My Wife, The Model

"Well that sucked," I said, returning to our small apartment. I walked down the narrow hallway past the first of the two bedrooms, the one where we slept on a mattress on the floor, past the small bathroom, and past the storage closet that had been converted into a kitchen to the second bedroom at the end of the hall, which  we used as the living room. 

Claire was sitting on the floor, wearing only boxers. It was sweltering hot--partly because it was June in the small midwestern town, and partly because the rooms I rented were directly over a bakery. It might have been why the rent was so cheap. The air smelled of baking bread. Claire looked up from her reading. "You're back early."

I dumped my sketch pad and art supplies by our one bookshelf. "I know," I said. Class had been cut short because the student who had been hired to be the "life model" for our senior drawing class had suddenly changed summer plans, and ditched out. Someone said she decided to join a boyfriend in Alaska. It was, for me, disastrous news. 

I had fulfilled all of my credits other than the studio art component for graduation. All I needed was the required Life Drawing class, and I could finish college. That's why I'd decided to enroll in the summer, and just get everything finished. As long as I had the apartment and could just complete school by the end of August, it was going to be far cheaper than moving, getting a summer job, moving back to school, and paying for fall term. Also, I'd talked Claire into sticking around. She was a year older than me, and had already graduated. 

She'd been hired by the bakery downstairs, and worked each morning from 5am to noon. That meant she had afternoons free, which she often spent reading, napping, or going on long walks around campus. 

I told her about the student who had skipped out, and how the instructor looked around at the five students, totally at a loss. "Maybe we could like make a still life," suggested one. 

The professor nodded, thinking it over. You could tell he was picturing it in his head, then he frowned and just shook his head slowly. "No," he sighed. "That's technically part of the curriculum you did in 204. For this course, 401, it has to be a live human model. It's not up to me--if you had any idea how long it takes to get curriculum approved... " he trailed off, shoulders slumped. 

"What does it matter what we draw?" said Susan, the only female in the class. 

"It's an accreditation thing..." he said. "Unless one of you wants the job. It's work-study rate." He was looking at Susan when he said it. 

"No thanks," Susan said, trying to be polite, but blushing a little, and uncomfortable being put on the spot.

He scanned the other students for a trace of eagerness, but the guys, including me, slumped back in our chairs, as if to say, "I'm not going to get naked and stand in front of a bunch of dudes."

"What is work-study rate?" asked Claire. 

I explained that the college often hired students for small jobs, like in the art and biology departments, the library. I'd even worked in the inner-campus mail system, sorting mail and delivering it between classes. The jobs were designed to be short hours and pay pretty well so students could earn living money and still focus on school.

"That's three times what I make per hour at the bakery," said Claire.  She stood up and walked to the window. She was still topless and I wondered if anyone could see her from the street. The college town nearly shut down in summer, because all the students (and most of the professors) went away. It was an eerie ghost town feel. I can't recall the exact numbers, but during the school year, the town population was like 45,000. In the summer, I think it dropped to less than 10,000.

"They're cutting my hours at the bakery," said Claire. "It's sort of slow..."

"Shit," I said. My day seemed to be getting worse. Both Claire and I were poor college students--we didn't have any extra cash, and even with cheap rent and free bread, pastries, and coffee from Claire's work, we lived pretty close to the wire.

"I could take that job," she said. 

Claire had modeled before. She'd grown up in a small town where the local department stores often hired local adults, teens, and children to model in their newspaper ads. A natural beauty, tall, slender, blonde, a classic "All-American girl," Claire had done this through high school--"back to school" fall sweaters, and cute easter spring dresses. She'd even modeled the summer swim suits, but her parents had drawn the line at modeling bra and panties. She'd diligently saved the earnings from the photo shoots, and it had actually helped pay her way through college. Having been raised in a small farm town, she'd inherited a work ethic. It's why she'd set her alarm for 4:30am each day to work her bakery shift.

She never spent money like her friends--she didn't go to Cancun for Spring Break, didn't join a sorority with high dues, didn't really even party. She was fairly conservative in that way. She worked hard, studied a lot, and enjoyed simple things like walks in the park, baking. If you saw her, most people would say, "Oh, she's very pretty." But no one would ever say, "I bet she'd pose nude."

When Claire suggested that she take the job of life model for my Studio Art 401 course, I was shocked, but not totally. Our apartment was so hot (no air conditioning), and we could feel the heat coming up from the bakery each morning when the ovens were on. Claire never seemed selfconcious about being nude or partly nude in the privacy of our small apartment. It was such tight quarters, that there really wasn't any privacy, or any need for it. I was at first shocked, but then got used to it when she'd pee in the bathroom and leave the door open.

She was perfectly comfortable hanging out nude in our "living room." More than once, I'd pull out my sketch pad and sketch her. I'd show her my sketch afterwards, and she'd say, "Oh, that's nice." So, technically, shed already done "life modeling." She'd just never done it formally, or publicly. 

I was torn. Being only 22, I was incredibly possessive of Claire. She was my "hot girlfriend" that I felt I'd totally lucked out having. I wasn't about to share her with any of the college frat boy d-bags. Claire and I had shared the apartment for a few months, and seemed like we'd be together in the future, but at that age, everything was so uncertain, I couldn't help but feel insecure.

But insecurity and cowardice and prudishness are not qualities a 22-year-old guy wants associated with him. Just the opposite: I wanted to be known as secure, bold, and sexually mature. Maybe it was a total front, but as much as I didn't want Claire to pose, I wanted to pretend to be the guy who just shrugs and says nonchalant, "Yeah, whatever. That's cool."

Besides, I thought, saying it and actually doing it, totally different.

"We need the money," said Claire.

***

When I arrived, Claire was already in the studio. She was standing beside the professor, looking at some of his paintings. She'd already changed into a robe.

We'd arrived separately, somehow thinking this would make what was about to happen more professional, and (what really mattered) less awkward.

Eventually, the other students arrived. When Susan came in and saw Claire, she looked relieved. The dudes came in late, in a group. Even for an afternoon class, some of them were just waking up. Summer classes, in general, seemed to have a certain type of student.

As soon as the dudes caught sight of Claire, they smiled. Some made not-so-subtle comments to each other. "Sweet, dude, check out the hottie."

My blood boiled. I wanted to punch the fuckers in the face for being so disrespectful. Then again, the male side of me felt a little more alpha for having such a desirable girlfriend.

The joking stopped, however, as soon as Claire took the art stand and dropped her robe. Instantly pencils and charcoal hit paper. The only sound was scratching. The cement studio was cool, even though it was balmy and sunny outside. Goosebumps formed on her arms, buttocks. Her nipples pinched. 

Every 30 seconds, the professor would call time and Claire would shift positions. Arms up, arms out, twist of the spine, lunge. Her poses were natural, athletic. She seemed comfortable striking any pose and holding it. Perhaps from her teenage years of advertising modeling. 

For a moment, I was working so intently on my sketches, that I'd stopped seeing her body as belonging to "my girlfriend," and simply saw lines of gesture, shapes, shading, and volume and mass.

By the time we shifted to longer poses, I'd filled a dozen sheets of my art pad. The longer poses, being harder to hold, required Claire to recline. She lay curled up on her side, knees drawn up, sort of like a fetal position on her side. We began. About halfway into the pose, as my pencil began to fill in the details, I realized she was laying with her butt towards me. With her legs drawn up, her soft folds, enveloped in the soft light-brown of her trimmed pubic hair, was clearly visible. Had she picked this direction so only I would see? 

The more I stared, the more aroused I got. I hoped my drawing board hid my erection. Looking closely, I could see her vulva was rosy, and glistened with a little dew of excitement. Was it because she had secretly given me such a clear view on purpose? Or was the whole experience of being naked in front of a college class arousing?

I began to think about how Claire tasted when I licked her. So tangy and sweet. I began daydreaming about nestling my mouth between her legs, wiggling my tongue between her lips, parting the short cropped hair, and tasting her juices… my tongue sliding up her folds, tickling her clitoris in its little hood of skin, and then diving back down, down the slit of her cunt, and to her most sensitive skin.

I loved inhaling her deeper scent of her backdoor, darting my tongue over her tight wrinkled flesh, making her yelp. It took me a while to work up the courage to sneak my tongue down there--when I did for the first time, she jumped. I thought she was so shocked, and offended that she wanted me to stop. But when I did, she asked, "Why'd you stop?" I knew then, it was clear to explore.

Claire was not my first girlfriend, but I had never been in such a mature adult relationship. I'd never cohabited with anyone. We'd become so comfortable together, I was brave enough to try new things, pushing the boundaries of not only my experience, but also my comfort.

Every nerve of her body seemed to circle her anus. It wasn't long before we discovered a position that became one of our favorites. She'd straddle my face, reverse cowgirl style, and position her backdoor just over my mouth. I'd stick out my tongue, and she'd gently roll her hips, sometimes in circles, sometimes back and forth. With one free hand, she'd rub her clit. In this position, she'd cum in only a few minutes. Hard.

After she'd finish shaking, she'd climb off and usually bring me to orgasm with her mouth. She'd discovered that if she twisted her hand on the upstroke, she could bring me to a fast, powerful explosion. 

Of all the times I'd seen her naked, it was always in the privacy of our apartment. If I got aroused, I could wrap my arms around her, kiss her, and if I began to fondle one of her breasts, she'd be in the mood. We'd have sex then and there: the living room floor, the closet-converted kitchen, the tiny shower.

For the first time, I sat looking at her naked--at folds of her neatly trimmed pussy--and I couldn't go up and touch her. I could even see the few hairs that circled her backdoor that the razor never seemed to reach. I thought about going up to her and riming her. My erection strained in my pants. 

***

Claire seemed to fully embrace her new job. More than the hourly pay, she seemed genuinely to embrace being a "bohemian art girl." Maybe it was because she'd grown up in a conservative farm town. Maybe it was simply the fact that all young adults go through "phases." At some point, a lot of people go through a "hippie" stage. 

Claire had always been totally unselfconscious about her body before. Maybe it'd come from modeling swimwear. But even so, she'd always had a rather conservative, mainstream look. She made a point to wear matching bra and pantie sets, for example. She plucked her eyebrows, wore mascara, styled her hair, and always shaved her legs and underarms. And of course, always wore deodorant.

Hanging out more and more in the art studio, she began to wear old t-shirts. Without a bra, you could sometimes see through the thin fabric if the light hit just right. She hadn't shaved in weeks, and tiny soft blonde hairs had appeared on her shins, and little patches of downy curls sprang up under her arms. She'd stopped wearing makeup and most of the times just pulled her hair back into a ponytail. On warm days, she smelled slightly of her own sweat, no longer concealed under sticky deodorant.

It was all new to me. I thought I would have been grossed out, by her new choices of person higgle. But, I actually thought it made her seem more mature, more womanly, and more wild. Perhaps it was several things. She was actually a good two inches taller than me, and seemed more sexually experienced. I never asked, but she'd done some study abroad, and there were hints of lovers she'd met in Paris and Barcelona. She'd exposed me to poetry. She loved William Blake. She loved painting, especially post-impressionism and dada. She'd seen the nude sculptures of Rodin in Paris, and it seemed she was envisioning herself as one of those models, living out the fantasy in our summer semester class.

The effect wasn't lost on the art professor, and the one other professor who had stayed on campus that summer to teach a photography class.  I overheard them talking in the hall when I was getting a drink from the fountain. We'd hung or best sketches of Claire along the hallway for class critiques. Most of the drawings were torsos, or just so badly done by the frat boys that they seemed they were more anonymous--just a classic "nude" and not specifically Claire.

The two professors were standing and examining our class drawings, when the photography professor commented, "I like her underarm hair."

I'm sure he'd been in art school in the 70s. No doubt he missed seeing natural girls. But it creeped me out a little. It seemed lewd that a man in his 50s would be commenting on my 23-year-old girlfriend's underarm hair.

Not everyone was as appreciative of Claire's new bohemian "experiment." I overheard the frat boys making comments, "Dude, check out the peach fuzz!" They had no idea Claire and I were dating. They made no effort to reserve their disdain of her new natural state. "That's fucking disgusting," said one. "How'd you like to eat that fur burger," asked another. "I just threw up in my mouth," he responded. "I bet she's a fucking bull dyke," the third one said. "Cause no guy would touch that."

I turned and saw Claire, who had been changing behind the curtain in the studio. She had heard everything. When our eyes met, she shrugged, and stepped back behind the curtain. But her red, damp eyes revealed that she'd been crying. 

***

The faces of the frat boys dropped when Claire dropped her robe. It was the last class of the summer semester. For the past eight weeks, my girlfriend Claire had been working as the life model for our class. The funds had helped us made rent, since Claire's job at the bakery had been cut back to weekends. She'd assumed the role of art model so completely that she'd let herself become a classic bohemian. After eight weeks, her natural blonde hair had filled out the triangle between her legs, and under her arms. It was too thin to really see on her shins, unless the light hit it just right. But after the frat boys had said rude, degrading comments and made her cry, she had picked up her razor again.

Personally, I hadn't minded her hair. It had grown so slowly that the transition seemed unnoticeable. I discovered that I really enjoyed 69, when she was on top, and pressing her furry pussy to my open mouth. I also loved when she'd ride me and Id pull her down to me, her arms raised up so I could smell the salt of fresh sweat and pheromones under her arms. Or perhaps because we were exploring so much that summer, I didn't focus only on her new natural hair. Wether her bush was thick and untrimmed seemed hardly an issue.

We'd started out with anal play when I realized she was sensitive to my tongue exploring her ass. This lead to teasing her with a finger, and eventually, with enough lube, we successful had anal sex. 

Fucking her in the ass was so tight and so silky smooth, a such a new sensation for me, that that I was obsessed. I wanted to have anal every night. And that was ok with Claire. 

She had grown up in a conservative Catholic family. Although she had rebelled from her parent's neat and proper grooming standards, she still, deep down, had a connection to the church and what seemed to me an unflappable devotion to the Pope. My mom had made me and my sister go to Sunday school growing up, but eventually had just let us make our own choices. Once teens, we stopped going. Religion for me had very little effect on my life. 

She didn't go to church except for easter and Christmas mass, but for Claire, her Catholic upbringing still seemed to influence her values, no matter how much she denied it. It came out when our new relationship started getting sexual. 

She'd let me (encourage me even) to touch her anywhere on her body, kiss her anywhere. Bu then it came time for actual "intercourse" she resisted. She wasn't on the pill, and didn't want to use condoms. She also didn't want to get pregnant. That's why, I eventually realized, she'd straddle me, and let me rim her while she rubbed her self to orgasm. Rather than than let me have sex with her next, she'd instantly be sucking me off. It always felt so go, how could I ask her to stop? 

If for some reason she wasn't distracting me by an awesome blowjob and I tried to position us for sex, she'd take my cock in hand and start to beat me off and say something naughty like, "I want you to cum on my face." 

Yet, eventually, my young balls were crying out for the type of release that only comes from hard-pounding penetration, and I needed to figure out what she'd let me do.

Once, when I wasn't satisfied with a facial, she put my cock between her breasts, and let me tit fuck her until I splattered a "pearl necklace" over her collarbone.

Some how handjobs or titty fucking, rim jobs, or oral sex wasn't "intercourse."

She would let me rub my cock between her butt checks, until I sprayed on the small of her back, and once, when shifting to get more comfortable, my cocked poked at her backdoor, almost pressing in. She  sighed, "ummmm."

It was my hint to explore more. Knowing that she didn't want to have "intercourse," I was so slow to try to insert my cock into her butt.However, when I found out how much she liked anal stimulation, it encouraged me to go farther. 

Our solution turned out to be anal sex.

More than once, we'd be laying on the mattress on the floor, the blankets kicked off, totally naked, gleaming with sweat, letting our breathing slow. She'd had cum drying on her skin--her face or breasts, or leaking from her. My cock would be half hard, slowly deflating, coated in sex juices, cum, spit, and lube. The room would smell like butt sex. It was raunchy. And wonderful. It'd lay there, look over at her lean, young, wild and ungroomed natural body and think, this must be the basic mammal lust that has kept our species going so many hundreds of thousands of years. I thought: I am the luckiest guy in the world. No one knows this secret.

It felt even better that the frat boys didn't like her unshaved and natural. They had no idea what they were missing. And I allowed any jealousy or insecurity I had about Claire posing nude to dissipate. 

Then, the last class happened.

***

When she stepped from behind the curtain, no one noticed that Claire had coated her lips in a glossy red, or tinted her eyes with heavy mascara and eye shadow. But they certainly noticed when she dropped the robe, revealing that she'd shaved herself completely bare, save for a narrow "landing strip." Somehow the fact that she'd left this narrow patch of pubic hairs seemed even more sexual than if she'd shaved it all off. It seemed to hint at pubes, but only a hint. The strip seemed to point down, directly to her clit. Her vulva was shaved completely smooth. 

In the previous weeks, Claire had posed as if a Greek statue in a museum. Classical poses, gentle twists of her torso, arcs of her spine, arms draped like a ballerina. Now, she posed as if for an adult magazine. 

She sat with legs up, parted just a little to give the guys an open crotch shot. She posed on her hands and knees, giving the guys a full open view of her bare ass, and the smooth lips framed between her thighs. She bent forward, letting her breasts dangle before their eyes. Once she even posed, cupping each breast in her hands. She lay on her back, and lifted her legs straight, holding them up in a flying V. It was about as lewd a pose as anyone could come up with--it was, in short, the "here I am, fuck me" pose.

Her intended effect worked. The guys could barely draw. Pencils only pretended to move as the stared in shock and awe. Normally, a professor would have put a stop to this. He would have stopped the session, told her to dress, and dismissed her from any further sessions. But there were no further sessions. It was the end of term, and frankly, the professor's face has the same shocked and lustful look of the frat boys.

Seeing that her new look and poses were meeting no objection, Claire continued. In one pose she bent forward to touch her toes. She placed her hands behind her ankles, so she was completely folded in half. Her backside was to the group of boys who had mocked her, and they could not only see her shaved vulva, but also her shaved asshole. They stared at her body parts, as she stared at them, peeking back at them, upside down, between her ankles. She stared unflinching, as if to say: "you wouldn't touch me before? Look at what you missed."

She struck the squatting pose, as if she were peeing. In this open legged pose, her pussy low, almost touching the art stand, we could clearly see her open pussy. Perhaps because of the association of peeing, the pose seemed especially inappropriate. 

In one of the longer poses, she lay on her back, sprawled out, legs open, one arms flopped behind her head, and one draped over her mons pubis. She wasn't actually touching herself, but the gesture clearly implied masturbation. Her legs were so wide, that her inner labia was parted, revealing smooth pink skin, wet with her own arousal. Without any hair to catch, little beads of her juices trickled down her ass crack.

All of the guys sported raging hard-ons. Even the professor had moved up for a closer look.

***

Flash forward 20 years. Claire and I are in our early 40s, and have been married ever since college graduation. 

Our college years remain a fond nostalgia, but we haven't been back. Summer came around, and as we thought about plans for fall, we had enough airline miles for a flight. "What if we went back for homecoming?" I suggested to Claire. "It is our 20 year anniversary." 

We could get a hotel next to campus, and see if all the old hang out places were still in business, and to walk the campus. I knew there would be lots of new buildings, bigger dorms, and a whole new athletic field, but I was curious to see what remained of "our" school.

"Maybe it's better if we keep it in our memory," said Claire. 

***

Of all the changes on campus, the art building was the same: a large, square brick building circa 1950s. They'd build a kiln off to the side, but the long hallways and cold studios were the same. They smelled of oil paints, wax, gesso. 

All the scents suddenly stirred memories, and I recalled the summer Life Drawing class. Instantly, I was  hard again, the surge of my youthful lust stirred. Why is it that old smells can trigger emotions? Almost like a pavlovian response, I wanted Claire right there.

The art department had put on an exhibit for homecoming, to show off the best work of the current students and faculty. Hundreds of alums would be returning, and it was obvious the art department needed a few more patrons.

As we wandered down the long main hallway, the work seemed familiar:  still lifes, self-portraits, and far too many abstracts. Added to the department was wire sculpture, glass blowing, ceramics, and photography. 

We came upon my old drawing professor. He immediately recognized me, and shook my hand. "Still doing art?" he asked. I had to admit that I'd given it up long ago. 

"And you remember Claire," I said, turning to my wife. 

He looked at her with a blank face and then, recognizing her and placing where he'd last seen her, an expression of alarm and uncomforted came over him.

"Yes, yes, of course," he stammered. He fumbled to shake her hand quickly and twisting his head around, said, as he darted away, "Will you excuse me please, I need to--"

We chuckled a little. No doubt he had suddenly flashed back to that last class session when Claire had come into the studio shaved down to a landing strip and posed like a centerfold for the art class. Back then, we seemed so young, and the professor so old. He had thick hair and a thick copper-red beard. We were in our 20s, and he in his 40s. We were now the age he was then. His hair had thinned and turned salt and rust.

"I think I've seen enough," said Claire. 

I could tell she wanted to go, but I figured she had just been embarrassed by the professor's reaction. 

"It's nothing," I said.

I took her hand and led her further down the hall.  

After we finished looking at the student work in the halls, we entered the gallery, where they displayed a retrospective of the professors' work.

Claire and I took some wine and cheese from the buffet table and started to circle the room. We came across the photography of the professor who had been in the department when we were in school. Apparently, he'd gained a national reputation and had several of his images published in books since we'd graduated. 

He had a lot of landscapes. Abandoned barns. Close ups of leaves, backlit so you could see the veins. Not exceptionally original or compelling, I thought. 

Claire tugged at me again. "Seen enough?"

Toward the end of the line was a photograph where the viewers were bunched up. People seemed to be giving it more time and consideration, whispering and pointing. Must be at least one good photo, I thought. 

I continued toward the last photos, with a little more hurry, glossing over close up shots of cracked cement and chipping paint. Telephone poles with birds on the wire.

When we got to the end, Claire stopped. She grabbed my arm, trying to lead me away. 

"No, I want to see this," I said. 

"No you don't," she said. "Let's go."

I looked at her with a confused and stubborn resolve. Then I looked at the photos. 

There were three. the first showed a nude in a pond. I recognized the pond. It was just out of town, maybe a 20-minute drive. Claire and I used to go there on hot days to picnic and skinny dip.

The image was of Claire, thigh deep in the pond, arms up-stretched to the sun, as if holding the sun in her hands. She looked like a flower child of the 60s. Her pubic triangle thick and bushy, hair under her arms. It had obviously been taken sometime in late July or early August of that year.

The print was titled "the sun goddess, " and there was some stupid artist statement next to it, something about pre-Christian fertility goddess of harvest, blah blah blah. 

I felt a stinging sensation rising up the back of my next, like sharp nettles. 

The next photo showed her squatting on the sandy beach of the pond. She was peeing, though the stream of urine was just a blur. Still, you could tell what she was doing, and see the shadow of dark sand under her. I couldn't believe she'd do that in front of anyone, especially a professor. When had they done this? the same day, different days? How did she get so comfortable with him, and why hadn't she told me?

The caption read, "Before Fall," and the artist statement had some bullshit about how before we had knowledge from the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden, we had no shame about our bodies and lived in harmony with nature. Somehow the peeing in the open was supposed to symbolize Eve before the Fall. How fucking original, I thought. The fucker takes a picture of my then-girlfriend, now-wife, and displays it as if profound "art." the photo certainly had people gawking and pointing, but because it was in a gallery, there were trying to take it as art.

The final image was not as graphic, but upset me even more. Claire was naked, in a bed, sheets tousled.  Her eyes were closed, and her face had a relaxed, almost sublime expression of bliss. 

The caption read: "sleeping beauty." What upset me was that the sheets were twisted the way they get from sex. The bed was not ours. And Claire had been shaved, just her landing strip was the only trace of pubic hair. It had been taken, clearly, after the last Life Drawing class, at the very end of summer. That meant there were at least two photo sessions, if not three, and spaced out over at least a month.

Even though the photo was black and white, I could see the dappled rash of what would have been a red on her chest. It was the sex flush I knew all to well. It was how she always looked after orgasm.

I pulled Claire away before anyone could turn from the photo and recognize her as the model.

***

Gripping her arm in hurt, embarrassment, and anger, I marched her down the hall. Furious, I didn't care where we went, as long as it was away from the crowd. We tried each door, until we found one unlocked. 

"What the fuck was that all about," I shouted.

She was shaking and crying. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed. I never thought you'd find out.

"Why," I said. It was all I could even spit through my clenched teeth.

"We needed the money," said Claire.

"Not that bad," I said.

I wanted to slap her. I'll be honest. I almost did. But I am not a wife beater, not even if what I suspected was true.

"It was just meant to be photos," she said.

"You slept with him," I shouted.

She choked on her sobs. 

"Tell me!" I demanded. "I deserve the truth."

She cried and shook. 

"You did," I said.

She shook so violently she couldn't even form words. 

Claire and I had been together almost 25 years--dating in college and then marriage. We hadn't been each other's firsts, but nearly. Each of us could count the number of sexual partners we'd had on only one hand, and we'd never been unfaithful to each other. At least, that's what I had thought.

I don't know what enraged me more: the thought of someone else fucking her, or (even worse) her silence. Never telling me. By omission, lying to me. It was betrayal. 

When we'd dashed into the room, we hadn't stopped to look for the light switch. But having been there for at least 5 minutes of me shouting and accusing and her sobbing, our eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness. Light poured in form the hallway, and through the tall windows from the sidewalk lamps. We could make out that we were in a studio. On the walls were pencil and charcoal nudes. There were drawing benches and drawing boards in a circle. In the center was a model stand. 

"Of all the fucking ironies," I said. It was the kind of coincidence that you couldn't make up. The kind that if you told someone, they'd say, "no way, I call bullshit." But it was true. Stupid and painful and confusing and true: as if by old habit, we'd marched into the drawing studio. 

It was, essentially completely unchanged in 20 years. And, being the beginning of the school year, the work of the summer life drawing class was still hanging. The charcoal still looked the same as it had then, large, out of proportion, awkward attempts by students to render the human form. Lots of eraser marks, and shading to hide the mistakes.

The last time we had been in the room, she had been putting herself on display, sexually, provoking all the males in the room. I had thought it funny. I was even blindly proud. I thought I was the alpha male, and that she was just being an innocent tease. I had loved her more for that boldness then, but now I saw it completely differently. 

Maybe she had already been sleeping with the photography professor then? Had there been others? The drawing teacher? Other guys in the class?

The last time I saw her in this room, she was naked on the model stand, open legs, offering her body up to lustful stares, as if prompting a ravishing. I had wanted to take her then, and there. 

I couldn't then. Now I could.

I took her by the arm and marched her to the model stand. She let me lead her like a dog who had just been scolded. 

I pushed her down, surprised even at the unrestrained force. She seemed to crumple. With one hand I seized the back of her head and grabbed a handful of hair. I mashed her face to my groin, wiping her tears on my pants. She didn't resist.

With my other hand, I unbuckled my belt, unzipped, and flopped my cock out. I poked it at her, pressed it against her forehead, cheeks and nose. Then and jammed it at her mouth, and understanding, she opened up to take it.

She was still sniffling as I fed her my cock, now growing rigid. The bigger and thicker it got, the more it poked to the back of her throat. She choked a few times, but I didn't give her much break. Her comfort was no longer my concern.

I looked around the room at the drawings. Another female nude. No head or hands of feet because they were too hard to draw. Just a body. That's what Claire had been in this room, and that's what she was to me now.

As she sucked, she attempted to put her hand up, to stroke me, or to perhaps keep me from pushing so deep into her throat. I was deriving a sadistic pleasure from the gulping and gagging noises emerging from her mouth, and the string of spittle dribbling down her chin.

I yanked her up and spun her around. Still holding a fistful of hair, I pushed her upper body down, so she was bent over the model stand. My dick stood out of my fly, open and coated in her saliva.

I flipped up her dress. She wore a thong and only a thin ribbon of fabric protected her ass. I jerked it aside. 

Her height had always been an advantage to her as a model. For sex, it had always been one of my hidden insecurities. I kicked her ankles further apart, much like a guard about to pat down a prisoner. Her legs now spread eagle, dropped her hips to the level of mine. It also made her more unbalanced, and she fell forward, her face flat against black painted plywood of the model stand.

"Did he fuck you?" I demanded.

"Don't," she whimpered.

"Did he?"

"Don't make me say it."

"Did he," I repeated.

"Please," she cried. "Don't make me say it."

I twisted her hair, tugging at the roots. She yelped.

Still, she wouldn't confess. 

I slapped her ass. It was hard enough to leave a red print and echo off the cement walls.

"Please," she said.

I slapped her ass again.

"Yes," she whispered, under her choking sobs.

"Yes what?!"I demanded.

"Yes he did." she sobbed.

"Yes he did what?"

She paused and I twisted her hair again.

"Yes he did what?"

"Fuck me," she finally admitted.

With that, I positioned the fat head of my cock at the entrance of her ass. It was coated in her spit, but she was tight and unlubricated. It took a lot of pushing and pressure to get it in just the first inch. My cock bulged and buckled. It wasn't fitting. But I wasn't going to give up.

"Spread your ass cheeks," I ordered.

Her face still mashed onto the stand, she reluctantly reached behind her, and grabbing her buttocks, spread her ass. This helped open up her back passage.

"More," I ordered.

She pulled more so that her asshole was as open as possible. My cockhead popped in past the ring of her spintcher. 

We'd discovered anal sex together back then. Or so I thought. I wondered if she'd actually first had it with the guy she met in Paris, or the guy in Barcelona. When we'd first done it, she wasn't nervous. She didn't expect it to hurt. I thought it was because she loved and trusted me. Maybe it wasn't even that complex. Maybe she thought that simply because she'd done it before.

I rammed my thick, rock hard dick into her. She cried out in the sudden burst of sharp pain.

I pulled out, almost to the tip, and then jammed my cock back inside her ass, this time to the hilt.

Then I began to anal fuck her, hard, without pause, and without sympathy. It was, I believe the term is called, a revenge fuck.

"Did he fuck you like this?" I demanded.

"No," she said.

"Don't lie," I said.

"Please," she begged. "Please!"

"Did you let him?" I demanded. "Did you!"

She didn't answer, grunting from the pain and pleasure she was getting at the same time, the fear and shame mixing, overwhelming her. I was being a jerk, and I knew it. I had never been like this with her before. It was hard, and violent, and forceful. But she never said stop. She never screamed for help. She was accepting it, and, it seemed, maybe even getting pleasure.

"I bet you did," I said. I was now talking at her, no longer expecting a response. "I bet he asked you. Begged you even." 

She had continued to hold her ass cheeks open and I watched my thick cock violating her tight ass.

"I bet it started out all innocent... maybe he asked you about your boyfriend, and if you'd had sex. Didn't he?"

She didn't respond. So I continued. "I bet he was waiting, waiting for the time to ask if you'd tried anal, and maybe I gave you some wine, lowered your defenses... then he asked if you had tried it and you admitted it, didn't you? And when you said yes, he knew he could take everything he wanted." 

I continued to pound her, but steadied my rhythm to long hard thrusts. I wasn't going to shoot just then, I needed to hear the whole truth. After 20 years, it needed to be exposed.

"Did he get you drunk?" I asked.

"Please," she said, "don't make me tell you."

This only made me pound her harder. "Did he rape you?" 

"No," she said. She said it clearly, and I know she meant it.

"Then you let him..." I paused, absorbing the shock of what I had just said. "You LET him."

"Yes," she said.

"Did he pay you?" I demanded.

She broke out in sobs again. "Yes," she whispered.

"Then you're a whore," I said. "You gave up your body for money. You're just a whore!"

"I did it for us!" she cried. "We needed the money."

"Not that bad," I said again. 

Renewed with hurt and rage, I pounded her as hard as I could. Our skin slapped together, my balls swinging and slapping her pussy. My thick cock rammed her deep as it could go, tearing her open. I knew I was hurting her, but it was also making her cum. Her body, as if overriding her emotions, was functioning on a primitive level of sex. An animal level.

She started to shake with a powerful orgasm, clenching her anal muscles in waves. So tight, it began to trigger my orgasm, and together we came, hard, loud, and violent.

***

At last, I felt my cock soften and I pulled out. 

"Stay like that," I said.

I stepped back a few feet and took in the sight. Twenty years ago I had seen Claire in her sexual youthful prime, naked on the model stand. Now I saw her as a 40-something adult, bent over the stand, her bare ass in the ass. It was rosy from the fucking and still had the faint traces of my hand print. Her ass was red, swollen, slack and open.

"Stay like that," I said.

Her hands hadn't moved the whole time. I'd ordered her to hold her ass cheeks open when we started, and they still held her open.

Years ago I looked at her body and thought it was mine to possess. Mine alone. Now I wondered if a body is just a body. Like the drawings on the wall. 

Did it really matter if she'd had sex 20 years ago? Did it matter now? Maybe it was that my balls were drained. The surge of testosterone ebbed. Anger, hurt and hate had faded. 

"Stay like that," I said.

I pulled out my cellphone and turned on the camera. I waited.

After about a minute, maybe a little more, maybe a little less, my cum began to leak from her ass. A thin stream of white semen seeped out of her canal, and dribbled down her leg. 

I raised my camera. Snap.

I thought about the photography professor. I thought of what she'd done. I thought about the crowds of strangers looking and commenting on her naked young body, and the image of her just after sex.

I didn't know what I'd do with the picture of tonight. Maybe nothing. 

But now we were even.