Sir John Everett Millais's 1851 masterpiece Ophelia was John's inspiration for his first foray into life painting. The thirty-year-old had persevered for a long time, enhancing his latent skills as an artist. From Leonardo da Vinci’s anatomical studies to the expressive figures of the Pre-Raphaelites, Degas, and Lucian Freud, he had long wanted to use the female form to express his love of women. Ophelia, the tragic heroine from Shakespeare's Hamlet, had been modelled by the nineteen-year-old Elizabeth Siddal, who famously nearly died of pneumonia after posing for hours in a frigid bathtub, and he set out to seek one just like her.

'Artist requires elegant young model for unclothed posing. Ten pounds an hour, unsociable hours ideal. Send details, age, recent photograph and phone number to John/Bow/London on Facebook.'

The eager portrait painter posted his request online, and he was pleasantly surprised to receive quite a few replies. Nearly all of them were ideal for what he had in mind. He settled on a brunette of eighteen years of age. She was named Tracey, and she was an out-of-work actress and model living in South London. He studied her photographs at length, impressed by her lithe and luscious figure. Her legs were honed by years of dancing and yoga, and gazing at her seductive body, John would find painting her image to be a challenge of concentration. He got back to her, and they arranged a suitable date for the sitting.

Tracey duly arrived at John's rented studio flat in Bromley-by-Bow on a Tuesday evening. She was dressed casually in blue jeans and a Babymetal T-shirt. He watched the dust motes in the fading sunlight through the window, as the radiant young filly stood before him. He had made the perfect choice.

"Drink? Juice, tea, wine?"

"Nah."

Her rather common South London accent slightly took John aback, but he dismissed her vocal lack. It was her body that interested him.

"Well, let's get to it. Would you care to strip?"

"'Kay."

John moved behind his easel with the telescopic legs and began to study his array of oil brushes, maintaining an eagle eye on the girl as she undressed. As Tracy slowly tugged her black shirt off, her firm breasts became freed up. John could not help but notice how she seemed to have permanently erect nipples. Next came her jeans and undies, and the red-blooded artist was already awestruck by the girl's supple form as her back arched seductively.

As day became twilight, the studio was bathed in a soft, golden glow, which inadvertently cast an undeniable sense of mystique and pure sensuality upon the girl. Tracy was not tall, just five feet five in bare feet, yet her handsome frame was superb nevertheless. Her firm and pliant breasts were a desirable C cup bra size, and the lushness of each boob commanded his attention. Her tits rose and fell delightfully as she breathed, further amplifying her irresistible form.

Her waist was narrow, and the subtle curve of her hips accentuated her impossibly long legs that led the eye from her feet to her divine backside, where they got cheeky. She turned her back to him, and with a natural grace, she absentmindedly traced the delicate contours of her flawless body, from the gentle slope of her belly to the hidden valley between her upper thighs. John was delighted to see that she was not one of those who shaved off her pubic hair, and the black triangle of brown pubes was trimmed nicely to display her plump labia.

"I want you to lie on your back on the chaise lounge."

"'Kay."

John had one decent piece of furniture in his flat, which was the left-handed chaise in dark green velvet, given to him by his parents when he had finally flown the nest. Tracey fluffed her shoulder-length hair out and posed flirtatiously for one final moment, standing resplendent with a quiet confidence. She spread out on the two-seat chair, kicking up her left pin over the back of the chaise so that her sex was quite visible for all to see. She was a true model who needed no coaching in how to pose. With a trembling hand, John grabbed a brush and dipped it into the prepared palette of paints and began to prod at the stretched-out canvas. Tracey remained still as he used the tip of the brush to apply paint to his portrait. He studied her, then swept, paused, and swept again.

His wide eyes lingered lovingly on her smooth skin. The exquisite beauty sent shivers down his spine as he attempted to drink in every feminine curve of the alluring creature. She writhed on her back occasionally, and her midriff undulated as her derriere embraced the velvet upholstery. John hopped on one foot in front of his easel, acutely aware of his rampant erection. Luckily, his body was well hidden from her viewpoint as he attacked the prepared canvas with passion and vigour. As she stretched on the chaise, his eyes never left her muff, and he had to fight the urge to rip off his clothing so that he could dive naked between her willowy legs. How he would love to kiss her breasts, her stomach, and then the inside of each toned thigh. As she would undoubtedly react by opening herself to him, he imagined thrusting into her wet pussy and slamming into her over and over.

"You're doing well, Tracey. Good girl."

The artist in him added new colours to his portrait. Pinks, roses, and dabs of white. He focused on Tracey's perfect tits, noting how her right boob rested on her forearm, and the other sinking lower than its twin. The nipples were now swollen and of a ruddy hue, sticking out in relief dead centre of both of her splendid globes. Taking up his palette knife, he scratched away in a flurry of inspiration, creating what he hoped would be his masterpiece. Tracey sighed, and as a result her tits jiggled on her chest. John had to suppress an urge to dry hump one of the telescopic legs as his dick ached for attention.

Blinking sweat from his eyes, he filled in some of the finer details as he mixed paint, struggling to capture her radiant beauty. He highlighted her nose, mouth, earlobe, and her fine tresses, deepening the shadow of her full lips that were oh so kissable. He changed brushes again and again, noting how Tracey's pussy lips appeared to be dappled with moisture, as if she was sexually aroused. He would be honoured to kiss and lick her delicate folds, driving his tongue into her sweetness to drink her love juices, if only she would acquiesce.

With her eyes closed, Tracey seemed to be in a dream-like state, and her left leg spread further apart as she relaxed in the warmth of the tiny flat. Did she dream of his touch? Did she yearn to have his tongue swirling around the very core of her quim, expertly coaxing her nectar from her honey pot? He stared at the finished painting and adjusted his pants to allow his cock to free up a tad.

"I'm finished."

"Oh, that was quick, innit!" she exclaimed in her coarse manner.

Tracey leapt and padded barefoot to where John had just painted her portrait. Her gleeful expression quickly changed to one of bewilderment, then to one of anger.

"What the bloody hell is that? Me?"

"Why, yes. It's my Cubism image of you. Just like Pablo Picasso."

Tracey folded her arms under her bosom and scowled. John had painted her face only from a fixed perspective, with her eyes painted on the same side. This was the famous Spanish artist's technique to show multiple viewpoints, such as a side profile and a front view simultaneously on a flat canvas.

"'King hell! Both of my eyes are on my 'king right cheek! You 'king idiot! And why did I pose in the 'king nuddy when you only painted my 'king face? Are you a pervert?"

John shrugged and put it down to poetic licence.

"Have you ever painted a nude model for a painting before?"

"No, never., John grinned inanely as the girl pulled her jeans and top back on. "Well, there's a first for everything."

The door slammed, and the satisfied artist pulled out his boner and started to jerk off.

END