourite place -- 'a desolate beach, located under the cliffs, where I reflect on my life.' The composition met the requisite five-hundred-word limit; a rolling gait of varied sentence structures made the narrative flow, indicative of Charlie's improved writing skills.

"Charlie, this is beautiful. I can't think of a single improvement."

Looking directly ahead, Charlie draped his hefty arm around Anne, as he did once previously. But this time he let his hand dangle on her shoulder before gently caressing her. "Maybe someday you'd like to join me, on my sunny beach, just the two of us."

A minute passed before Anne broke the silence. "Charlie, I have an appointment to get to. Let's meet again Friday at noon."

An imposing international student was already waiting at the entrance to the art studio as Anne arrived. Of athletic build and straight out of central casting for an imagined cover of a bodice-ripper romance paperback, a veritable bodybuilder, the blond-haired, blue-eyed, big-shouldered lad stood at 195 with muscular arms and a massive chest.

Anne immediately picked the new model as Victoria's type, a big boy if there ever was one.

"You're the woman who paints the lads?"

His rugged good looks and Scandinavian accent sent a shiver down Anne's spine, but she was resolved to act unimpressed, as if taking a lad of his size and appearance into the private studio solo was routine, having done so previously with hundreds of lads. After all, she was the next Van Gogh.

"How do you do?"

Anne fumbled for her key and together, the two entered the building, past the storage room, then to the door of the private studio -- a small room Anne had only seen once before, and briefly at that. At the end of the corridor, in the dark, Anne reached back and took the new model by the hand. "Mind your head until I turn on the light."

Together in the small room, now lighted, and fastening the doorknob lock, Anne knew that she had crossed the Rubicon. It was now time to play the role of the resolute woman and get the best artwork, no matter what it took. But how? Show him a little leg or unfasten a button?

The private studio was as Anne remembered it; there was just enough space for a small stage and a seat for the artist, along with two additional chairs by the door. Easels, backdrops, and lighting equipment were all quite orderly, but the solitary mattress propped against the wall gave the room a dodgy look. Also mischievous looking was the door's deadbolt, located above the doorknob lock.

Once bolted, an 'in session -- do not disturb' sign was displayed outwardly, and the door could only be opened from the inside. Still clutching the model's hand, a hand so large that it completely enveloped her own, Anne was reluctant to let it go. "I suppose you have no trouble opening pickle jars."

It then occurred to Anne what type of woman she would need to emulate, that makes a lad readily remove his clothes, a woman who takes complete control over his nude body. A dominatrix.

"I've already taken one blue pill. Do I need to take another? The lady told me I'd have to wear a tunic, but I refuse."

"Excuse me, what is your name?"

"Johannes. I want to be the next 'Young Lover' and that won't happen if I'm wearing a tunic, or painted as having a tiny todger."

Anne responded by telling the new model, "Valerie should arrive any minute -- she's the woman you spoke with. You can discuss the details of 'Heracles' when she gets here. The Greek demigod is traditionally depicted wearing a lionskin tunic and holding a club. I doubt she'll have her composition represented any other way. On the other hand," Anne purred, taking control, "I see no reason why I can't paint you twice -- today the way that Victoria has determined, and at a follow-up sitting, the way that you want to be portrayed, just you and me."

"You can do that?"

"Absolutely," Anne replied, looking the lad straight in the eyes.

Channelling her newfound inner dominatrix, and remembering lads can't help but respond to a woman's touch, Anne placed a hand on each of his hips, gently caressing them, whilst coquettishly fixing her eyes on his crotch. "Love, I can make you as big as I like."

Johannes broke out in laughter. "Is it true what they say about you?"

Remaining cool, Anne drew silent before responding. "You'll be paid for each modelling session and get the painting you want. No tiny todger. But if you want my cooperation, love, you'll have to do me a 'special favour.'"

Gathering her courage, Anne removed her shawl, and like a shameless woman, tossed it toward the two chairs by the door. She then returned to Johannes.

"Don't talk and don't move," she said in the softest of tones, "I want to see what I'm working with."

Whilst circling the lad, and with exaggerated interest, Anne opened her eyes as wide as possible. Forcibly stripping a lad would put him in his place. It would make even the most muscular lad submissive.

Anne ran a solitary index finger over the bodybuilder's shoulders and chest, making sure to find each nipple with her fingernail, then off to explore the neckline of his shirt. Neck, shoulders, chest, arms -- Anne only occasionally strayed below the waist, to playfully tug at his belt.

She then put both hands to work, as she saw Olivia do with Sun Kissed, who publicly told the Ladies' Art Class, "it's just part of the job."

Shoulders, chest, arms, abdomen, then down the sides of the boy's hips and thighs. The only sound in the small room was Anne's high heels resonating from the tile floor as she circled her prey.

So often we clothe ourselves in garb that obscures who we really are, but strip the male of any pretense, and in the process, we discover ourselves.

Anne's expression suddenly turned stony cold. "Take off your shirt" she snapped, simultaneously tugging at the stretchy garment whilst he hurried to remove it. Stripping it from his hands, she forcefully tossed it on the chair atop her shawl, then resumed running her hands over his upper body.

Johannes' ripped abdominal muscles beckoned Anne's soft hands; they meandered to his belt buckle, as if curious by the mechanics of it. Soon enough these would be removed, she thought, barely able to withhold an audible giggle.

Anne knew that her gestures had to look natural, as did Olivia's with Sun Kissed, but it was time to return to the lad's nipples, now uncovered, which were subjected to sharp stimulations of her repeated fingernail scratches. At this, the boy's abdomen visibly tightened, and his rate of breathing increased, delighting Anne that he was likely getting aroused. But then it was back to his shoulders and biceps.

"I can definitely work with this; let's see you hold a pose"

In response, Johannes flexed for her in the classic front double bicep pose.

"Yes, this is all very good," she cooed, opening her eyes wide again with exaggerated interest, but you haven't modelled for a woman before." Her hands never left his body, now and again adventurously running below his belt, down the sides of his trousers then back up his chest. "I need to oil you up; I know where Olivia keeps it. In the meantime, take a seat and remove your shoes and socks."

Returning with the oil and placing it on the other chair, then relocking the door, Anne's wandering hands once again worked their way over every bit of Johanne's magnificent torso. "When I eventually oil you up it will only be a light coat," she said, trying to maintain an authoritative air, "just to even out the texture, but I don't want you to glisten."

"I've been working on an all-over tan," he offered. "All the boys are doing this since the word went out for models."

Anne summarily placed the lad's arms straight-armed over her shoulders, holding them there. "Young man, she scolded, "I instructed you to remain quiet. It's the second thing that first-time models need to learn. The first is not to move once posed, regardless of the temptation to break it."

Locking eyes with his eyes -- perched more than a head-length higher than her own, Anne observed with some consternation that they were the same pale blue as Sun Kissed. "Here's your first test, love; hold this pose whilst looking me in the eyes. Don't look away, and don't move."

Anne unfastened the new model's belt and unzipped his trousers, pulling them down to his knees, then she placed her venturesome womanly hands back on the lad's hips, still staring into his eyes. Feeling naughtier than ever before in her life, she didn't know which was more daring, removing a lad's trousers or looking him straight in the eyes whilst doing so.

"Without moving your arms or looking away, I want you to kick them toward the chairs."

Either way, she was very much a dominatrix, or at least how she believed that a dominatrix behaved, sans the clothing that she imagined they wore.

"Very good, love. These are coming off too," she snapped, referencing his underpants. With a swift yank Anne pulled them down and they fell at his ankles. "Kick them toward the chair also."

Still locking eyes, Anne moved her hands over his hips and buttocks, down his lower body, inching ever closer to his genitalia, not quite touching it, then up his chest to his face, seductively running her index fingers over the lad's lips.

"Very good, love."

Remaining stony faced, she felt the tip of his burgeoning penis poking into her upper abdomen.

"Good thing I haven't oiled you up yet."

The door of the art studio then opened and closed, and they heard the sound of footsteps down the corridor, approaching the door to the private studio. "That's Valerie." Pivoting to face the locked door, Anne's back pressed tightly against the model, his massive erection digging into her back.

"Hold me in your arms," Anne commanded, and his erection squeezed even tighter.

In a flash, Anne realized that once the door opened and Valerie saw her like this, in the embrace of a nude lad, she will have lived up to the reputation that everyone ascribed to her. Anne also reflected on Valerie's comment, 'being held in those muscular arms, against that chest, would make any woman melt. A man like that could ravish me.'

A wry smile crossed Anne's face. "I never answered your questions, love. First of all, what they say about me, it's true. Every word of it. As to your other question, you definitely don't need two pills."

A week passed since Anne completed painting 'Heracles' as well as a follow-up piece, 'Warrior,' using the same husky Norwegian model. Although there were two classes remaining in the semester, due to Anne's newfound notoriety, she started wearing sunglasses and a scarf whilst on campus, and quit attending the Ladies' Art Class. At a planning meeting, the committee heard Valerie's commentary on Anne taking charge with Johannes.

In response, Beatrice remarked, "reviewing Anne's finished works, I'd say both the private studio and the role she plays suit our artist quite well."

"I concur," Harriet quipped. "It's safe to say that our artist makes good use of the deadbolt."

What Harriet left unsaid were private conversations she had with Anne, and that in exchange for an agreed upon 'special favour' from a dishy lad -- and an international student at that, Harriet provided Anne with a distinguished gentleman to take Anne to dinner at an upscale restaurant, one with white linen tablecloths and fancy settings of crystal goblets and Stirling silver cutlery.

Anne finally had the opportunity to wear a sparkly evening gown, silk stockings, and diamond earrings, following a perfunctory afternoon trip to the beauty parlour. "Professor Richardson was delightful, but he isn't ready to commit to anything serious," Anne reluctantly confided to Harriet.

Eager to repeat the process, Harriet arranged another date for Anne with a different gentleman, also an unmarried professor at the university, this one a PhD, in exchange for a forthcoming 'special favour.' "I've already reached out to Rogelio for a private sitting -- one curated by Beatrice," Anne assured Harriet. "But I won't paint him until after I receive word from you that the deed has been done."

"Excellent," replied Harriet. "How does dinner and a stage play strike you? Othello?"

"Brilliant. I'm presently working on a third lad for you, this one for a work curated by Valerie who's having a grotto constructed just for this painting."

"But what can you tell me about the lad?"

"I haven't met him but he's Valerie's type, so I presume he'd work out well for you also. Green-eyed rugby player from Wales is all I know."

"Suppose I should order laverbread and cockles for takeaway?"

Anne was never keen to know the details of Harriet's escapades, nor about the response that Harriet garnered from multiple breast enlargement surgeries over the years. "Lasses can't compete with 'the girls,'" she once bragged to Anne, "and perhaps I shouldn't have gone as large as I did, but lads go barking mad over huge knockers, once I get them alone."

So, in addition to a satin top, short skirt, and over-the knee high-heeled boots, Anne thought, should I also consider getting 'huge knockers?' Why should I have to put on a disguise to create my best art possible? And how is it breaking boundaries to paint sexualized images of young men?

All told, of the sixteen paintings commissioned, Anne completed ten with just the following to go -- 'Fountain of Youth,' 'Summer Shower,' 'Houseguest,' 'At the Ballet,' 'Tricked,' and 'Disciplined Devotion.'

"See that the next gentleman you line up for me takes me to the ballet," Anne implored, "otherwise I shall have to go alone. Any background imagery that I glean for future projects is always helpful before I sit down to paint, no matter how detailed the composition that you committee ladies present me."

A week earlier Anne attended a gymnastics event to think through the composition of an upcoming painting, 'Disciplined Devotion.' Across the gymnasium she spotted Charlie, competing with his team, but he didn't recognize her through her dark sunglasses and scarf.

Regardless of the delightful time Anne had with Professor Richardson, and the prospect of soon meeting additional gentlemen, Anne questioned if any of these men would ever truly love her or were merely complying with a request from a certain influential large-breasted early-fifties committee member to entertain their moneymaking artist.

Shall I ever meet a man who loves me the way I deserve, Anne wondered, or shall I remain invisible forever? Another week flew by.

Anne requested to meet with the committee at their next planning meeting.

Wrapped in a scarf and earth-tone shawl, and selecting her newest pair of boots -- the ones with high heels, Anne walked through the campus as tall as ever, her clicky gait measured and deliberate. Hiding behind dark sunglasses, once again striving for anonymity, but wearing lipstick reserved for special occasions and having framed her attractive face in fashionable headwear, Anne exuded an air of mystery.

A resolute woman with a certain savoir faire, but hiding in plain sight.

Several days transpired since Anne's date with Dr. Oswald but he still hadn't contacted her to ask for a second date. The same for Professor Richardson, despite this first gentleman describing Anne as talented, and the second, as beautiful. She spoke on the telephone briefly with the unnamed 'knighted sir' who called Anne something of a curiosity, but regretted that his schedule was rather full.

Anne also expected Mr. Baxter to swoop her up in his arms but this didn't happen either.

This notwithstanding, on her campus walk, more lads greeted Anne than ever before, but when chatting her up, they made no mention of the artwork she created. 'Tommy' had been recovered, so there was no need to re-paint the model, despite the lad's pleas to be memorialized after taking the blue pill.

Moreover, her recent completion of 'Fountain of Youth,' 'Summer Shower,' and 'Houseguest' left only three paintings remaining on Anne's list: 'Ballet Dancer,' 'Tricked,' and 'Disciplined Devotion.'

It had been a week since Anne's last scheduled tutoring session with Charlie. The semester was nearly completed; Charlie's final exam would be a composition written in class on a topic randomly selected by his instructor. Sitting down in the Students' Union next to Charlie -- who had been waiting for Anne since a quarter past the hour, Anne caught the lad gazing at her legs, briefly exposed through the slit in her long skirt.

Removing her scarf and sunglasses -- and adjusting her clothing, Anne pulled her chair close to the table and in doing so, felt comfortable enough to cross her legs at the knees, well out of Charlie's line of sight. Her mind raced to the time when she provocatively unfurled her shawl in the private studio, like a shameless woman, just prior to painting the big Norwegian. Recalling that Valerie referenced the model as 'adequately provoked,' Anne's face now bore a smug expression.

None of this would have happened had I painted sunflowers, she mused.

"How do you do, young man?" Anne offered, switching to a beaming smile.

Charlie formally greeted Anne with a handshake, then pulled his seat closer to Anne's such that their shoulders touched. In a sombre tone, the lad proceeded through the status of each of his classes.

"I found a job on campus," Charlie then exclaimed. "If it continues throughout the summer, we can still see each other. Mum will get along without me fine -- I'd just be another mouth to feed. Otherwise, I'll be heading back to Newcastle," his tone turning sombre again, "and I shall miss you."

"Maybe one of these days I'll take you up on your offer regarding that desolate beach. I'm planning on going on holiday this summer, I just don't yet know where."

Charlie's hand found Anne's under the table, interlocking fingers with her. "Perhaps I wasn't clear, Anne," Charlie stated, using Anne's first name for the first time ever, looking directly ahead, at the table.

Anne noted tears welling up in Charlie's eyes. "But you'll be back for the autumn semester, won't you?"

"When I reflect on my life, other than my mum, no one has ever helped me as you have. I'm sorry to have let everyone down."

"It isn't uncommon for students to take a break in their studies," Anne consoled, gently squeezing Charlie's hand. "Your mum undoubtedly loves you and misses you. I shall miss you also, Charlie."

A full minute passed before Anne broke the silence.

"It's such a lovely day and I'm not familiar with every part of the campus. Let's take a walkabout; show me the building where your physical therapy studies take place."

Navigating down paved walkways between one grey building after another, Anne was relieved that they didn't pass the thicket of trees and adjacent war memorial, doing her best to hold back her tears. The foliage everywhere is so lovely, she thought, but was reluctant to say so to Charlie.

Still hand in hand, their walkabout ended at the Humanities Building.

"I'm off to a planning meeting," Anne finally announced, not removing her sunglasses. "I hate to keep the committee members waiting."

"Shall I ever see you again?"

In the room used for meetings and conferences, in the Humanities Building, Valerie, Beatrice, Harriet, and Mr. Baxter prepared for Anne's arrival.

"What the devil do you ladies suppose that Anne wants to discuss?" Mr. Baxter began. "Six of her paintings have already been sold to special patrons in a veritable bidding war, and ten others are soon to be auctioned off."

"She still has two left to produce," Beatrice asserted, fidgeting in her seat.

"She's not going to quit painting lads, is she?" Harriet asked, with a quiver in her throat.

"No," Valerie answered, in a conciliatory voice. "Anne has no reservations about painting nude males. The concern that she's expressed pertains to the tone of the paintings -- either glorifying male heroics and male sexuality, or punishing males because of their sexuality."

"But women are clamouring for more of what she's painted," Beatrice said, still fighting with her hemline.

"There's no doubt that the lads are popular with our female patrons," Mr. Baxter surmised. "Early estimates are that sales from the auction will fund this department's endowment for years."

"Which is why the department shouldn't commission paintings that aren't carefully curated like what has been successful," Beatrice replied.

"Anne is pushing for more control over her paintings," Valerie clarified. "She wants something sweeter and lighter. If we were to offer her another round of sixteen, to be painted over the summer -- completed in time for the autumn auction, perhaps she'd be amenable to painting half a dozen of those with a softer tone. I've spoken to Anne about this."

"What's wrong with giving her the latitude to do this?" Mr. Baxter asked.

"This would only give us ten compositions that are sure-fire big sellers," Beatrice answered. "Why would we permit her to create her own art?"

"Can't she work any faster?" questioned Mr. Baxter.

"She works incredibly fast as it is," Valerie responded, maintaining her composure. "Half an hour and she has a masterpiece -- then Olivia says that she's drained for several days."

"Anne's not the only one who's drained," Beatrice chided, alluding to a succession of sexually aroused lads who accidentally discharged during their sittings. Mr. Baxter didn't understand the reference, but the other ladies couldn't help but smile.

"It's cute to watch them squirm," Harriet mumbled, facing away from Mr. Baxter.

Valerie exhaled deeply, gaining the attention of the others, then resumed. "Besides, sixteen is an optimal number for one artist, for one auction. Too many paintings would devalue each one."

"I see," Mr. Baxter stated. "A question of scarcity driving up the price."

"Olivia tells me that Anne is ready to resign her day job and plan a holiday this summer," Beatrice told the group. Then in a snippy tone, "I also heard that what we're paying our artist amounts to more money than she's made over the entirety of her life."

Valerie was quick to reply. "The master stroke would be for someone on the committee to persuade Anne to produce a round of paintings for every auction. The department would then bring in more money than ever."

The room fell silent for a moment.

Mr. Baxter retorted. "What does she want? We've given her a personal studio. Not since Velasquez has an authority offered more, or perhaps Pontormo's reclusive arrangement would be more accommodating to our artist."

Beatrice added, "we've met her every request, built sets for her, provided all the paint, brushes, and canvases; we've assumed all the modelling costs. Following the auction she'll be the most famous woman in Britain."

"Up to now we've protected Anne's anonymity, as was her request," Mr. Baxter continued, "shielding her from public scrutiny, and never revealed her identity. The auction will end all that, however."

"We interviewed over a hundred lads," Valerie stated. "The current collection..."

"A hundred lovely lads," "interrupted Harriet with a tittering snicker.

Valerie tapped her knuckles on the table and the room went silent again. "Permit me to read a portion of a speech I've prepared for the auction."

The current collection of art not only showcases the allure of lads, but encourages women to appreciate the male form, unapologetically, unencumbered by traditional norms. This is where beauty meets artistry, and masculinity is celebrated in its purest form -- to evoke emotions through a carefully curated collection of visually striking images sure to leave a lasting impression.

Some may take issue with the explicit nature of some content, arguing that the imagery objectifies lads, but to the contrary, these works of art push boundaries by capturing moments that celebrate male sexuality.

In this collection lads are presented as they truly are -- in a variety of settings, images that encapsulate both the vulnerability and strength of beautiful and unique individuals.

"We need to assure Anne that the artwork she's produced is exceptional," Beatrice conceded, "and have her agree to another round of paintings that she would produce over the summer, ready in time for the autumn auction."

"I don't care what has to be done -- just get our artist to produce the best work possible and somebody sign her up for another round of paintings," Mr. Baxter concluded, then in a calmer voice, hinted that maybe he and Anne should have lunch some time, just the two of them.

It was a Monday morning when, once again, Anne found herself in the private studio to paint a saucy composition of a sexually charged lad, this lad stretched out in a supine pose, tied to bed frames at the wrists and ankles. Following the notoriety that came from 'Young Lover,' Rogelio begged and begged for a follow-up sitting with Anne, who knew that the randy lad would agree to anything, much to Harriet's satisfaction.

"The composition you'll be sitting for is titled 'Tricked,'" Beatrice informed the uninhibited olive-complexioned lad with the kissable face. "The artist specifically requested you for this -- and the committee members agreed, as it calls for an extraordinarily well-endowed lad." Like all the big boy lads, Rogelio took the blue pill an hour before the sitting and likewise consumed a couple litres of water.

Resolved to 'get the best artwork, no matter what it takes,' and relishing the opportunity to humiliate him, the ladies agreed to borrow the fan from the other room and turn it to the highest setting, directed toward his prized asset, already bloated and pointing upward.

"Do what you can to hold that pose," Anne remarked.

Moreover, none of the ladies dissuaded the impertinent lad from taking a second blue pill.

Once the ties were secured to his wrists and ankles and a light coat of baby oil was applied, Anne further instructed Olivia, "as I proceed, I'll let you know if the focal point needs a refresh or doesn't cast a long enough shadow, although currently it's outstanding."

Beatrice and Olivia knew better than to speak whilst Anne was working, and certainly never to talk back to her, not that Anne was a particularly temperamental or eccentric artist, but the intensity of the artist's demeanour turned dark whilst she was in her element. Patrons whose images were inserted into personalized paintings were likewise cautioned. "Despite the artist's pleasant nature, she's prone to the same annoyances and indiscretions as anyone else. "Moreover, models, even patrons, are absolutely forbidden to speak or break a pose during a session."

Olivia's clever staging recreated a seedy hotel room, with Beatrice herself inserted into the composition, from the shoulders down anyway, standing at an open door.

Woman leads an inexperienced lad down a dark corridor to a seedy hotel room where she directs him to remove his clothing and lie on his back -- then she ties him to the bedframe. She empties his wallet, leaving it open on the nightstand, and without even a glance back, walks out the door.

Mastering the tricky lighting took Olivia many hours of experimentation, first equipping the floor lamp with the dimmest bulb possible -- borrowed from her refrigerator, compensating this with ample use of light coming from the door, that she constructed just for this composition, beyond the mattress where the lad was positioned.

The looming shadow from the lad's erection -- the composition's obvious focal point -- will lure in female eyes, Beatrice envisioned. The shadow leads to the empty wallet on the nightstand, illuminated by the floor lamp, then their eyes will helplessly return to the lad's erection. Rogelio was Victoria's model, Harriet's one-time sex partner, and Anne's muse, but it sure as hell was Beatrice's composition -- who wore the shortest skirt imaginable and shiny over-the-knee high-heeled boots.

After all, there were women who liked this sort of thing and clamoured for more of what Anne painted.

Even Anne, despite her ongoing advocacy for sweeter, lighter artistic compositions, after being a front row spectator to so many racy sittings with sexually charged lads, couldn't help but get a chill watching Olivia manipulate one naked lad after another, as their prized asset helplessly responded.

Fighting the preternatural womanly urge to shame males for their erections, even more for ejaculating, and spurred on by her own physical interactions with sexy-as-hell nude lads -- first the big Norwegian, Anne wondered if rather than being loved 'not wisely,' she should opt for 'too well.'

Why not take up with these well-endowed lads, whisk them away on holiday with me, Anne thought, a fortnight of tying lads to bedposts, or as Valerie elegantly heralded in her upcoming auction speech, 'succumb to the allure of lads.'

Notwithstanding, such womanly meanderings were scarcely betrayed by Anne's actions, clothing choices, or demeanour.

As 'Tricked' passed the halfway point of completion on Anne's canvas and she directed her attention to adjusting the highlights, shadows, and finer details, she began humming classical music pieces, as was her habit toward the completion of a composition, slowing down well-worn passages -- principally works from Baroque composers, but not exclusively.

Olivia and the committee members recognized this, that a composition was nearing completion, as well as once their artist got a tune in her head, she didn't easily let it go.

Later in the day Anne would tutor Esteban, another dishy international student, then her thoughts strayed to a lunch date with Mr. Baxter, scheduled for Tuesday, though she set her hopes on a romantic dinner. So much for the fairy tale ending of a romantic dinner date with Mr. Baxter.

Anne bore down during the final brushstrokes, her gaze intensifying, now humming Boléro, endlessly it seemed, as if to complete the entire piece but not veering from the subtle nature of the first verse. Perhaps this was Anne's only natural behaviour that could be called seductive. Pygmalion has his methods to bring artistry to life and Anne had hers, coaxing it along, as it were.

Anne recalled Valerie's words at the recent planning meeting, "art is the voice of the soul and the canvas a conduit for emotions and experiences, articulating unspoken narratives brewing within." Of all the ladies on the committee, Anne admired Valerie the most, aspiring to one day emulate her class and elegance.

'Tricked' was now all but completed.

Anne's humming of the peculiar tune abruptly ended, noticing that the enlarged member that the model had been painfully endured was ejaculating uncontrollably, but otherwise, the model never broke his pose.

"Shall I wipe him off?" Olivia asked, uncertain if this decision was Beatrice's or Anne's to make.

"Perhaps the initial lubing was excessive," Beatrice offered, then added, "leave him as he is; lads are delightfully responsive in this regard."

It was a breezy overcast day when Anne sat on the stone bench before the war memorial, to finally read the names of the boys who lost their lives in service to Britain. The monument's inscription, however, didn't include the names of the boys, but was simply 'For Those Who Fell In The Great War.'

The thicket of trees in her proximity rustled with every gust, and in time, Anne removed her sunglasses. Anne's thoughts strayed to the lads she tutored, the lads she painted, and the men she hoped would pursue her.

Lunch with Mr. Baxter confirmed Anne's suspicions that he perceived her as nothing more than a money-making machine, not a romantic interest. In this respect I'm invisible, she reflected. Men simply cannot commit. But just as quickly a whimsical smile crossed Anne's face when thinking about her dinner with the 'knighted sir' who vowed to be on hand for the dreaded auction.

The breezy gusts continued, and Anne grasped her outer garments tight. What do I want? she asked herself, staring blankly at the dozen upward turned bayonets before her, then glancing at her wristwatch. Standing up to leave, she grazed her right hand over the pointy tips of the bayonets. Perhaps the better question for myself, Anne wondered, is what do I need?

Beatrice was already in the private studio when Anne arrived, meticulously reviewing the staging and lighting for the semi-nude composition 'Disciplined Devotion,' the last painting Anne was commissioned to produce.

A training mat was spread out, upon which a lad was to lie on his stomach, legs stretched back -- pointed toes, with taut buttocks and arched back, as if he were a gymnast rehearsing a routine. In the foreground was placed a rectangular block of chalk and a water bottle; in the background Olivia staged a pommel horse and hanging rings.

"You're going to adore this lad," Beatrice chimed, "first-time model and the same deliciously lean body type as Parker, Harold, and Winslow -- not an ounce of fat on him, but with a heaving upper body."

Dressed in her usual outfit -- short skirt, shiny tights, and high-heeled boots -- Beatrice's appearance looked positively posh compared to Anne's, who was attired in slacks and an equally loose-fitting top, under a plain coloured shawl.

"He's proud of his all-over suntan, been working on it for several weeks," Beatrice added, "but it's damn difficult to understand this bloke."

Anne wasn't keen about the composition, but always appreciated Olivia's ingenuity regarding set design, remembering the grotto she previously constructed in this same small room -- using forced perspective, as well as a miniature pool of water meant to represent the fountain of youth.

"I suppose we perceive and experience males differently," Anne told the committee members at their last planning meeting, along with her reticence to agree to provide them another sixteen paintings -- sexualized images of fetching lads for a faceless wealthy female customer base. "This foray into art has been one grand adventure," she remarked, hoping that the committee would grasp the weight of her understated comment.

What Anne withheld from the committee were her feelings to having become an unwitting spectator to a parade of muscular chests, gargantuan penises, and tight glistening arses. With so much accessibility, how's a woman supposed to maintain propriety and not fall prey to her womanly desires?

Regardless, in this piece of artwork Anne was tasked to capture the ambivalence of the lad's gym rehearsal as either training or punishment, and leaving open the possibility that the lad was just severely struck on the buttocks and from the pain, was pleasuring himself on the mat.

"Curating this composition required a bit of creativity," Beatrice exclaimed, "Olivia convincingly built a mini gymnasium in here, don't you think?" And just as in 'Sun Kissed,' 'Chained,' and 'Summer Shower' -- other compositions also curated by Beatrice, the short-skirted woman favoured images of submissive lads grovelling on the floor. "This painting might outsell all the others at the auction."

Then, in an unguarded moment Beatrice added, "and what woman can't resist taking a peek at the pert backsides of young male gymnasts, just like for male ballet dancers in their skin-tight leotards? It wouldn't surprise me if this lad leaves us a special treat, just like Rogelio did last time. They can't help it when they get squirmy, you know."

She remained chatty, referencing Anne's intentions to go on holiday, but wished that Anne would reconsider the committee's request to produce another set of paintings for the autumn auction. "Better if it were for every auction. We have models lined up for you -- cute ones too."

Beatrice went on to say that for today's composition, the lad was to supply the training grips and wrist supports, but that Beatrice would direct Anne where to position a mock leotard, which she provided, as well as the quantity of baby oil that Anne should apply. "I want the leotard almost entirely off his body, barely covering anything -- certainly not to cover his arse, and for his body to glisten."

Knocking was heard on the door of the art studio, prompting Beatrice to scurry down the corridor to retrieve the model. Meanwhile, Anne assumed her seat and tidied up her brushes, then noticed a lad dressed in a gymnastics uniform and windbreaker jacket standing before her.

"Charlie, what are you doing here?"

"You two know each other?" Beatrice asked.

"Charlie, is this the university job you told me about?" beseeched Anne, now standing. "I'm the woman who paints lads, from the Daily Mail article."

"You're that lady?"

Anne approached Charlie, taking hold of one of his hands. "I had no idea you were today's model but only that it was a gymnastics composition, the last that I'm to complete for the committee."

Following an awkward silence, Beatrice directed Charlie to remove his clothing and take his position on the mat.

"I'm not ready for that yet," Anne remarked, but still staring at Charlie. "You know, young man, I'll be going on holiday in a week -- I'm just not sure where. Maybe Brighton Beach."

"I'll be in Newcastle."

"I wish that you'd reconsider that, Charlie. You see, the committee has asked me to produce additional paintings this summer. I could do some of this whilst on holiday. With you."

"Anne," Beatrice cried out, "will you paint another round of sixteen paintings for us, for the autumn auction?"

Still staring at Charlie, now squeezing his hand, Anne started, "Can I count on you to whisk off on holiday with me so I can start the production of these paintings? The expenses will be covered and you'll be paid for modelling; I need you to pose for me. You'll be my muse."

"Brighton Beach?"

"Perhaps you know a better location -- a desolate beach under the cliffs, just you and me."

"Just you and me?" Charlie repeated as a smile emerged on his rosy face. "Sure."

Anne placed her other hand on Charlie's neck, combing her fingers through his hair. "You'll need to be completely nude for me, young man, for me to paint you." Then turning to Beatrice, "Upon my word that from this excursion I'll provide the committee with half a dozen works, can you see that the university pays this young man for his services in advance, prior to our departure?"

"Of course," Beatrice responded, "consider it done. We'd like an additional ten paintings from you, however, before the autumn auction."

"Consider that done too," Anne proclaimed, "but I shall require greater artistic control over the compositions when I return from holiday. Something sweeter, lighter."

Beatrice stated that the committee would be amenable to that, and became animated again, sitting in one of the empty chairs whilst directing Anne to set Charlie's pose -- on his stomach, legs stretched back, pointed toes with taut buttocks, and arched back. Like other first-time models, Charlie only returned the towel once he assumed his position on the mat.

"What am I thinking? Anne first has to oil you up."

In response, Anne applied a sheeny coat of baby oil to the lad's shoulders, back and buttocks, before proceeding down his legs. She was in her element. "You've built quite an all-over tan," Anne remarked, her oozy hands now focusing on the boy's derriere, adding layer after layer. "I'll be doing this frequently when we're at the beach, baby boy," she commented, now sliding her slippery fingers in and out of his anal crevice, noticing that Charlie was beginning to squirm.

"Once he's oiled up, drape the leotard over his far leg," Beatrice advised, "as if it was ripped from his body. I want it barely covering anything."

"Newer models struggle to hold positions," Anne warned, "but keep your back arched and this muscle taut. It's the focal point of the piece, its raison d'etre, and it has to glisten. Otherwise, I'll have to reposition you," she smirked, now fully in her element, giving a more forceful and deeper thrust to his anal crevice than she did previously.

Just then the expression on Charlie's face began to glaze over.

"Baby boy, you mustn't let that happen," Anne giggled, thrusting the tips of her fingers even deeper. Then deeper still.