It was a couple of weeks after I started modeling for the life drawing class and I was downtown on a Saturday doing a little shopping. I stopped to look in the window of an art supply store and was dumbstruck. There was a framed black and white drawing in the window sitting in a display easel and it was me. It was my long, dark hair; it was my quirky eyebrows and full lips; it was my plump titties with bullet-like nipples; it was even my smooth pussy with a hint of my clit hanging out. Anyone who knew me would recognize me in that picture.

I looked around but no passersby were paying any attention to the shop window. I was hoping I had been hallucinating, but when I looked back the sketch of me was still there. It was framed under very nice non-glare glass and I liked the modern, metal frame. I didn’t like the exposure, though. And how did a sketch from the Life Drawing class get displayed in a store window for everyone to see?

It was hot out that day and I was wearing a little dress that looked like a tank top only it covered my ass. Barely. It was made of a thin, cotton knit that clung to my nipples and kept them erect and the cream color of the fabric made it sort of see-through. It wasn’t a very serious looking outfit and I’d have preferred to look more serious when I entered the store. It was going to be hard to complain about my naked picture in the window when I wasn’t wearing much more. Maybe it would be dim in the store and the owner wouldn’t notice. Yeah, and maybe he was blind.

There were no customers in the store that I could see, but there was a man and a woman behind the counter, and the closer I got, the more they looked like a couple. She was trim in a powder-blue pantsuit and short, curly gray hair, and he had balding gray hair and a mustache and wore a plaid shirt tucked into baggy pants worn too high and doing nothing to obscure his large gut.

I approached the counter and the woman smiled at me and said, “It’s our anonymous beauty, Matthew.”

His eyes were glued to my nipples. “Indeed it is.”

I said, “I don’t understand how you got that sketch of me, the one in the window.”

“We have quite a few of them,” she said. “The students keep bringing them in and they’re selling like hotcakes. Now they’re photocopying them so we can keep them in stock.”

I looked over at the man but he was still staring at my tits. “Well, this is humiliating,” I said. “Plus, my dad works downtown and probably walks by here all the time. He’d kill me if he saw that picture.” At the very least, he’d stop paying my tuition at art school.

The woman looked sympathetic. “Well, I guess we could take it out of the window, but it’s been bringing in customers.” She looked over at the man. “Why do you think, honey?”

“No,” said the man, looking up at me for the first time. “They’re great sketches; you should be proud of posing for them.”

The woman said, “Maybe you ought to show her the photographs, Mat.”

“What photographs?” I asked.

The man went out from around the counter and headed for the back room.

The woman said, “Go on, dear, follow him back to his office. He’ll show them to you.”

It was a messy little office but he found the photos and spread them out on his desk. I hadn’t noticed any of the students with cell phones, but I guess they had them. There I was, in living color, some taken candidly when I’d been walking around the classroom or stretching or bending over.

I turned to the owner. “I don’t suppose you’d let me have those.”

“Oh, hell no—I jerk off to them.”

He reached out and yanked down my top and the next thing I knew my tits were exposed and he had squatted down and was now fastening his mouth over my left nipple. He really clamped down on it and I cried out a little and the next thing I knew there was some serious suction going on. He was even growling a little and shaking it like a bone.

What was it with older men? They had the idea they could do anything they wanted with me, like I was public property or something. They never asked, they never apologized afterward; they just manhandled me like I was some blow-up doll for their enjoyment. And why the hell did I love being treated like that? Seriously, I should probably see a shrink.

I was coming continuously when his hand went up my skirt and he began to finger-fuck me ferociously. I couldn’t help making noise and I wondered if his wife would hear and come to see what was happening. I didn’t care, though; I just didn’t care. All I cared about was his mouth mauling my nipple and his fingers digging into my cunt. And I wanted a chance at what looked like a wild animal moving inside his pants. I hadn’t had cock filling my mouth since Thursday and it was feeling bereft. And the thought of him masturbating to my pictures was making me so hot I felt combustible.

When he finally dropped his pants and shoved me to my knees, I fell on his cock like a starving beast. It was short and so meaty I almost couldn’t get my mouth over it. I reached around him and shoved two fingers up his ass, fucking him to the rhythm of my sucking. I thought I saw him waving someone away at one point and wondered if his wife had looked in the door. Maybe she was used to it. A man with Matt’s talents probably had to fight off the women.

When he came it was like a geyser. I was swallowing and choking and it just kept on coming.

I rarely got my fill of cum, but he had more than enough to satisfy that particular craving. He was pulling up his pants and tucking his shirt back in when he said, “Clear off that chair and pull it up to the desk. I have a proposition for you.”

When I sat down, he was all business. “I get a lot of artists coming in here, some I’ve known for years. Several have expressed an interest in using you for a model.” He mentioned the name of one who was actually in a couple of museums.

An artist’s model? That had always seemed so romantic to me. The famous artist and his muse, featured in all his best paintings. The smart thing, though, would be to quit modeling altogether before my family found out.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“What I had in mind,” said Matt, “was a Saturday workshop, here in the back of the store. I’ve got plenty of easels and all the art supplies on hand. I’ve had classes in here before.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, although in theory I loved the idea.

“Your cut would be $120 a week. Plus I’m reasonably certain some of them will want you privately, which would pay more.”

I’d be rich. I could buy all the art supplies I wanted and go to every good concert that came to town. I could even buy a car.

“Well…”

“How about we start next Saturday, say noon to six?”

“Okay,” I said.

“And come a little early so I can get some of that young pussy.”

I didn’t say anything to that, but it was like the icing on the cake. I really wanted to feel that fat hunk of meat stretching out my pussy.

When I was leaving the store I noticed the sketch of me was no longer in the window.

I turned around and said to his wife, “Oh, thank you for taking it out of the window. I really appreciate it.”

“Oh no, dear—I sold it. Nice gentleman who works in the neighborhood. He owns that bakery up the block, maybe you know it.”

I knew it all right; I’d bought a cupcake in there just a couple of hours earlier. At least it wasn’t the kind of picture that would be hung in a bakery.

And at least it hadn’t been my father who bought it.

On the way to the bus stop I stopped to look in the window of the bakery. At least my picture wasn’t on display, but some yummy-looking cookies were. I was debating whether to buy any when the owner spotted me and beckoned me in.

He looked like a baker—round and soft-- and always with a big smile on his face. His bald head was usually obscured by his baker’s hat. As soon as the door closed behind me, he turned the sign to say CLOSED. I looked around and, indeed, the sketch of me was hanging on the wall behind the cash register, right alongside a framed picture of a dollar bill. Anyone who bought anything in the bakery would see it.

He was beaming at me as his hands covered my tits and began to knead them like dough. Such beautiful bazooms,” he said. “I could kiss them!”

Well yes, he could, but not in front of the display window where anyone could see. If he was any indication, bakers are very talented with their hands.

“I want you to autograph the picture for me,” he said. “Maybe say something like, to Willie, my favorite baker.”

“It’s the artist who signs the sketch,” I pointed out.

“Oh, the artist—who cares about the artist? The artist would be nothing without the beautiful model.”

“You are my favorite baker, though. I adore your cupcakes.”

“And you are my favorite customer. Come see where I work.”

He took my hand and led me behind the counter and through the door to the kitchen. A couple of young Somali guys, tall and skinny, were cleaning up.

“You don’t want to get that pretty dress dirty,” said Willie, grabbing the hem and pulling it over my head. And there I stood, buck naked in his kitchen while he carefully folded my dress and placed it on a clean table. The Somalis were bug-eyed by then.

He was back to kneading my breasts and I was watching something trying to poke through his apron. At one point he leaned over and put his head between my titties and his whiskers tickled my skin.

“Lean over the table,” he said.

I did, with my ass sticking up, and then he was kneading my ass cheeks and giving them little bites and telling me they looked good enough to eat. I knew he had something good enough to eat and I wanted to see it. Instead of seeing it, though, it wasn’t long before I felt something hard pressing on the entrance to my pussy.

When my pussy was stuffed full of willy, he began a rocking motion, slow and steady and seductive. I rested my face on the table so I could watch the Somalis watching us. They had their long, dark cocks out and were jacking off to our fucking. I wished they’d move closer to us so they could come on me, but they kept their distance. I pictured them both fucking me—one in the ass, one in my pussy, and wondered what it would feel like to be a Somali sandwich. I was pretty sure it would feel fantastic.

The steady rhythm became faster, the sounds of his skin smacking my skin filling the room. With his final pounding, I thought I saw stars and almost blacked out as his cum shot into my hole and my body shattered. I stayed in that position, recovering, while Willie got a wet towel and carefully cleaned up my pussy. He even helped me put my dress back on.

I left the bakery loaded down with an apple-cinnamon pie, a bag of oatmeal-raisin cookies, and half a dozen croissants. I had a smile on my face all the way home.