Arturo was looking at me funny.

Again.

I feel like every town has one: that quirky, odd (usually older) artist-type, who is operating on some upper plane of super-intense brainwaving, who doesn't seem to have a regular, you-and-me job, but is living in the biggest space in town that's been converted into both an art studio and the coolest apartment you've ever seen. Clothes that are somehow both stylish and paint-spattered at the same time. Funky hair. Funky glasses.

Ours was named Arturo.

I liked my Monday morning ritual of coffee and a crossword at "Beans," our one-stoplight town's coffee shop, and Arturo and I crossed paths enough to have casual stop-and-chats about the heat (in August) or the cold (in every other month), and while he was amiable enough, there was always that disconnected look in his face, where it seemed like a good portion of his brain was thinking about lines, brush strokes, and colors. And then there were times when he would look at me, as though he were trying to work out what paints would translate my face to a canvas.

"You know he's harmless, right? He's not a creep or anything," Wynter said. She was the owner (and staff) of "Beans." In her mid-forties, Wynter was blue-eyed, tall, fit, and hourglassy, usually in coffee-spattered jeans and coffee-spattered graphic tee-shirts, under a coffee-spattered denim apron. Her long brown hair was usually pulled up into a sloppy bun under a coffee-spattered hat, and she saw me shake my head one Monday morning after Arturo and I did our little hi-hello, after which Arturo ended up staring at my face again, silently, craning his neck this away and that for different angles, before heading out the door.

"Yeah, I know." I said. "I just don't know if he's looking at me because he thinks I'm handsome, or if he's thinking I've got the weirdest, ugliest face he's ever seen, and can't wait to get it down on canvas."

"Weirdest. Ugliest," said Doug, on his way to open up the hardware store, waiting for his drink at the counter.

"Thanks, Doug," I said.

Wynter laughed as she worked the espresso machine for him. "You should go to Arturo's opening," she said to me, nodding to a small stack of flyers. "Next week." She looked at Doug as she handed him his drink. "You too, Doug. Might get some culture."

"I am the culture," Doug said in a monotone, and left.

I picked up a flyer, read it. "Oh, it's over in Danville," I said, playfully. I looked up at Wynter. "Fancy. Are you Arturo's promotional team?"

She smiled, shrugged. "I help him out at his studio every now and then."

I thanked her for the coffee, and went on my way.

***

When the day of the art opening arrived—Friday—I treated it as though I were taking myself out on a fancy date: I got a haircut, trimmed the facial scruff, took a shower, manscaped to feel even fancier, and put on some business casual. It seemed like all my prep was proper for an art opening (especially in the "big" town of Danville), although to be honest, I was basing this assumption only on seeing art galleries and openings in movies and TV shows.

This gallery—Art Nouveau—was sandwiched between a bagel shop and a realtor. A tall, elegant woman in her 30s greeted me kindly at the door in a tight black dress that made it seem like she spent half her time in a yoga class and the other half in a harder yoga class. She had a slicked back bob of hair dyed silver, and a face that looked strong and confident. She motioned to the reception desk, which had been converted to a small, self-serve bar, where I grabbed a red and started to meander through the patrons.

And that's when I saw Arturo's paintings.

I don’t know much about art; all I have on my own walls are vintage posters from 80s rock tours. So I can't tell you the deeper, literary meanings behind any painting, whether it's a Van Gogh or sold out of the back of a van, but basically, if I had to describe them? Arturo's paintings were nudes. All of them. And not just nude, but exceedingly explicit: poses and actions that were very, very…very sexual in nature. Women, men, women and men, women and women, men and men, and I could have sworn one had a slicked back bob of hair dyed silver and a body that looked like it had done some severe yoga.

I pulled out the flyer Wynter handed me back at the coffee shop and looked for any sign I may have missed that Arturo was painting naked people being so…extra naked. Especially when he had looked at me a couple times as though I were a subject he wanted to paint.

“What do you think?” called Arturo.

I took a deep breath to bring myself back to earth and turned to greet him. He was in spotless overalls, a bandana that looked like either came from the props closet of a Western, a hat that looked as though it came from the props closet of a Sci-fi, and a different pair of funky-looking glasses than the ones he usually wore. He had a wine in his hands, as did the woman he had on his arm. I nodded, but my brain was still trying to catch up to the visuals I had just seen. "Ah…they're very…ah. Good!"

"You expected barns, didn't you?" Arturo said, and he looked genuinely nervous. "People always think I'm a barn-guy. I hate barns." Then he shifted, indicating his female companion. "Have you met Wynter?"

My jaw dropped. She looked nothing like the coffee shop owner I knew her as. Gone was the coffee-stained, utilitarian outfit I had seen her in time and time again. Here, she was in an oversized white blouse, open down to the waistline of her slim-fitting black tuxedo pants that hugged her soft curves. Sharp, shiny heels. Her brown hair was slicked back, with dark makeup, dangling earrings, and an incredibly mischievous smile. I worked and worked to not look down at her braless chest, bobbing freely in that opened blouse.

"Oh my god of course. Wynter! How are you?"

She laughed as we clinked plastic cups.

“There's Mr. Collins," Arturo said. "I hope he…I better go talk to him,” and he took a step away, but not before took a moment to look at my face, once again craning his neck to inspect me from a few different angles.

"He's very nervous," Wynter said, as we watched him walk across the gallery. "This is a big deal for him." She turned back to me, and turned conspiratorial. "So? What do you really think?"

"Oh. They're…" I waved my prosecco to indicate the room. "You know, I expected barns."

Wynter laughed. "Well, he's still inspecting you. Seems like he really wants to paint you."

I turned and looked at the painting we were standing in front of. "I don't think I could…ah…"

"Oh, it's easy."

"Is it?"

She nodded towards a painting close by. Smiled. "Very."

The painting was of a nude, curvaceous woman rubbing raspberries on her breasts. I looked at it. Looked at her. Looked back at it. Felt myself both blush and explode into an erection.

"Oh," I said, nodding slowly.

"You should do it," someone said. It was a slim, younger man, in his 20s, slightly shorter than me, wearing a long basketball jersey as a dress showing off wide, toned shoulders and arms, a hairless chest, and long runner's legs. He was also in heels, had short, blonde hair, feminine features, and wore light makeup.

"Not everyone is as excited to get naked as you are, Benjamin," Wynter said.

Benjamin gave her a hug and a quick kiss as he said, "Look who's talking, bitch."

She laughed. She nodded towards me but said to him, "Arturo's been giving this one 'The Look.'"

Benjamin smiled, and made a show of looking me up and down. "Oh really? Well, it's fate, then. You're going to have to do it."

I tried to say something, but couldn't. I was too shocked by the whole thing. Yes, I would love to do it. I was a closet nudist at home, anyway: I had a few acres of secluded land, I lived alone, and didn't have any problems spending time outside, naked. In all honesty, I loved it, that is, when the bugs weren't too bad. And did I have a tiny, tiny selfish streak of working out so I could feel like I looked good while doing it? Guilty as charged. But this? This was something entirely different. I smiled and looked around, and that's when I saw—

"Is that you?" I said, agog, looking at another painting of a slim, blonde-headed younger man on his back, his ankles up to his ears.

With a massive, insanely fantastical, impossibly large cock, standing erect.

Wynter laughed, and I was proud that I managed to not glare at her breasts swinging with her every movement.

Benjamin smiled proudly. "You better believe it."

I glanced back at his outfit, the long, exaggerated basketball jersey-turned-dress. Back at the painting.

"You're wondering how he's hiding that thing," Wynter said.

"I…well yes. I…that's not possible," I said.

"I can show you, if you'd like," Benjamin said, stepping closer, his voice lowering.

I laughed and put my hands up. "Maybe some other time. Sorry. This is all…just…not what I expected. Not in our small town."

"You should do it," Benjamin repeated.

"I…I wouldn't know what I…what do I do?" I asked.

"You take off your clothes. Stand there," Wynter said. She crossed one arm under her chest, rested the other on her hip to take a sip of her wine, and her breasts smooshed together.

"You two are a very bad influence," I said.

Taking that as a cue, Wynter grabbed Arturo's arm as he moved past us. "Our friend here wants to model," she said, nodding towards me. Then she said, "I have an idea for a painting you could do," and Arturo immediately brightened. Wynter leaned towards his ear, and whispered.

Arturo nodded, slowly, then suddenly his face soured and he pulled back from her and said, "But that's obscene."

Wynter patted his overalled chest. "No, no, no. You see…the reason we…" and she leaned back in, explaining something to our artist.

The more she spoke the more excited he became, and his face suddenly exploded into elation. "I love it. Yes! I love it. This week. Tuesday. Noon."

Wynter smiled and raised her eyebrows, looked at Benjamin. "Tuesday? Noon?" Benjamin nodded. She looked at me. "Tuesday? Noon?"

I smiled. Was I actually going to do this? My head was swimming, but I couldn't ignore the excitement I felt at the idea.

"Tuesday. Noon," I said.

***

Tuesday arrived and I was surprised I slept: I was too excited about the prospect. I rang the buzzer to Arturo's studio, which was over "Candy's Flower Shop," and much to my surprise, Benjamin came bouncing down the steps to let me in.

Completely naked.

He was muscularly firm, he was pale, like the thin, reedy iron of a ballet dancer, and indeed: Benjamin had the largest, longest dick I'd ever seen, flopping around like a dead, red-tipped snake with each step he landed on.

"Eyes up here, bitch," he said, opening the door for me.

I looked around quickly. "Benjamin! Oh my god!"

"What?"

I cocked my head to the side. "You know what. My god that…is…wait. What are you doing here?"

He smiled coyly, then turned and headed up the steps before me, looking over his shoulder as he made a whole show of it, taking each step with a runway model's exaggeration. His ass was perfectly sculpted, small, his little cheeks jiggling, and his cock swinging.

At the top of the steps, I stopped him. "Hey," I said. "I…look. I'm worried. Buddy to buddy. What happens if I get an erection?"

"You already do," he said.

"Yes. Yes. I know, but…maybe this was a bad idea—"

"Stop worrying. Come on."

Arturo gave me a hearty handshake, but he was already in creation mode, in a smock and yet another pair of fancy glasses, his focus on something up inside his brain. His studio, which doubled as his apartment, was the entire second floor of the building, open plan, a faraway scent of all those flowers below us, and ginormous, Benjamin's cock-sized windows that gave the space plenty of natural light. There was a small kitchenette. A partitioned space where he slept. There were paintings everywhere. Big, small, finished, unfinished, paint spatters and spills and splotches everywhere, nudes and nudes and nudes everywhere, all surrounding a central, open space, with a dais and Arturo’s easel and painting supplies.

And Wynter.

She was making coffee at the kitchenette, and looked stunning: light grey yoga pants clung to her curves, showing off a round, tight ass and strong legs. She only wore a tank top that tried desperately to handle the breasts it was tasked with containing.

“Coffee?” she asked.

"What are you doing here?"

"What? I'm modeling with you."

"So am I," Benjamin said.

"No. No way. You two…ohhh…you two…again. Bad influence."

"He's worried about getting a boner," Benjamin said.

"He's already got one," Wynter said.

Arturo and the very naked Benjamin—his long dick flopping about—moved some furniture around on the dais, I helped, and finally Arturo asked if we were all ready. I nodded, and looked to Wynter. “Where do we change…”

But Wynter was already taking off her clothes, right there in the kitchenette, first taking the hair tie out of her hair and shaking out a long, shiny mane of brown hair. Then she peeled off her tank top, dropping her tits out, and my heart plunged at the sight of them. Enormous, smooth, milky white, tipped with small, tight nipples, and clanging against each other. She then shimmied down her yoga pants and I almost had a heart attack. My local coffee shop owner had flawless skin, a lean, almost muscular torso, a thick, curvy ass, and a landing strip that she unconsciously raked her fingernails through as she kicked off the yoga pants. She looked up at me when she was finished, and put her hands on her hips. “Well?”

“I—uh. You’re beautiful,” I said.

“I meant, are you going to join us, dummy,” she said, laughing, waving a hand at my clothes.

“Of course, right. Yes,” I said.

At my hesitation, she said, "Didn't you ever go skinny dipping?"

I had. I do. But still, my erection. My instinct was to hide, but then, finally, I realized there was nowhere to hide. Embrace it. I kicked off my pants and motioned down at my erection. “I…uh…I really like being naked.”

Wynter raised her eyebrows, and smiled. “Clearly.”

“Is everything all right?” Arturo called out. “Are you ready?”

We padded our way to the dais, with Benjamin coyly smiling at me as well. There were two chairs placed next to each other. Wynter directed me to one chair, and she sat in the other, and then explained what we were doing: the pose was her and I, shoulder to shoulder, holding Benjamin’s dick in our hands like a long hot dog.

“No,” I said, whispering to her. "That's ridiculous."

“Yes,” Wynter laughed. "It is."

“God yes,” Benjamin said.

Arturo watched with that artist-minded concentration.

I whispered, “What’s the artistic message here? I mean, since this was your idea?”

Wynter looked at me. Shrugged. Benjamin giggled.

Wynter and I got into the pose, and then Benjamin picked up that incredible cock of his, and laid it out on our hands.

“How are you not hard?” I whispered, like a school boy in class trying to not be seen by the teacher.

“Honey, if I get hard, you better run because I’m sticking it in someone’s hole.”

I was in shock, but also, once work began, it wore out: for the better part of an hour, Arturo went to work, poking his head out every now and then to watch us, and to study us. My erection subsided, and in my field of view, I had Benjamin to my right, his every muscle finely tuned, his ridiculous cock warm in my hands; part of me wanted to give a little stroke here and there, to see what would happen. To my left, the sultry, soft Wynter, her breasts wobbling gently every time she adjusted in her seat, which, after an hour of sitting still, was something I itched to do as well.

“That’s enough,” Arturo finally called. “That’s enough. Break time. Take ten.”

“Fifteen,” Wynter said. “I need fifteen, if that’s okay, Arturo?”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “I’m going to run over to the post office. Clear my head for a moment. Fifteen.” And our fearless painter, his head buzzing, took a step to the door. Then looked back at his canvas. Grabbed a brush. One swipe, and he put the brush back down. Studied the painting. We watched, wondering if he was going to cancel the break due to some new lightning bolt of inspiration. Then he left.

“You can let go of my dick now,” Benjamin said.

“Sorry,” I said, quickly dropping it and getting up from the chair to stretch. “I had no idea sitting still would be so difficult.”

“Back deck?” Wynter asked Benjamin.

“Back deck,” Benjamin said.

“Come on,” Wynter said. “Back deck."

The back deck of Arturo’s place was a secluded, sun-soaked space with a few sun loungers. At the railing, you could see Main Street, but take a step back and you were invisible. Benjamin put on a pair of sunglasses and laid back in a beach chair, spreading his legs apart and putting his hands behind his head, that massive cock of his resting on his thigh. He closed his eyes and pointed his head at the sun.

“Having fun?” Wynter asked, sitting down on the edge of the same chair as Benjamin.

“I think so,” I said, trying to stretch out the last hour of being a statue.

"Looks so," Wynter said, and I followed her gaze down. My erection was back. "Another one?"

"I really, really like being naked."

Wynter looked up at me for a moment, her eyes squinting in the sunlight, then she looked back at Benjamin. "I think it's distracting me. Is his boner distracting you?"

Benjamin didn't move. "Yes."

And that's when Wynter reached out and took a hold of my cock.

I yelped in happy surprised. But I didn't do anything to dissuade her, and she gently guided me to a beach chair opposite from where she was sitting, pushed me down onto it. She got off the chair, down on her knees in front of me, spread my legs wide, and then shimmied in between them.

"We've only got fifteen minutes," Benjamin said, still motionless.

Wynter ran her hands on the insides of my thighs, biting her lower lip and making eye contact with me. Ran her hands up my stomach, my chest, and back down, then she wrapped her hands around my cock, squeezing it. Her huge tits grazed the inside of my thighs and sent me straight to Heaven, and she wrapped her lips around my tip, letting her tongue wash the underside of it, and then, removing her hands, started to bob her head up and down on me, her hair falling to her sides.

I reached down with both hands and squeezed her breasts, smooshing them together as she sucked my cock, rubbing her nipples. She deep throated me. Gagged. Pulled off me with her tongue drooling my cum and spit.

"Hey, Benjamin," I said, and he looked over at me. "You gonna just sit there? Or is your dick long enough for me to suck it from there?"

"Oh fuck yes," Wynter said, stroking me as she looked back. "Come on, Benji."

Benjamin's look of shock was short-lived. As he stood up I could see his erection forming fast, that enormous thing going rigid and somehow defying all the laws of physics in getting bigger. And bigger. And bigger. Wynter and I both stared at it, and he proudly gave it a few strokes.

"You're gonna suck my cock?" he said.

"We've only got fifteen minutes," I said, and Benjamin stepped out from behind Wynter, and brought it level to my face, to my right. I reached for it, and pulled him close, so I could run my tongue along the immense underside. I spat on my fingers, and gently spread his legs, taking as much of him into my mouth as I could, while also running my hands between his legs, searching for his hole. My wet fingers found purchase, and I gently fingered him, to his obvious delight. I tasted his precum, I watched his finely tuned stomach muscles expand and contract with my pleasuring him.

Meanwhile, Wynter's face was lit up in excitement at seeing Benjamin's incredible dick in my mouth. I grabbed the back of her head, and politely guided her back down. "We only have fifteen minutes," I said, to the sound of her moaning in agreement. I started sucking off Benjamin in great, slobbering pulls, spitting on him every now and then, twisting at the waist on the chair as I also guided Wynter's head up and down on me.

Benjamin grabbed my own head, his tall frame blocking out the sun, bent over, and he began to thrust, ever so gently. He moaned in short, rapid breaths, and I kept my lips wrapped tight while my tongue continued to wash as much of his cock as I could take, and also manipulate my finger inside his ass.

Wynter bobbed, herself making sloppy noises against my dick, every now and then pulling off and letting drool spill down onto herself, wiping my cum and spit onto her massive tits, and the three of us worked each other like this for a minute or two, our moans and pants and exhortations finding a rhythm until I pulled Wynter off me, held her face by her chin, and told her: "Sit on my cock."

She got up, bringing her messy face up to mine. We kissed. She began to turn around, but I stopped her, and had her stand straight. I ran my fingers along her wet, eager pussy, its slickness dripping. I looked for the clit, found it, rolled my fingers along it, which caused her head to drop back, and I watched her great globes swing with her hips as she ground into my hand. We angled, and I scooted my butt to the front of the chair. She straddled me. She spread her pussy apart mounted me, slowly, her insides warm and tight. She let out a sighed "Fuuuck" as she took all of me, her tits now against my chest, her arms around my neck, the dribble down her chin onto my face. She started to grind, slowly.

"I see him—oh shit, Arturo's coming out of the Post Office," Benjamin said, his cock flat and hard as a board out in front of him, as he craned his neck over the edge of the deck and looked out into the street.

"Come on, ride me," I told Wynter, her blue eyes rippling lagoons above me, and she started to bounce up and down on my post, the slap of her body against mine clear, sharp cracks in the summer afternoon, and Benjamin put a finger to my chin and pulled my face back to him, and I took him inside me as I felt the heat and increasing pressure building inside my own cock. Wynter was now huffing with her face turned up, concentrating on her own culmination, and I could feel Benjamin finding his own rhythm, his hand on the back of my head, his hips thrusting.

"Benjamin," Wynter said. "Fuck me, Benjamin, fuck me in the ass, hurry," and Benjamin slipped out of my mouth and I watched him step behind her as she stopped bouncing on me and looked back over her shoulder. "Come on, fuck me in the ass come on, stick that fucking cock inside me," and I watched Benjamin spit onto his finger and Wynter let out an elated gasp as he wet her hole with it, and then her face froze for a moment as he slipped his cock inside her ass. Then her eyebrows raised, her mouth opened more, all while I felt a surge of excitement as I too felt Benjamin's manhood, inside Wynter, and then Wynter let out a giant grunt as I changed tactics.

Instead of Wynter riding me, I started to work my hips upward to fuck her wet, tight pussy as Benjamin began pounding her ass, the three of us like an incredibly awesome game of Twister, and I watched Wynter's tits clatter around as I pistoned and pistoned and Benjamin grabbed her hips and began to slam into her as far as he could.

Wynter began to let out a breathless, whispered "Yes yes yes—fuck—fuck—you—fucking—fuckers—oh fuck me fuck me," and she dropped her head onto my shoulder and let out a steady string of rapid breaths. Then she growled "Oh-oh-ohhhFUCK YES OHhhfffFUCK YES keep pounding me keep pounding me oh cum inside me cum inside me both of you oh fuck fuckfuckfuck pleasepleaseplease oh fuuuck cum inside me." She brought her head up and looked right at me, her eyes begging and pleading as she was drooling and saying right at me, "Cuminsideme cuminsideme yeaahhhhohhh," and then Benjamin let out a grunt and twitched and delivered his load, which caused her to moan loudly and made me lose my own control and release inside of her as well, pushing my cock as deep as I could with an explosive grunting of my own.

Wynter ground her pussy and ass into both of us, tightening all of her musculature and then quivering, shrieking out loud, a few quick, sharp invocations, her head thrown back, grinding into me, pushing me away but also pulling at me at the same time, shaking, one of her hands grabbing at Benjamin to keep him inside her as she continued to cum, shivering through several more shrieks out into the open air. Then, after the storm inside her passed, she released, looked down at me, smiling, and kissed me passionately, wetly. I reached out for Benjamin, took his hand, and brought him to me, and kissed him as well, the three of us trying to catch our breath, the three of us squeezing and holding and sweating, and, ultimately, laughing.

"I'll distract Arturo," Benjamin said, stepping back from our little sticky threesome, and heading back inside, his massive cock bouncing around like a lost 2 x 4.

"Shouldn't you—at least wipe off?"

"Believe me," Benjamin said. "Arturo's not going to notice."

"How do you know?"

Wynter, still in my lap, still mounted on top of my receding cock, wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and leaned In for another kiss, and said, "This might not be the first time Benjamin and I have done this." Then she climbed off me and took a step back, slumping back into the sun lounger, throwing her hands above her head and stretching out, like a cat, as I watched her drip generous amounts of cum from her lower half. "Besides, have you seen his cock? How can a girl resist?"

"I'm so glad Arturo doesn't paint barns," I said.

She laughed.