Still

“Dude, I’m telling you. That new teach we got is hot as fuck.”

“…What the hell does that have to do with modelling?”

Word for word, that was the conversation that convinced you to model for an art class that you had zero interest in doing. Asa tried all sorts of things to get you to go before resorting to persuading you with the thought of a hot woman.

Discretion didn’t work out for anyone. “You won’t even know we’re there.” You’d think being encircled by random people who were going to draw you would be impossible to ignore.

Privacy between friends was her next argument. “If you’re worried about me seeing your junk, it’s not that type of modelling. And I won’t even make the next session.” As if strangers who would be painting you were the more comforting option.

Capitalism was the last one. “You’re getting paid to sit on a chair for a few hours. It’s practically free money.” While the thought was enticing, you weren’t that desperate for cash.

But curiosity gets the better of you. Really it was your other head talking when you agreed to do it, though you let Asa be under the impression that she’s convinced you to do it for the extra cash. And with a quick call to the ‘hot teacher’ you’ve officially set yourself up to possibly be catfished.

You thought it’d be quick and easy. You know, appear in class, sit still for an hour or two, get paid then leave. Until you got the memo that you’ll be meeting her an hour early because she apparently “wants to get to know her new model”. Which…sounds about right for something so sudden.

So here you are the day after, sitting outside the art room a good ten minutes before the meet up time. You pride yourself in giving a good first impression, but the anxiety of waiting is slowly chewing away at you. Minutes feel like hours, and scrolling on your phone watching dumb TikTok shorts to pass the time didn’t help as much as you thought it would.

Now you’re treating this as a date when it wasn’t. It’s a quick, easy way to fund your next whatever that piques your interest, and you should treat it as such. You need to keep things formal. Professional. Totally not to possibly maybe check out the teacher if she was hot.

You take a deep breath and count to ten, and you finish just as the door finally opens. You stand up to get introductions over and done wi—

Holy mother of tits what in the fuck are those?

Either Asa really undersold you or you lowered your expectations too much because holy shit she does not look like a professor. Especially wearing that.

A white top and a pair of overalls seemed simple enough. But when she has one strap hanging loose, her bra’s almost exposed through the fabric and it is struggling to contain her breasts—yeah, no. Simple is not the word to use here.

Pair that with the pretty face that came with the smile she’s giving you and you might be fucked.

Fucked. That’s the word.

“Hi,” she starts, walking up to you and extending a hand. “You must be the friend Asa was talking about.”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer and shake her hand, hoping that your hand wasn’t clammy. “That’s me.” You follow through it with your name.

Focus. Remember, this is a job, not a date. Keep it professional.

You keep the handshake firm, trying to get yourself back into a working mindset. That was until you caught a whiff of her perfume—some citrusy floral combo—and you cannot believe that you leaned in to get a better smell of her.

“I’m Magenta.” God, even her name sounds hot. “Sorry about the short notice,” she says, releasing your hand. “I know you’re not a model and all but our regular is sick and we needed a quick replacement.”

“It’s alright, had nothing to do today anyway,” you joke, and it comes out smoother than you expected it to be.

“Good samaritan then?” she chuckles. “And here I thought you agreed for the quick buck.”

Oh, Asa ratted out your ‘reason’. Lovely.

You force yourself to grin. “Asa really knows how to sell a friend out.”

“She didn’t, but that’s most of what I get as models anyway,” she laughs, and you wanted to hear more of it. “This type of modelling isn’t gonna get you deals with Gucci or anything.”

“Not exactly looking to be a full time model,” you reply, the nape of your neck suddenly getting itchy for some odd reason. Wasn’t because you were nervous or anything. “Just here to help.”

“Keep saying that and I’ll think you’re doing this for free,” she smirks, eyeing you up and down before nodding off to the side. “Come on, let’s see what you got.”

And off you go, following her into the art room, trying your damnedest not to look at her ass. “Welcome to where the magic happens,” Magenta comments, stretching her arms out and giving a little twirl. You’d think her other shoulder strap would fall at this point but it is staying strong.

You tear your gaze away from her and to the room, the wall lined up with canvases that were either absolutely beautiful or a mish mash of whatever it is that was painted. Tables were at the very back with what you assume were materials that they used, and in the middle lies your stage.

A simple stool facing an army of easels that contained blank canvases. Now you’re getting scared of what you signed up for if this was the amount of people that would be making a piece out of you.

“Relax.” She says it like it was a regular old thing for her. And it probably was, considering she’s here practically 24/7. “We can start you off with something simple.”

She gestures you to take a seat at the stool, and it simply stares at you. Waiting for you to approach and take a seat. You shrug, mentally say ‘fuck it’, walk up and sit down.

“So,” you start, looking around at what is possibly going to be what you’ll be looking at for the entire afternoon before going back to Magenta, who’s looking back with a grin. “What do you want me to do?”

“Pretend like you’re sitting on a park bench,” she replies, crossing her arms underneath her chest. Do not look down. “Should be easy enough.”

“Uh…” You wanted to tell her that you normally lean back on benches and this was a stool you’re on and all but, you make do. “Alright.”

You lean forward, letting your elbows rest on your thighs and clasp your hands. Your eyes might have focused on your hands but you can feel her sizing you up, the weight of her stare and the hum that she lets out making you heartrate spike a tad.

“That works,” she comments, and you look up to see her nodding. “A bit too tense, but it’s a start.”

She walks closer, circling around your back. Her hands rest on your shoulders, and she gives a gentle press, telling you to drop them lower.

“There you go.” She praises you with pats in the shoulder before she leans in to whisper in your ear. “I told you. Relax.”

Easy for her to say when she’s talking as if she’s about to give you a massage. All low and sultry and sending a chill down your spine. Her hands even give a little rub before she pulls away.

“Now try holding that as long as you can,” She comes back to face you, hands behind her back. A gesture that continues to test the flexibility of her top.

Your eyes strain to glance at her, attempting a quick look at her. Though the moment your focus lands on her assets you snap back down to the floor. You pretend that the floor is quite possibly the best piece of work you’ve ever seen in your life, though you were never the best at silence. So when your fingers start to twitch and your shoulders shift slightly, Magenta lets out an amused sigh.

“And now you’re fidgeting,” she chides, moving back to grab a different chair. One with a back this time. She places it down in front of you and tells you to stand up. “Try this one instead. It’ll make it easier for you.”

You swap the stool for it, grateful to have something to lean on this time, seeing as the next few hours will probably be you sitting here for most of the afternoon.

“That any better?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Yeah.” You nod in agreement. “Loads better. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now back to posing,” she teases, stepping closer to nudge your elbow. “How about pretending you’re waiting for someone?”

Here begins the three step process of being a model; Magenta tells you to pose, you follow through with it, and she makes adjustments. She starts treating you like a mannequin, moving you around to meet her needs. A head tilt there, the angle of your arm here, and so far it seemed perfectly normal.

Until she started getting touchy. Well, she was touching you, but she’s getting a little too handsy.