The Artist's Model

An unexpected age-gap liaison [1 of 2]

Image by Ivan Drokonov on Pixabay

I was frustrated, I needed to paint, but it wasn’t flowing today. Standing with my hands on my hips I surveyed the large canvas. The entitled face of Bertram Makepiece stared out imperiously; his jowls were not enhanced by his powdered wig or his magistrate’s robes. The leather-bound tome open on the desk before him was fooling nobody, he looked pompous and opinionated rather than educated and impartial. And I’d been commissioned to paint his portrait. Such jobs were my bread and butter, but today I wasn’t up to the task.

I pulled open the drawer in search of cigarettes and a lighter, but my eye was caught by the pack of playing cards where I hid my joints. Should I? Smoking weed loosened up my creativity, but I should only indulge when I was painting for myself. Would feeling less tense and more ‘open’ help me finish Bertram’s portrait? He was a pretty strait-laced guy.

No — I shut the drawer with all the resolve I could muster. In the kitchen, I put the kettle on for a strong coffee. But that yearning tickle had started up inside. I was the same with chocolate, once I’d entertained the idea I had a lot of trouble suppressing it. Five minutes later, with a steaming mug of joe at my elbow, I was sparking up the tightly-rolled spliff.

It worked its insidious magic: all was well with the world and I daubed paint onto the canvas with confidence. Working quickly and assuredly, I filled in the background and shaded the folds of Bertram’s court robes. With each drag of the fragrant smoke, I connected with the depths of my creativity. If I could get this picture finished, I’d crack on with something more inspiring.

My progress was rudely interrupted by a knock at my front door. What the —?

My cottage is tucked away and I wasn’t expecting a visitor. I was tempted to ignore it and carry on painting, but the rapping sounded again, more insistently.

“Shit!”

I ground out the joint and tipped the stub and ashes into the compost pail before I hustled to answer the knocking. Standing on my front step, framed in a picturesque way by the wisteria that surrounded my door, was a handsome young man. He was tall and dark-haired with a charming smile; I stared at him in confusion.

“Aurora Bancroft?” He made it a question. I nodded because it’s my name.

“Miles Wilson,” he twinkled, revealing white teeth and dimples. “My aunt said you needed a model for life drawing.”

I must’ve looked as nonplussed as I felt because his sunny attitude faltered.

“Have I come at a bad time?”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone,” I trailed off. “Your aunt is…?”

“Martine Simpson,” he replied.

My brain was too foggy to remember a conversation. “She works in the bakery?” My question re-set his smile to megawatt.

“That’s right. Look if it’s a bad time, I’ll come back. I have no lectures this afternoon so I thought I’d wander along, see if you could use me.”

I could use him alright, his lips looked mighty kissable and the glimpse I was getting at the neck of his chambray shirt beckoned me to explore. Whoa Aurora! I scolded myself, this guy looks ten years younger than you.

Miles watched me expectantly as I corralled my thoughts into a semblance of normality. Bertram’s stuffy old portrait was nearly finished. There was a risk I'd make the colours muddy if I tried to work on it any more today. Mental tussle over, I offered a smile.

“Sure, that would be great. Come on in.”

I stepped aside for Miles to enter the cottage. I cautioned, “Mind your head,” as his six-foot frame crossed the threshold. Be still my beating heart.

I guided him to the draped couch, piled with cushions, where my models usually pose.

“Do you mind removing your shoes?”

Miles took off his boots, tucking his socks neatly inside. His feet looked strong and sinewy, which made me wonder if he was a runner.

“Would you like a drink?” I offered, but he demurred.

I was desperate to act as normal as possible. Did the room stink of weed? I hadn’t had time to open a window before answering the door.

“Have you modeled before?”

While I talked I used my phone to select a mellow playlist, with tracks by Adele, Billie Eilish, and Lana Del Ray. I activated shuffle mode and the speakers projected soft strains of music.

“My friend at uni is doing media studies, she’s used me for moody photographs a few times.” Miles’ tone was assured, but not brash

“Moody?”

He quirked his lip endearingly. “Well that’s what I call them, she has a penchant for black and white images using a slow shutter speed.”

I nodded as I set up my easel, pinning a sheaf of pages to it. I was raring to go, almost twitchy with the urge to get sketching.

“I’ll do a series of fast drawings. Each time the song changes, please strike a new pose.”

“Sure,” Miles nodded, settling his rangy limbs into a comfortable pose. “This OK?”

He looked at me, and my stomach flipped, but I nodded.

I began with sure swipes of charcoal to capture the essence of him before the track ended. As I observed the curves and planes of his body, my heart thudded. The weed had made me feel schoolgirlish, skittish about this young man, which only worsened as I studied him in order to draw. I couldn’t deny he was attractive; I was glad to have my easel to hide behind. Even so my nipples tightened against my tank top and a heat built at the juncture of my thighs.

A new song began and Miles lay back, his hands behind his head in total repose. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling and I studied the dark sweep of his eyelashes. His bone structure was fabulous, high cheekbones and a firm jawline. A flush crept up my neck as I shaded the folds of his soft shirt and the creases in his jeans — his torso seemed toned and there was a discernible outline of cock beneath the denim. Lust pooled warm in my pelvis, and my liquid desire leaked.

My imagination was running away with me: I pictured discarding any pretence of drawing, instead throwing myself at Miles to unbutton his shirt and nibble up his neck. Of course, such thoughts did not help my damp knicker and thrumming pulse situation.

Another track started saw Miles moving to lie on his side, head resting on one elbow, his attention focused on me. His dark eyes seemed to bore into me so I had to look away. Did I detect a naughty twinkle before I dodged behind my easel? I bit my lip, starting my sketch at his feet, but soon my charcoal was fleshing out his groin area. Was my high and horny mind playing tricks on me? His dick looked more prominent than previously.

As I drew the shape of his lips I imagined them against mine, pressing in for a kiss before we opened our mouths to let our tongues dance together, slippery and agile with passion. 

Get a grip Aurora! I tried shading his hairline, but my charcoal snapped.

“Shit!” I cursed.

It wasn’t a disaster, charcoal is pretty fragile, but with Miles in close proximity, I became jittery.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes, no problem.” I tucked hair behind my ear and took a steadying breath.

“Aurora?” His voice was silky and sexy, playing like nimble fingers up my spine. “Do you mind if I change the music? It feels like I’m at a funeral.”

“Sure, no problem. It’s background for me anyway.”

“Ok if I move?”

“Two ticks … yeah I’m done.” I flipped the finished drawing over, set the charcoal down and flexed my fingers.

Miles moved to where my phone was docked and pulled his own device from his back pocket. I studied his delectable rear view, while he scrolled through his music library, before settling his phone in place. Immediately a lively track began, and Miles ambled to the chaise and settled into position.

“Who sings this?” I queried.

“The Heavy, you like it?”

When it got to the chorus, a raw and pleading repetition of How you like me now? I really I did. It was something different; up-beat, sexy almost. I didn’t recognise the subsequent tunes, but I enjoyed their energy.

“Miles, do you mind unbuttoning your shirt?” I spoke tentatively, hoping I sounded professional rather than sex-crazed.

“Sure.”

His smile made his cheek dimple deepen, like a young Elvis. His abs were cut; divine blocks of muscle. I was still drawing when the music changed, and pleaded with Miles to hold still a little longer.

“Shall I take it off for the next pose, Aurora?”

I looked up from my easel. Our gaze connected for a long, heated moment.

“That would be lovely, Miles,” I responded, in a voice that was suddenly sultry.

[To be Continued ... ]

© Posy Churchgate 2025, All rights reserved

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