I moved with my parents from New York to California for my last two years of high school. People always said I looked older than I was. I was tall, with a body that turned heads, B-cup breasts that sat high, the kind of face and figure that got me compared to Russian fashion models. The reputation that followed girls with my background was that we were easy, that getting us naked or into bed was simple. Maybe that was true for some who grew up hearing that a man’s needs came first. I was born here. No one taught me that sex was just expected. I wasn’t easy. I also wasn’t unreachable. I knew exactly what my looks could do, and I used them without giving everything away.
I got good at teasing. A dress that slipped just enough. A neckline that let a nipple show for a second when I leaned forward. The hem of a skirt that rose when I sat or bent, flashing the edge of underwear, but more often, the lack of it. That was enough to keep most men staring, talking, doing whatever I wanted them to do.
The real thrill for me was going completely bare underneath. A short skirt or a loose dress that only stayed decent if I stood perfectly still. Any sit, any bend, any gust of wind, and I was exposed. I didn’t want the whole world to see. I wanted one man only to notice. The man I chose that day. The risk of being caught by the wrong person made the moments when the right one did see me feel sharper. That vulnerability, the knowledge that nothing was covering me, that one wrong move would put my bare pussy and ass on full display, kept me wet almost constantly.
Our apartment building was five stories, which is tall for California, where most places stayed low. It had an elevator, and I loved riding it in just a long T-shirt or a short skirt with nothing underneath. Everyone stood, so there was no sitting to worry about. Mirrors lined the walls. Men rarely stared straight at me; they looked at the reflections instead, eyes sliding down my legs, catching the shadow between my thighs, the curve of my ass when the fabric shifted. They notice lack of any underwear material. The building was gated, cameras everywhere. I felt safe enough to play.
There was one man in particular, an artist who lived a few floors up. Attractive, older, always flirting when we crossed paths. He was one of the ones I chose. He had already seen glimpses: the time he walked behind me on the stairs and my skirt rode up; the moment in the elevator when I bent to pick something up, and the hem lifted high enough to show everything; the afternoon the wind caught my t-shirt, and he got a clear look. He never said a word about it. Just compliments. Eyes that lingered. I wanted him to acknowledge what he saw.
One afternoon I rode the elevator with him and my mom. She was tired, glued to her phone, barely looking up. I stood across from him, arms crossed under my breasts, pushing them up while the motion lifted the bottom of my T-shirt. Nothing underneath. The fabric rose high enough that he could see all of it. My smooth pussy, the thin line of reddish hair running up from my clit. I watched his face. He looked at my eyes first, then dropped his gaze without shame and kept it there.
He asked if I wanted to earn some money modeling for his paintings. I said yes, though I wasn’t sure it was smart. He said he needed someone right then, this was an emergency; something he had to finish by the next day. Double the usual rate, two hundred for an hour. I told him to lead the way.
His place was quiet, canvases stacked against the walls, the smell of paint and turpentine. He told me to stand near the window where the light was good. I still had the T-shirt on and nothing else. He asked me to take it off. I pulled it over my head slowly and let it drop. The air touched my skin. I felt the full exposure at once, nipples tightening, the coolness between my legs, the knowledge that he was looking at everything I had deliberately shown him in pieces before.
He had me pose with one hand on my hip, weight shifted so my legs were slightly open. Then he asked me to turn, to bend a little at the waist as if reaching for something on a low table. Every small movement reminded me there was no fabric left to hide behind. The thrill sat low in my stomach, sharp and constant. He circled me, adjusting my arms, tipping my chin, telling me to hold still while he sketched. His eyes kept dropping to my pussy, to the way the light caught the wetness already there.
I stayed like that longer than the sketches required. Letting him look. Feeling the vulnerability stretch out. When he finally set the charcoal down and stepped closer, I didn’t move away. His hand brushed the inside of my thigh, then higher. I opened my legs a little more. The posing turned into his mouth on me, slow and deliberate, while I stood in the same light, still half in the attitude of a model, trembling from how completely exposed I was and how much I had wanted exactly this. By the time he bent me over the edge of the table and pushed inside, the hour had stopped mattering. The painting was never the point.
