More... modeling?

More... modeling?

The moment of truth arrives: it's time to shed the last layer of clothing that separates me from the artists waiting patiently. I feel a shiver of anticipation run through me, not of cold, but of electric excitement. As I unclasp my bra, letting it fall away. I stand there, completely bare, a living, breathing piece of art about to be captured on canvas.

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The room falls into a respectful hush, the only sound being the soft rustle of sketchpads being readied and pencils being sharpened. I take a moment to breathe in the charged silence, letting it fill me up and bolster my confidence. My skin tingles under the soft glow of the studio lights, the air heavy with the scent of paint, charcoal, and anticipation. I am Jo, the muse, ready to inspire and be immortalized.

As I stand there in my birthday suit, I feel like a superhero just before the pivotal moment of a great battle. The energy in the room crackles like a live wire, each artist poised on the edge of their seat, ready to dive into the task at hand. Their eyes are on me, and I capture more than a little lust, with an artist's hunger to capture the essence of their subject.

I like it.

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As I stand there, vulnerable yet invincible, Ms. Thompson begins to guide me. "Jo, let's start with a classic pose. Shift your weight onto your left leg, and let your right leg relax. Turn your head slightly to the side, and let your gaze focus on a point in the distance."

I instantly slip into the pose, feeling like a Greek goddess. The artists' eyes are glued to me, pencils and charcoal scratching furiously on paper. I can't help but smirk a little, I'm the star of this show, baby.

Ms. Thompson continues, "Now, Jo, let's change it up. Sit down on this stool, cross your legs, and rest your hands on your knees. Tilt your head back and give us a look of pure serenity."

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Oh, serenity, my old friend! I gracefully settle onto the stool and follow her instructions. I imagine myself on a peaceful mountaintop, basking in the sun's warm embrace. My expression seems to captivate the artists even more, and I can't help but feel a little thrill at their reactions.

I look over at one of the boys, who is hard at work drawing my form. He’s wearing gray sweatpants, and… wait, is that the outline of an erection? It totally is. Oh my god, that’s so hot. I totally stare, and I think he notices. Let him! It’s a good view.

As the session progresses, Ms. Thompson instructs me to move to the next pose. "Jo, please sit on this stool. Arms up, let’s see your body stretch, and tilt your head slightly to the side."

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Her words echo in my mind as I move to the stool, the cool metal a contrasting sensation against my skin. I raise my arms, reaching for an invisible point above me, feeling the air brush against my bare form. The pose is revealing, my body stretched out, every curve and contour on full display. It's a bit much, a bit vulnerable, but I'm Jo, the fearless muse. I won't back down.

The vulnerability, though palpable, doesn't overshadow the rush of exhilaration coursing through me. The hum of the artists' dedication, the scratch of charcoal against paper, the focused silence—all of it fuels the growing heat within me. I feel powerful and desired, not in a lewd sense but as a subject of admiration and artistic inspiration.

My heart thrums in my chest as I tilt my head to the side, a lock of hair falling into my eyes. I feel a flush creeping up my neck, blooming across my collarbones, and I realize with a jolt that it's arousal. I'm getting turned on, not by the explicit gaze of others, but by my own acceptance and comfort in my nudity, by the power I feel in this moment of surrender.

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I let out a soft breath, my body humming with an energy I've never felt before. It's intoxicating and liberating, a heady mix of vulnerability and empowerment. The artists' admiring gazes seem to stoke the flame of my arousal, their silent praise whispering against my skin. And I let it wash over me, basking in the sensation, the energy, the intoxicating arousal of being the fearless muse.

"Jo, please spread your legs wide apart," Ms. Thompson instructs, her voice unwavering.

A collective breath seems to hang in the air as I process her words. It's a command that under any other circumstances could feel invasive, but here, it's just another pose, another challenge. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the cool, crisp air of the studio, before settling back onto the stool.

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My heart pounds in my chest as I heed Ms. Thompson's instruction, my legs spreading wide. The stool's cool surface beneath me serves as a grounding point, a reminder of the reality of my situation. I am here, in this room, bathed in the warm lights, my every curve and crevice on display.

The pose is bold and audacious, a stark contrast to the calm serenity of the previous ones. But instead of feeling exploited, I feel powerful, commanding. The pose may be explicit, but there's an artistry to it, a beauty that lies in the raw and unabashed exposure of self.

… or it’s just really fucking hot to be like this in front of everyone.

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As I hold the pose, my heart flutters with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. I feel the artists’ eyes on me, tracing the lines and shadows of my form, their gazes not lewd but full of admiration. Their respect for me, their desire for me, their muse, is palpable and it bolsters my confidence.

The vulnerability I feel is real, but it's intertwined with a sense of liberation. I am exposed, but I am also in control. I am the subject of their art, but I am also the master of my own body. This blend of power and vulnerability stirs something within me, a heat that grows with each passing second.

I feel the flush of arousal even stronger now, spreading from my core to the rest of my body. It's not a shameful feeling, but rather a natural response to the unique situation I find myself in. The thrill of the artists capturing my every detail, the power in my vulnerability, the acceptance of my body—it all culminates in this heady feeling of desire.

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I breathe through it, letting the sensation wash over me, fuelling me. I am Jo, the muse, baring not just my body, but my soul to these artists. And in this moment, amidst the quiet rustle of sketching and the hum of the overhead lights, I feel more alive than ever.

As I sit there, legs spread wide and exposed, I feel a strange sense of empowerment. It's as if I've conquered my fears and embraced my vulnerability, transforming it into strength. And being extremely, extremely turned on. Seriously, I’m getting wet. Are they noticing?

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I catch Ms. Thompson's eye, and she seems to notice the subtle transformation in my demeanor. She smiles encouragingly and says, "Jo, it's wonderful to see you embracing this experience and the emotions it brings. Your openness and willingness to explore your feelings will only enhance the art being created today."

Her words resonate with me, validating my excitement and giving me permission to fully lean into the experience. I feel a wave of gratitude for Ms. Thompson's understanding, and it further fuels my enthusiasm.

As the session continues, Ms. Thompson pipes up again. "Jo," she says, "for this next pose, I'd like you to explore your own body. Run your hands along your curves, feeling the lines and shapes that make you unique. This is an opportunity for the artists to capture the beauty of female sensuality and self-appreciation."

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I take a deep breath, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement. This is an artistic exploration, I remind myself. With that thought in mind, I begin to run my hands along my body, starting from my shoulders and slowly moving down to my hips. I close my eyes, allowing myself to truly feel and appreciate the contours of my form.

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As I continue, my hands gently caress my breasts and stomach, feeling the softness and warmth of my skin. I feel really good. Ms. Thompson can sense the positive energy and the growing confidence in the room, and she decides to match the Powerful Jo Energy. Good for her.. "Jo," she gently instructs, "let's delve even deeper. I want you to use your hands to explore other aspects of your body that you might not usually pay attention to. This is a safe and supportive space for you to experience self-appreciation and to express your sensuality."

I nod, feeling fire in my veins now, every eye on me like a hand caressing my skin. I slowly trail my hand down my front, arriving between my legs. The artists are starting to look up at me now, expectant. It’s like they know what I want to do, like they want me to do it.

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Ms. Thompson notices the intense connection and understanding developing between me and the artists. I see something shift in her expression as she decides to take the experience even further.

"Artists," she announces, "I would like to offer you the opportunity to remove your clothes, if you feel comfortable doing so. This is not a requirement but an invitation to share in the vulnerability and celebration of our bodies. Let's create a wholesome and supportive atmosphere together."

I watch as some of the artists hesitantly look around the room, and then, one by one, a few of them begin to remove their clothes. I can see the uncertainty in their eyes, but also the courage and desire to join me.

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As more artists disrobe and stand alongside me in their vulnerability, I feel sexier than I ever have. I smile warmly and encourage them, "Looking good, boys.” I see some of them are at much more than half-mast. This sends a thrill through me, and I slide my hand along my inner thigh, feeling tingles. I’m actively wet now, and want nothing more than to start touching myself. “Looking really good, boys…”

Ms. Thompson addresses the situation in a calm and reassuring manner, like the pro she is.

"Everyone," she says, "it's important to remember that our bodies may respond in various ways during experiences like these. Just as we might experience relaxation or even a release of tension during a massage, it is natural for our bodies to show different signs of arousal in this context. Please remember that we are here to create a safe and respectful environment, and let's continue to support one another in our artistic exploration. Jo, if you feel comfortable, you can do anything you want to do. Anything." Her eyes are on me now, hot like the eyes of the artists. Oh my god.

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I finally give in. I can’t help it anymore. I pull my hand in from my thigh and start lightly touching my outer folds. I’m so aroused that the light touches send shocks through me, and my body and face respond. Ms. Thompson immediately notices the change in my demeanor and expression. "Jo, that's wonderful! You're tapping into your emotions and expressing them through your body. Keep going, explore even further!"

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“Yes ma-am,” I choke out huskily, my usual Jo wit gone. You asked for it, lady. I start playing with myself in slow circles. It’s divine to feel the warmth and wetness of my own fingers on me. My clit is so sensitive right now that just a little touch sends shivers through me.

The artists are all rock-hard now, watching me. One has taken hold of his cock, and is slowly working it. Oh my god, this is the greatest fucking thing ever. His other hand is still painting me, the brush working furiously against the canvas.

I keep circling around until I can barely stand it anymore. Then I slip one finger inside, feeling how hot and tight I am. Oh god, this feels amazing!

“Yes, Jo! “Yes, Jo! Keep going! You're doing so good. Class, keep your eyes on her, take in her form.”

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I start rubbing myself faster now, feeling the pleasure building up in my body. I'm tensing up, getting closer to orgasm. The class is watching me intently, and it feels amazing to have all these people focused on my pleasure. It makes me feel powerful and sexy.

The art students are painting away furiously now, trying to capture the moment of my climax. Naked, they watch as I writhe in ecstasy, their brushes moving across the canvas with a frenzy that matches mine.

I'm so close now...so close...and then suddenly it hits me like a tidal wave, washing over me in a rush of sensation so intense that for a moment I think I might die from it. My body convulses, my muscles clenching as I come harder than I ever thought possible.

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And through it all, the artists keep painting, capturing every second of my orgasm on their canvases. When it's finally over, I lie there gasping for breath, my body still twitching with aftershocks.

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“Jo?” A voice comes out from one of the artists.

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“Jo?” It’s familiar, too familiar for this place.

Wait, Laura?

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“Jo? Are you ok?”

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“Jo?”

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I rocket into consciousness. I’m covered in sweat in my dorm room, and it takes me a few seconds to remember where I am and reconcile it with what just happened.

Laura is sitting on the edge of her bed, looking concerned. “Yeah, uh, sorry,” I say, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand.

“You made a noise - nightmare?” Laura, oh, my perfect little angel roommate.

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I smile to myself. “Something like that, I guess. I’m good now.”

“Ok, well, just think happy thoughts. Glad you’re ok.” Laura slides back under her covers, and I take the opportunity to catch my breath.

It’s a mess under the sheets, the orgasm might have happened in a dream, but it was very real here. I smile, still basking in the afterglow.

Lockin’ that one away in the ol’ Jo spank bank for later.

Also, holy shit…

…I need to get laid.

≋ ≋ ≋

“Girl, you need to get laid.”

Ethan is on the treadmill next to me, and I just finished telling him about my dream. He’s panting lightly, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I know! That’s what I thought!” I’m on my warm down now, just walking slowly. Ethan is moving fast, he’s fit!

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"You are down bad, girl," Ethan says, laughing as he increases the speed on his treadmill.

"Yeah, you're telling me," I respond, chuckling. "Got any tips?"

Ethan shrugs, his stride steady despite the rapid pace of his treadmill. "That's the beauty of the gay community, Jo. We just...hook up if we want to. No fuss."

I sigh, leaning on the handles of my treadmill. "That sounds wonderful," I admit.

Ethan grins at me, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "It is."

"Maybe that's why I was hitting on you," I muse, turning to look at him. "I detected that energy."

Ethan laughs then, the sound echoing in the gym. "Girl, you need to get your gaydar calibrated."

I pout at him, trying to look offended. "Hey, I went to a repressive all-girls school. I didn't get many opportunities to meet gay people. My only touchstone is gay characters in movies."

Ethan's eyes light up at that, and he suddenly adopts an exaggerated, flamboyant pose, fluttering his eyelashes and waving his hands around. "Oh, darling," he coos, fluttering his eyelashes at me. "You simply must get out more!"

His performance has me in fits of laughter, holding my stomach as I lean against the treadmill.

As we're laughing, a muscular guy in a tank top walks into the gym. Ethan instantly quiets down, his eyes glued to the newcomer.

"Oh my god that's him," Ethan murmurs, a dreamy look in his eyes. "That's my gym crush."

I grin at the look on Ethan's face. "Go for it," I urge him, nudging him with my elbow. "You’ve got a type, huh? Big buff boys."

Ethan blushes, shoving me lightly. "Shut up, Jo," he hisses, though he's still watching his crush. "And no way. I can't just go talk to him."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "What happened to 'uncomplicated'?"

Ethan doesn't have a response to that, so I take the opportunity to bully him into going over. "Come on, Ethan," I say, grinning. "Go say hi. What's the worst that can happen?"

Finally, after a bit more prodding, Ethan gives in. He shoots me a nervous glance before hopping off the treadmill and walking over to the free weights. I smile encouragingly at him, flashing him a thumbs up. He waves his hands at me, shooting a pout at me, like “stop making me look like a dork.” I stick out my tongue at him and shoo him along.

As I finish my workout,I watch Ethan from afar. I can tell from the way they're laughing and gesturing that things are going well. At one point, Ethan even puts his hand on the guy's chest, feeling his pecs, and they both laugh. Oh yeah, this is sealed.

I feel a pang in my chest as I watch them. It's bittersweet. I'm happy for Ethan - really, I am. But seriously, is everyone getting laid but me?

The story continues in Chapter 5...
Upper Classman Energy
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