A photography student and her model spend an afternoon in the studio. Explicit short story. 18+.
Hanna’s studio was on the fifth floor of an artist building in Leipzig-Plagwitz, with a north-facing window front that photographers treat like a religion. She’d asked me to model for her thesis. Six sessions, nothing nude, she said. It was about portraits, about hands, about the tension in a neck when someone listens. It was a good gig for someone who was actually studying music and needed a few hundred Euros.
The first session was friendly, professional. The second, too. For the third, we made coffee and talked about our parents. During the fourth, in November, the snow fell, and the light in the studio got so soft that Hanna told me twice, as if it were a miracle happening just to her.
“Sit down again,” she said. “Just like that. Turn your head a bit to the left.”
She came over to me, holding the old Sekonic light meter she’d been carrying for three years, and held it close to my cheek. She smelled of the coffee we’d just drunk and of a plant oil she used for her skin, something with almond.
“Hold still.”
I held still. I wasn’t a good model, I knew that. I was someone who could sit still for two hours, but not be quiet for two hours. In the first three sessions, I’d talked, asked questions, made comments. During the fourth, I’d stopped, because I’d realized Hanna actually needed silence to see.
Her hand moved in front of my face. She measured the light at three points—forehead, cheekbone, neck. Each time, her hand came a little closer. On the third measurement, she accidentally touched my neck with the knuckle of her little finger. She didn’t pull it back.
“Tobias.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re breathing differently.”
“Yeah.”
“Because my hand is on your neck?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded. Her hand didn’t move. It was still there, the knuckle on my neck, her palm a hand’s breadth away, and she looked at me without reading the light meter.
“I have to tell you something,” she said.
“Tell me.”
“I didn’t hire you because you have a good face. I hired you because I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since the concert in the summer.”
“The concert at Schillerpark?”
“Yeah. You played Bach. The second cello suite.”
“You were at the Schillerpark concert?”
“In the fourth row. You didn’t notice. I was disguised too, I wore a coat I never wear otherwise.”
I hadn’t seen her. That evening at Schillerpark, I’d played outside with bad acoustics and too many mosquitoes, and I’d had to play the concert because my teacher wanted it, and the next day I’d gotten Hanna’s letter saying she was looking for a model for her thesis.
“Hanna.”
“Yeah.”
“You had six sessions to say something.”
“I know. I practiced. I had my hand on the doorknob three times. I once waited until you had your scarf on and I wanted to help you tie it. I couldn’t do it.”
“What’s different today?”
“Today, while setting up the lights, I realized I’m not photographing you anymore. I’m just trying to see you.”
She lowered the light meter. She took half a step back, and I stood up, and we stood in the soft snow-light, and I looked at her as she was when she wasn’t behind the camera.
She was twenty-one. I was twenty-two. We were both inexperienced, not in the sense of that weird expectation young men have to know something they don’t. We were both cautious, both alert, and both a little embarrassed.
“Can I kiss you?” I asked.
“Please.”
I kissed her. Her mouth was cool, from the camera, from the concentration. I put my hand on her neck, right where her hand had been on mine, and I felt her pulse, fast, faster than mine, which calmed me down.
I pulled her closer, my other hand sliding over her back, under the thin sweater she wore. Her skin was warm, and I felt her tremble slightly. I let my hands wander lower, over the waistband of her jeans, and pulled her gently against me. She let out a soft moan as she felt my hard cock through the fabric, pressing against her hip.
“I want to feel you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with desire.
She reached for my belt, her fingers trembling as she undid the buckle. I helped her, pulling down my jeans and boxers, and my cock sprang out, hard and glistening, the head red and swollen. She looked at me, her eyes wide and dark, and then she knelt in front of me without hesitation.
She took my cock in her hand, her fingers wrapping tightly around the shaft, and began to massage it with slow, tender strokes. I moaned, my head falling back as she opened her mouth and took the head between her lips. Her tongue circled the tip, first lightly, then firmer, and she let me slide deeper into her mouth until she had the entire shaft in her throat. Her cheeks were hollowed, her lips stretched tight around me, and I felt her tongue running along the underside of my cock as she blew me slowly and deeply.
“Yeah, just like that,” I panted, my hand buried in her hair. “Take it deeper.”
She obeyed, her head moving up and down, faster now, and I felt the warmth of her mouth enveloping me. Her tongue massaged the sensitive spot under the head, and I felt a shudder run through my body. I was close, but I wanted more. I wanted to feel her, completely.
“Come up,” I said, my voice rough. “I want to be inside you.”
She stood up, her lips glistening with my moisture. I pulled her sweater over her head and let my hands glide over her tits, which were firm and round, with hard, dark nipples pressing through the thin bra. I unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them down over her hips, along with her panties, which were already wet. She helped me, stepping out of her clothes, and stood naked before me, her body shimmering in the soft snow-light.
Her cunt was already wet, the labia glistening, and I could see the moisture running down her thighs. She spread her legs slightly and smiled at me.
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