Art Student - couldnt resist
Hi this is based on a friends fantasy. let me know what you think fi xx
"You're staring again," Professor Langley said, tapping Jennifer's shoulder.
She jerked her charcoal away from the paper, leaving a faint smudge across the old man's sketched thigh. "Sorry. Just trying to get the shading right."
The classroom hummed with the quiet scratch of pencils, the occasional cough, the shuffle of stools. Jennifer adjusted her grip, eyes darting back to the model on the platform. Mr. Harlow sat perfectly still, his spine straight despite his age, wrists resting on his knees. The overhead lights caught the deep lines of his stomach, the wiry silver hair trailing down from his navel. Her fingers itched to redraw the curve of his hip, the way his skin folded slightly where his thigh met his torso.
"You okay?" whispered Mira, squinting at Jennifer’s half-finished sketch. "You’ve been on that same spot for ten minutes."
Jennifer didn’t answer. She was watching the slow, almost imperceptible shift in Mr. Harlow’s posture—a subtle tension in his thighs, the faintest lift of his chest as he breathed. Then she saw it. A twitch. Just below his navel, where the shadows pooled between his legs. Her throat went dry. She pressed the charcoal harder against the paper, pretending to focus. But her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the rustle of paper, the professor’s footsteps circling the room.
The twitch happened again. This time, unmistakable. Her stomach flipped. She’d seen plenty of nude models—young, old, every shape—but never this. Never *reacting*.
"Time’s up," Professor Langley announced. "Models, you’re free to take a break."
Mr. Harlow exhaled, rolling his shoulders, but didn’t stand. Jennifer chewed her lip. The other students were already packing up, chatting, stretching. She stayed frozen, watching as his hand drifted—casual, like he was just adjusting—to his thigh. His fingers grazed the inside, then stilled.
Mira nudged her. "Coming to lunch?"
"Go ahead," Jennifer murmured. "I need to fix something first."
Alone now, except for Mr. Harlow and the distant clatter of the hallway, she gripped her stool. The air felt thick. Static. She inhaled.
"Mr. Harlow?" Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
He turned his head, slow, eyebrows lifting. "Yes, Miss?"
She swallowed. "Would you—could you sit for me again? Privately?"
His fingers flexed against his thigh. Then, very quietly, he said, "I suppose I could."
Jennifer's pulse stuttered. She gathered her sketchbook with trembling hands, the paper whispering against her palms. The classroom door clicked shut behind them as they moved to the smaller studio—a narrow space with a single stool and a window overlooking the quad. Dust motes swirled in the late afternoon light. Mr. Harlow didn’t hesitate; he stepped onto the low platform and settled back into the same pose, his bare feet planted wide. Jennifer perched on the stool, legs tight together. The sketchbook balanced on her knees felt like a flimsy shield.
She tried to focus on the lines of his collarbone first, the way the tendons stood in his neck. But her gaze kept slipping downward, to the soft crease where his thigh met his hip, to the shadow she’d been avoiding. The charcoal trembled between her fingers. Then—there. Again. A slow, unmistakable thickening beneath the thatch of silver hair. She sucked in a breath.
Mr. Harlow cleared his throat. "Apologies. It’s… involu ntary."
"It’s okay," she blurted. The words hung between them, too loud.
His cock twitched again, rising gradually, the skin flushing pink. Jennifer’s mouth went dry. She dropped the charcoal. It rolled off her lap and clattered to the floor. Neither of them moved to retrieve it.
Without thinking, she reached out—her fingers hovered just above his thigh. Mr. Harlow’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. The air smelled of linseed oil and sweat. Her fingertip brushed the inside of his knee, then traced upward, feather-light, along the wiry trail of hair. His stomach tensed. She didn’t stop.
When her hand finally curled around him, he let out a shaky exhale. He was warm. So warm. And heavier than she’d imagined, the skin silken under her unsure strokes.
"Christ," he muttered, hips lifting slightly into her grip.
She squeezed experimentally. A bead of moisture glistened at the tip. Something hot coiled low in her belly. Her thumb swiped over the head, smearing it. Mr. Harlow groaned, his fingers digging into the edge of the platform.
Jennifer leaned closer.
Mr. Harlow inhaled sharply—a quick, deliberate sniff through flared nostrils. The scent hit him like a physical touch: warm musk and salt, unmistakably female, thick enough to taste. His cock pulsed in her hand, twitching against her palm as if drawn to the source. She hadn’t even noticed her own thighs pressing together, the dampness seeping through her cotton panties, but *he* had. His nostrils flared again, eyelids lowering halfway as he breathed her in.
She watched his chest rise and fall faster now, the gray hair there glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. The studio air was close, humid with the heat of their bodies. His hips rolled upward into her grip, his cock slick and heavy. The tip brushed her wrist, leaving a sticky trail. Jennifer’s breath caught as she realized—*he knew*. Knew how her underwear clung, how her pulse raced between her legs. Her fingers tightened around him reflexively, and he groaned, low and ragged.
"How does it feel?" she whispered. Her voice was barely more than air, but it cracked something open between them. His eyes snapped to hers—dark, *hungry*—and for a second, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then his lips parted.
"As if you’re pulling the last bit of sense right out of me, girl," he rasped. His accent thickened, vowels rough with want. One of his hands—veined, calloused—lifted to hover near her cheek. She thought he might touch her face, but instead, his fingers curled into a fist against his thigh, knuckles whitening. "Christ, you’ve no idea what you’re doing to me."
Jennifer didn’t blink. She moved her hand down to the base of his cock, squeezing, and watched his jaw clench. A drop of pre-cum welled at the slit, trembling before it dripped onto her thumb. Without thinking, she brought it to her lips, tasting salt and bitterness. Mr. Harlow made a sound—half growl, half plea—and suddenly his restraint shattered. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging her forward.
"Open," he commanded.
She obeyed. The first press of his cock against her tongue sent a jolt through her, her stomach tightening. He was hotter than she’d imagined, the skin velvety over steel. He didn’t rush, letting her explore—the ridge, the vein throbbing along the underside, the way her mouth stretched. But when she hollowed her cheeks and sucked, his hips jerked. A muttered curse, then his grip tightened, guiding her deeper. She gagged once before relaxing, her fingers digging into his thighs as his cock nudged the back of her throat. His breathing was all ragged edges now, his thighs flexing under her palms. The musk of him filled her nose, her head, drowning out everything else.
Jennifer had never imagined *this*—the dizzying heat pooling between her legs, the way her nipples ached against her bra, the sheer *need* to hear him gasp again. She pulled back, swirling her tongue around the head, and grinned when he hissed through his teeth. His cock twitched against her lips, smearing them wet. Some distant part of her marveled at herself—she’d never kissed anyone properly, let alone this. But the taste of him, the weight on her tongue, the way his breath hitched when she scraped her teeth lightly—*god*. She moaned around him, the vibration drawing a filthy groan from his chest.
His fingers twisted in her hair, not rough but firm, angling her just so. “Easy,” he warned, but his voice shook. She could feel him trembling, his control fraying. When she glanced up, his gaze was locked on her, dark and feverish—watching her lips stretch around him, watching his own glistening cock disappear into her mouth again and again. Something about the sight—*her*, Jennifer Wright, shy and virginal, drooling around an old man’s erection—sent a fresh wave of heat between her legs. She rubbed her thighs together, desperate for friction.
“Gonna come,” he gritted out, voice wrecked. His hips stuttered forward, shoving himself deeper. She barely had time to brace before the first thick pulse hit the back of her throat—bitter, earthy, *so much*—and she swallowed instinctively. But he was already pulling her off, his cock jerking in her grip as ropes of cum splashed across her cheek, her chin, the bridge of her nose. Warmth dripped down her eyelashes. She gasped, her own breath mingling with his ragged panting.
Mr. Harlow slumped slightly, his fingers loosening in her hair. “Christ almighty,” he muttered, staring at her like she’d cracked him open. Jennifer swiped her thumb through the mess on her face, then licked it clean, watching his nostrils flare. His softened cock twitched against his thigh. She couldn’t help it—she giggled, breathless, exhilarated.
"You're staring again," Professor Langley said, tapping Jennifer's shoulder.
She jerked her charcoal away from the paper, leaving a faint smudge across the old man's sketched thigh. "Sorry. Just trying to get the shading right."
The classroom hummed with the quiet scratch of pencils, the occasional cough, the shuffle of stools. Jennifer adjusted her grip, eyes darting back to the model on the platform. Mr. Harlow sat perfectly still, his spine straight despite his age, wrists resting on his knees. The overhead lights caught the deep lines of his stomach, the wiry silver hair trailing down from his navel. Her fingers itched to redraw the curve of his hip, the way his skin folded slightly where his thigh met his torso.
"You okay?" whispered Mira, squinting at Jennifer’s half-finished sketch. "You’ve been on that same spot for ten minutes."
Jennifer didn’t answer. She was watching the slow, almost imperceptible shift in Mr. Harlow’s posture—a subtle tension in his thighs, the faintest lift of his chest as he breathed. Then she saw it. A twitch. Just below his navel, where the shadows pooled between his legs. Her throat went dry. She pressed the charcoal harder against the paper, pretending to focus. But her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the rustle of paper, the professor’s footsteps circling the room.
The twitch happened again. This time, unmistakable. Her stomach flipped. She’d seen plenty of nude models—young, old, every shape—but never this. Never *reacting*.
"Time’s up," Professor Langley announced. "Models, you’re free to take a break."
Mr. Harlow exhaled, rolling his shoulders, but didn’t stand. Jennifer chewed her lip. The other students were already packing up, chatting, stretching. She stayed frozen, watching as his hand drifted—casual, like he was just adjusting—to his thigh. His fingers grazed the inside, then stilled.
Mira nudged her. "Coming to lunch?"
"Go ahead," Jennifer murmured. "I need to fix something first."
Alone now, except for Mr. Harlow and the distant clatter of the hallway, she gripped her stool. The air felt thick. Static. She inhaled.
"Mr. Harlow?" Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
He turned his head, slow, eyebrows lifting. "Yes, Miss?"
She swallowed. "Would you—could you sit for me again? Privately?"
His fingers flexed against his thigh. Then, very quietly, he said, "I suppose I could."
Jennifer's pulse stuttered. She gathered her sketchbook with trembling hands, the paper whispering against her palms. The classroom door clicked shut behind them as they moved to the smaller studio—a narrow space with a single stool and a window overlooking the quad. Dust motes swirled in the late afternoon light. Mr. Harlow didn’t hesitate; he stepped onto the low platform and settled back into the same pose, his bare feet planted wide. Jennifer perched on the stool, legs tight together. The sketchbook balanced on her knees felt like a flimsy shield.
She tried to focus on the lines of his collarbone first, the way the tendons stood in his neck. But her gaze kept slipping downward, to the soft crease where his thigh met his hip, to the shadow she’d been avoiding. The charcoal trembled between her fingers. Then—there. Again. A slow, unmistakable thickening beneath the thatch of silver hair. She sucked in a breath.
Mr. Harlow cleared his throat. "Apologies. It’s… involu ntary."
"It’s okay," she blurted. The words hung between them, too loud.
His cock twitched again, rising gradually, the skin flushing pink. Jennifer’s mouth went dry. She dropped the charcoal. It rolled off her lap and clattered to the floor. Neither of them moved to retrieve it.
Without thinking, she reached out—her fingers hovered just above his thigh. Mr. Harlow’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. The air smelled of linseed oil and sweat. Her fingertip brushed the inside of his knee, then traced upward, feather-light, along the wiry trail of hair. His stomach tensed. She didn’t stop.
When her hand finally curled around him, he let out a shaky exhale. He was warm. So warm. And heavier than she’d imagined, the skin silken under her unsure strokes.
"Christ," he muttered, hips lifting slightly into her grip.
She squeezed experimentally. A bead of moisture glistened at the tip. Something hot coiled low in her belly. Her thumb swiped over the head, smearing it. Mr. Harlow groaned, his fingers digging into the edge of the platform.
Jennifer leaned closer.
Mr. Harlow inhaled sharply—a quick, deliberate sniff through flared nostrils. The scent hit him like a physical touch: warm musk and salt, unmistakably female, thick enough to taste. His cock pulsed in her hand, twitching against her palm as if drawn to the source. She hadn’t even noticed her own thighs pressing together, the dampness seeping through her cotton panties, but *he* had. His nostrils flared again, eyelids lowering halfway as he breathed her in.
She watched his chest rise and fall faster now, the gray hair there glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. The studio air was close, humid with the heat of their bodies. His hips rolled upward into her grip, his cock slick and heavy. The tip brushed her wrist, leaving a sticky trail. Jennifer’s breath caught as she realized—*he knew*. Knew how her underwear clung, how her pulse raced between her legs. Her fingers tightened around him reflexively, and he groaned, low and ragged.
"How does it feel?" she whispered. Her voice was barely more than air, but it cracked something open between them. His eyes snapped to hers—dark, *hungry*—and for a second, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then his lips parted.
"As if you’re pulling the last bit of sense right out of me, girl," he rasped. His accent thickened, vowels rough with want. One of his hands—veined, calloused—lifted to hover near her cheek. She thought he might touch her face, but instead, his fingers curled into a fist against his thigh, knuckles whitening. "Christ, you’ve no idea what you’re doing to me."
Jennifer didn’t blink. She moved her hand down to the base of his cock, squeezing, and watched his jaw clench. A drop of pre-cum welled at the slit, trembling before it dripped onto her thumb. Without thinking, she brought it to her lips, tasting salt and bitterness. Mr. Harlow made a sound—half growl, half plea—and suddenly his restraint shattered. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging her forward.
"Open," he commanded.
She obeyed. The first press of his cock against her tongue sent a jolt through her, her stomach tightening. He was hotter than she’d imagined, the skin velvety over steel. He didn’t rush, letting her explore—the ridge, the vein throbbing along the underside, the way her mouth stretched. But when she hollowed her cheeks and sucked, his hips jerked. A muttered curse, then his grip tightened, guiding her deeper. She gagged once before relaxing, her fingers digging into his thighs as his cock nudged the back of her throat. His breathing was all ragged edges now, his thighs flexing under her palms. The musk of him filled her nose, her head, drowning out everything else.
Jennifer had never imagined *this*—the dizzying heat pooling between her legs, the way her nipples ached against her bra, the sheer *need* to hear him gasp again. She pulled back, swirling her tongue around the head, and grinned when he hissed through his teeth. His cock twitched against her lips, smearing them wet. Some distant part of her marveled at herself—she’d never kissed anyone properly, let alone this. But the taste of him, the weight on her tongue, the way his breath hitched when she scraped her teeth lightly—*god*. She moaned around him, the vibration drawing a filthy groan from his chest.
His fingers twisted in her hair, not rough but firm, angling her just so. “Easy,” he warned, but his voice shook. She could feel him trembling, his control fraying. When she glanced up, his gaze was locked on her, dark and feverish—watching her lips stretch around him, watching his own glistening cock disappear into her mouth again and again. Something about the sight—*her*, Jennifer Wright, shy and virginal, drooling around an old man’s erection—sent a fresh wave of heat between her legs. She rubbed her thighs together, desperate for friction.
“Gonna come,” he gritted out, voice wrecked. His hips stuttered forward, shoving himself deeper. She barely had time to brace before the first thick pulse hit the back of her throat—bitter, earthy, *so much*—and she swallowed instinctively. But he was already pulling her off, his cock jerking in her grip as ropes of cum splashed across her cheek, her chin, the bridge of her nose. Warmth dripped down her eyelashes. She gasped, her own breath mingling with his ragged panting.
Mr. Harlow slumped slightly, his fingers loosening in her hair. “Christ almighty,” he muttered, staring at her like she’d cracked him open. Jennifer swiped her thumb through the mess on her face, then licked it clean, watching his nostrils flare. His softened cock twitched against his thigh. She couldn’t help it—she giggled, breathless, exhilarated.
2ヶ月前
