Methinks I have mentioned from time to time the existence of The Little Sketching Group (LSG). The LSG was formed when I was eighteen, in the spring before covid hit, by my photographer friend Harry and consists mostly of older males and a few females, many of whom are customers of Harry's photography business. The LSG was seen to be necessary because, though the local art galleries provide some opportunities for sketching enthusiasts to sketch live models, they are often a part of organized art classes and are, in any case, rather strictly controlled. Harry's friends complained of ugly models, cold studios, hot studios, poor viewing angles and not enough pussy. That is opportunities to sketch pussy, not get some.
So Harry proposed an arrangement where he would start sponsoring sketching classes at his photography studio. This would solve the problems of heat, cold and viewing angles. He asked me to provide the pussy. For sketching purposes only, of course. I agreed and became principal model (chest puffs out) along with carefully selected guest posers including my cousin Eefje, my age, a popular Dutch import, my older sister Robin while she was pregnant, my middle sister Molly while she was not pregnant, and one of Harry's daughters, just sixteen and claiming to be a virgin, which excited the artists. Everything worked out very well and we continue to meet every month, masked and, through the covid period, properly spaced to ward off germs.
My first experience with posing for sketching was when I was sixteen for Robin, a very competent artist, which to me means if she does your portrait, people can actually tell that it's you. She wanted to work from the nude and I, always ready to strip at a moment's notice, enthusiastically obliged. One difficulty was that we were not the only ones in the house. There was the matter of my three brothers. But I handled the situation with aplomb and on the approach of any of them with their lacrosse buddies, I feigned indifference and remained butt naked. I mean, you have to get dates somehow. It didn't work out very well, though, due to an apparent reluctance on the part of the guys to screw their teammate's little sister.
Another difficulty was my father. In good weather months I would pose in the yard on the picnic table, seated always with a fluffy towel between my bare ass and the eating surface. My dad for some reason did not look well on emerging into the sunlight to behold the puppy brown body of his younger daughter. Mummy solved the problem by suggesting I keep handy another fluffy towel with which to cover whatever parts of me Dad didn't want to see.
Anyway, I had been working with my photographer Harry doing catalog work for some time. Some of the legitimate catalog work involved things like sports bras and bikinis. At some point we began to consider doing exhibition work, which meant dispensing with the bras and bikinis and revealing every detail of my nubile body. The money was better. Harry showed me samples of what we could do, mostly bare boob and bare bum shots. Nothing he showed me was in any way near explicit. Showing off my snatch was not on the agenda. At least not in good light.
So we started. I loved it. I have good boobs and being a jock you can bounce a quarter off my tummy or my bare ass and I'm reasonably pretty so we figured nude photos of me might sell. At first he offered me pasties for my boobs and tape for my pussy and there was a robe handy if I wanted to cover up in between so he could bring the shots up on his laptop to show me. I eschewed the pasties and robe but I did tape my pussy early on so I wasn't actually naked. Later I went all the way, knowing I was excruciatingly desirable, and if a shot displayed some cunt Harry kept it for sale to his private clients, cutting out the gallery fees so everyone went home happy and my genitals are now a part of art history.
Anyway, Harry began exhibiting his photographs of me in the local galleries. A few caught people's attention, like the ones in which I was nude. Harry knew exactly what to do and showed me as shamelessly wanton as a girl could be with her knees held tightly together. At that time one of the River Street galleries was offering sketching classes featuring nude female models, and some of Harry's photo customers suggested to him that I might fill the bill. And of course they would finally get to see me in real life.
Harry sensed an opportunity to increase photo sales by popularizing his model, so one Thursday at mid-day Harry and I kept an appointment with the sketching class director to check out the venue and find out what was required. Harry did the talking about money, I being uncomfortable talking about getting paid for taking all my clothes off. The director, a woman of about sixty, explained that the summer classes for which they needed models were work sessions, as opposed to instructional. This meant that during class she would give instructions to the model but none of any consequence to the artists. They presumably would know what to do and their task was simply to do it with my wetness and trembling fire of my naked body providing the inspiration.
I knew nothing of sketching. I had learned on the internet that a typical session involved groups of poses lasting as little as thirty seconds and as long as thirty minutes. This was indeed what the lady had in mind, some thirty-second poses, then one-minute poses, five minutes, ten and half an hour efforts. The goal was not to produce a likeness of the model but to work on and appreciate form and movement. We would probably work for two and one-half hours with the shorter poses occupying the first two hours and then do the half-hour pose.
I would of course be butt naked except during breaks when I had to cover myself. No wandering around the studio bare ass except for an endearing smile like I did when Harry photographed me. I was to wear no jewelry except studs. She asked if I had any tattoos (I don't) and said she preferred models with pubic hair (I have none and didn't plan on growing any). Unshaved models show less detail of their genitals, she told us, and she had no plans on having me display my pink parted lips to a room full of men.
We inspected the posing premises, a fairly good-sized room on the second floor above the old gallery, there being a new gallery on the end of the building nearer Plum Island. It was in that new gallery in which I had stood unrecognized, a day earlier, watching people examine the nude photos of me which adorned a small corner of the gallery walls.
The sketching room was a tad shabby looking, I thought, crowded with the kind of stuff one might expect to see in the attic of an art gallery. Anyway, the model posed in the middle of the room on what might have been a coffee table covered by a sheet. I hoped a clean sheet, as she must at some point recline on it in the nude. As I would be posing in the middle of the crowd it occurred to me that at any given time a number of the artists would be staring right at my taut little ass. This seemed a tad rude but I was later informed that after each pose I would rotate ninety degrees, thus affording a changing view of my girlish charms. On either side of the posing platform were long tables at which a portion of the artists would sit. Past these were so-called donkeys, small individual seats with lectern-type things upon which they could rest their sketching materials. Further back stood easels behind which artists would stand and then tall chairs upon which more people could sit.
Being used to photography I was more struck by the differences than the similarities. Here the model's appearance mattered little. One could be tall or short, fat or thin, pretty or not. It didn't seem to matter whether you washed your hair (I do) or made up (I do some). It didn't matter whether you had large tits or small (we covered that above), a big ass or not (ditto) or nice legs, which I think I do. Not everyone who is photographed is nude but being nude was required here (of course my sister required it too when she sketched me).
The lighting was uneven and not very bright and the background was hopeless. The orientation of one's body was different for every artist and when I lay down some people were looking at the top of my head or my feet or right at my bare ass. In photography, there are constant interruptions. Adjusting the hair, adjusting the light, move this way or that, mild cursing (Harry), repeat. Download the results, look, point, more mild cursing. Repeat. In sketching, one assumes the pose and if it's anywhere near right one holds it for whatever time is required.
That day I had worn a short black dress with spaghetti straps which just covered the bottom of my ass, no bra so my nipples showed prominently, black thong panties and flats. All this to show off my legs, my best feature, and my behind. At any rate I guess I looked promising because finally the woman asked Harry to leave the room so I could strip naked for her. I told her I had no intention of undressing in some attic unless someone I knew was present, and I was rewarded with a dirty look from her and Harry was rewarded with the chance to see me naked for the nth time. I pulled my dress over my head, took off my thong and left my flats on. I was indeed all rose and honey, the hot hollow of my groin plainly visible. She inspected me with a clinical air and seemed happy. Harry seemed indifferent, which is usually what happens.
At any rate, I was hired and Harry and I repaired to Michael's Harborside for a late lunch. We sat outside though they had those big plastic things down to protect against the wind. I consumed a large burger and fries, which one can do at eighteen and not get fat. Always the gentleman, Harry offered to buy me a beer even though he knew I was underage for drinking, though apparently wise enough at eighteen to decide whether I wanted to remove all my clothes in front of a crowd of strangers at sketching class.
We talked business after we finished eating. The woman would not pay much, not a surprise to anyone who has ever done figure modeling. I did not have to grow pubic hair, a plus since Harry knew all his older male customers enjoyed the shaved look, something unknown on women their age. I would probably do just one session here, Harry would invite all his customers who would, we hoped, appreciate my wholesome good looks, my orphan innocence, and we would form our own group. Ten days later I did my session at the gallery and met many of the men, and two women, who were interested in a new group. Next day, Harry called me and told me we were all set and explained the arrangements.
Group members would pay a fee for each session and have complete control of what happened, except for my insistence on a no-touching rule and the discouragement of anything like a full-on pussy pose. Harry would take all the photographs, as opposed to doing the sketches, and sell direct to his photo customers, cutting out the gallery fees. We would meet at Harry's, where the artists could smoke (outside), drink (in moderation) and eat (probably not in moderation). We would do three-hour sessions once a month and Harry would pay me directly. I would do the requested poses and remain naked during the breaks, chatting happily with the artists. That was Harry's idea, not the artists', but it seemed a sure way to encourage continued attendance. Despite the no-touching rule, I did tolerate the occasional hand on the shoulder, which then proceeded down my back to pinch or pat me on the bare bum. But only from the regulars; a girl must have standards.
We were all anxious to begin but the artists wanted a few days to line up a few more pigeons to help share expenses. All moneys would go directly to Harry to help maintain an air of respectability. They also needed to assemble drawing stations, similar to the donkeys, easels and tall chairs I saw at the gallery session. Harry provided a posing platform and good, photo-quality backgrounds. The artists would gather in front of the platform so each would have a good view of the model. Harry would take photos as the circumstances permitted and he would consider requests (for photos, that is). He was supposed to make it clear beforehand that the model was not interested in fucking the customers, though I'm not sure he did. In any case, as time went by I got many inquiries about private meetings.
