To say that he was stunned, at the sight of the middle aged woman, apparently being sexually molested by the caretaker, was an understatement. His initial shock would have quickly transformed into protective action. He was about to leap to her defence and drag the old man from her, when something about her stance fixed him to the spot. She had assumed no defensive pose. Realisation swiftly dawned. He had not wandered into a struggle for her honour. She was not fighting the old man off. She was letting him do this

The artist said nothing more, but stood transfixed, watching, as the old man widened his tactile exploration of his erstwhile model's body.

When he had walked in, she looked directly at him, over the stooped shoulder of the caretaker. He recognised her initial expression as surprised embarrassment. When he had spoken, she did not speak. Her expression quickly faded as she closed her eyes and gasped. The old man’s left hand had drifted downward from the breast he had been fondling, gliding across her belly down between her legs. Her reaction confirmed that this was no unwelcome intrusion, no sexual assault. She allowed the old man's crooked fingers to probe her intimately and her thighs were trembling. He watched her knees part further and her knuckles whitened, as her stance became more difficult to maintain. He continued to pull at her left nipple, her gasping, breathless yelps coincided with each pinch or tug. Her tongue slipped, with frequent and frenetic stabs, from between her parted lips, lips so wet that saliva trickled unchecked from them, dripping down her chin.

She was lost in physical sensations unparalleled in her experience. Her husband had never felt her in this way. The old gentleman’s fingers felt incredible. She revelled in their roughness, their skin was rough, their probing action rough. His arthritic joints were natures finest sex toy. The combination of tingling, clitoral arousal and pinching pain, that came in waves from her assaulted nipple, exploded in a powerful orgasm, which left her thighs jerking, as if she sought anybody, or anything, to penetrate her soaking cunt.

The old man jerked his body and made a grunting sound. As his fingers slithered from her, he wiped them on the hair between her legs, spreading stringy wetness through the tight curls and across her naked thighs. As he stepped back, she slid the hand not supporting her weight to replace his between her legs. Her fingers disappeared inside her and she continued to thrust her thighs and whimper.

For the first time, the old man noticed the artist standing, watching.

He looked cowed for a moment but then a sly smile spread across his wrinkled face when he saw the expression on the artist's face. He dropped his gaze to the artist’s hand, where it was slowly rubbing back and forward.

He looked back up at his face and his tongue emerged again to slither wetly across thin lips, ‘Sorry Sir,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

The artist shifted his gaze to the middle aged woman, still masturbating behind the old man, still clutching the chair and still with her eyes closed, apparently oblivious to the two men.

‘My models aren’t usually so generous,’ he said. ‘Are you going to fuck her?’

‘No sir, I can’t do that anymore, I’m afraid I suffer from my age,’ he turned his head to look at the woman, then back to the artist again, ‘But I think she needs someone to. It doesn’t look as if she is getting it from home.’ He nodded to indicate the obvious shape in the artist’s clothing, ‘You seem to be ready, Sir.’

The artist nodded.

‘Can I watch?’ Said the old man.

‘Judging by her state, I think you should not just watch.’

It was the old man’s turn to nod.

‘Pose her,’ said the artist,

Emma opened her eyes. Still continuing to finger herself as she looked at the two men. She felt like such a wanton slut, her hand was so wet, her pussy so open between her swollen lips. She could barely touch, its sensitivity heightened and now she wanted more. When she had heard the artist and the old gentleman discussing her, her pussy had gushed again. Now she was thinking about the moment her robe had slipped off and the class had seen her naked. Now she wanted that again.

She looked at the artist.

‘Please, can we go back to the studio?’

The old gentleman and the artist looked at her, both surprised at what she had said.

‘I thought you had changed your mind?’ Said the artist, 'Are you sure you will not run away again?’

‘Yes,' she said, 'I’m very sure.’

‘I am sure, but I don’t just want to pose,’ speaking like this, still continuing to touch herself, she was becoming excited all over again. Now she wanted more than ever before to show herself to as many people as possible.

‘I don’t think the ladies would approve, but I think the male students might,’ said the artist thoughtfully. 

To be continued.