#qwer

Word for word, that was the conversation that convinced you to model for an art class that you had zero interest in doing. Asa tried all sorts of things to get you to go before resorting to persuading you with the thought of a hot woman.

Discretion didn’t work out for anyone. “You won’t even know we’re there.” You’d think being encircled by random people who were going to draw you would be impossible to ignore.

Privacy between friends was her next argument. “If you’re worried about me seeing your junk, it’s not that type of modelling. And I won’t even make the next session.” As if strangers who would be painting you were the more comforting option. 

Capitalism was the last one. “You’re getting paid to sit on a chair for a few hours. It’s practically free money.” While the thought was enticing, you weren’t that desperate for cash.

But curiosity gets the better of you. Really it was your other head talking when you agreed to do it, though you let Asa be under the impression that she’s convinced you to do it for the extra cash. And with a quick call to the ‘hot teacher’ you’ve officially set yourself up to possibly be catfished.

You thought it’d be quick and easy. You know, appear in class, sit still for an hour or two, get paid then leave. Until you got the memo that you’ll be meeting her an hour early because she apparently “wants to get to know her new model”. Which…sounds about right for something so sudden.

So here you are the day after, sitting outside the art room a good ten minutes before the meet up time. You pride yourself in giving a good first impression, but the anxiety of waiting is slowly chewing away at you. Minutes feel like hours, and scrolling on your phone watching dumb TikTok shorts to pass the time didn’t help as much as you thought it would.

Now you’re treating this as a date when it wasn’t. It’s a quick, easy way to fund your next whatever that piques your interest, and you should treat it as such. You need to keep things formal. Professional. Totally not to possibly maybe check out the teacher if she was hot. 

You take a deep breath and count to ten, and you finish just as the door finally opens. You stand up to get introductions over and done wi—

Holy mother of tits what in the fuck are those?

Either Asa really undersold you or you lowered your expectations too much because holy shit she does not look like a professor. Especially wearing that.

A white top and a pair of overalls seemed simple enough. But when she has one strap hanging loose, her bra’s almost exposed through the fabric and it is struggling to contain her breasts—yeah, no. Simple is not the word to use here.

Pair that with the pretty face that came with the smile she’s giving you and you might be fucked.

Fucked. That’s the word.

“Hi,” she starts, walking up to you and extending a hand. “You must be the friend Asa was talking about.”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer and shake her hand, hoping that your hand wasn’t clammy. “That’s me.” You follow through it with your name.

Focus. Remember, this is a job, not a date. Keep it professional.

You keep the handshake firm, trying to get yourself back into a working mindset. That was until you caught a whiff of her perfume—some citrusy floral combo—and you cannot believe that you leaned in to get a better smell of her.

“I’m Magenta.” God, even her name sounds hot. “Sorry about the short notice,” she says, releasing your hand. “I know you’re not a model and all but our regular is sick and we needed a quick replacement.”

“It’s alright, had nothing to do today anyway,” you joke, and it comes out smoother than you expected it to be.

“Good samaritan then?” she chuckles. “And here I thought you agreed for the quick buck.”

Oh, Asa ratted out your ‘reason’. Lovely. 

You force yourself to grin. “Asa really knows how to sell a friend out.”

“She didn’t, but that’s most of what I get as models anyway,” she laughs, and you wanted to hear more of it. “This type of modelling isn’t gonna get you deals with Gucci or anything.”

“Not exactly looking to be a full time model,” you reply, the nape of your neck suddenly getting itchy for some odd reason. Wasn’t because you were nervous or anything. “Just here to help.”

“Keep saying that and I’ll think you’re doing this for free,” she smirks, eyeing you up and down before nodding off to the side. “Come on, let’s see what you got.”

And off you go, following her into the art room, trying your damnedest not to look at her ass. “Welcome to where the magic happens,” Magenta comments, stretching her arms out and giving a little twirl. You’d think her other shoulder strap would fall at this point but it is staying strong.

You tear your gaze away from her and to the room, the wall lined up with canvases that were either absolutely beautiful or a mish mash of whatever it is that was painted. Tables were at the very back with what you assume were materials that they used, and in the middle lies your stage.

A simple stool facing an army of easels that contained blank canvases. Now you’re getting scared of what you signed up for if this was the amount of people that would be making a piece out of you.

“Relax.” She says it like it was a regular old thing for her. And it probably was, considering she’s here practically 24/7. “We can start you off with something simple.”

She gestures you to take a seat at the stool, and it simply stares at you. Waiting for you to approach and take a seat. You shrug, mentally say ‘fuck it’, walk up and sit down.

“So,” you start, looking around at what is possibly going to be what you’ll be looking at for the entire afternoon before going back to Magenta, who’s looking back with a grin. “What do you want me to do?”

“Pretend like you’re sitting on a park bench,” she replies, crossing her arms underneath her chest. Do not look down. “Should be easy enough.”

“Uh…” You wanted to tell her that you normally lean back on benches and this was a stool you’re on and all but, you make do. “Alright.”

You lean forward, letting your elbows rest on your thighs and clasp your hands. Your eyes might have focused on your hands but you can feel her sizing you up, the weight of her stare and the hum that she lets out making you heartrate spike a tad.

“That works,” she comments, and you look up to see her nodding. “A bit too tense, but it’s a start.”

She walks closer, circling around your back. Her hands rest on your shoulders, and she gives a gentle press, telling you to drop them lower.

“There you go.” She praises you with pats in the shoulder before she leans in to whisper in your ear. “I told you. Relax.”

Easy for her to say when she’s talking as if she’s about to give you a massage. All low and sultry and sending a chill down your spine. Her hands even give a little rub before she pulls away. 

“Now try holding that as long as you can,” She comes back to face you, hands behind her back. A gesture that continues to test the flexibility of her top.

Your eyes strain to glance at her, attempting a quick look at her. Though the moment your focus lands on her assets you snap back down to the floor. You pretend that the floor is quite possibly the best piece of work you’ve ever seen in your life, though you were never the best at silence. So when your fingers start to twitch and your shoulders shift slightly, Magenta lets out an amused sigh.

“And now you’re fidgeting,” she chides, moving back to grab a different chair. One with a back this time. She places it down in front of you and tells you to stand up. “Try this one instead. It’ll make it easier for you.” 

You swap the stool for it, grateful to have something to lean on this time, seeing as the next few hours will probably be you sitting here for most of the afternoon.

“That any better?” she asks, tilting her head. 

“Yeah.” You nod in agreement. “Loads better. Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Now back to posing,” she teases, stepping closer to nudge your elbow. “How about pretending you're waiting for someone?”

Here begins the three step process of being a model; Magenta tells you to pose, you follow through with it, and she makes adjustments. She starts treating you like a mannequin, moving you around to meet her needs. A head tilt there, the angle of your arm here, and so far it seemed perfectly normal.

Until she started getting touchy. Well, she was touching you, but she’s getting a little too handsy.

You weren’t trying to make it a big deal out of it or anything. It just seemed odd for her to squeeze your arms every now and again whenever she adjusts your posture. Or to brush her thumb on your cheek when she moves your head. And all the compliments she’s giving you as you do nothing but let her position your limbs to her liking.

You delude yourself into the illusion that she’s doing her job. Making sure that you’re up to the task of being still for the main event. That every brush, every glance, every smile, is all a part of the process. 

It wasn’t until she pressed her chest against the back of your head where you realized that this might not be part of the job anymore.

An accident, you tell yourself. It was more of a brush than anything, so it was easy to chalk it up as happenstance. Continuing to feed the fantasy of professionalism even more with the downside of being aware of every little move she makes.

You can’t help yourself now. Everytime she moves it feels like she’s inching closer to you. So much so that you can feel her breath on you. The warmth she leaves after her hands leave your body, the looks she’s giving you less criticizing and more alluring. Fuck, even her perfume’s gotten into your head, making her seem all the more intoxicating. 

Her tits brushing your arms, your head, wherever she went to adjust your posture it’s always her breasts that were there to remind you of how well endowed she is. Whether you were staring right at them and slash or feeling them flatten against a part of your body, you are losing your damn mind.

And—what the fuck was she sniffing you? Wait, why is she so close now—

“You okay?” she asks, cupping your cheeks. “I told you to relax.”

Relax. Right. No matter how many times she says it, it’s impossible to loosen yourself up. Besides, it wasn’t like it’s a simple thing to tell your dick to calm down when she’s right here getting all touchy-feely with you. Getting turned on way before the real thing starts was a great way to kickstart your modelling career. 

Oh who the hell are you kidding, this became a third date the moment her hands started wandering and you’re over here thinking if she’d let you hit or not.

“Sorry, just,” you stammer for an excuse. Whatever works at this point because you’ve forgotten what the point of this even was. “Nerves, I guess.”

Magenta laughs, and oh boy are your nerves shot to hell. “It’s just us. Nothing to stress yourself out over.”

It is precisely the reason that it was only the two of you that was stressing you out. But you can't tell her tha—

“Or do you need help with this?” Magenta slides a hand down to cup your growing bulge, making you stiffen in all the good, the bad, the fucked ways imaginable.

“Magenta, what the hell–” you try to create some space between you and her, but all that pent up tension has you clumsy. Instead of pushing her away, you’ve pushed her only shoulder strap down. 

That’s one way of stopping her, you suppose.

Magenta smiles, takes it entirely in the opposite direction of what you were going for and grabs your hands to cup her tits. Even through the layers of clothing she has on they feel heavenly. “You like?”

You struggle to give a response, brain fried from the best pair you’ve ever held in your life along with the constant teasing that Magenta’s put you through under the guise of posing. And all you let out is a simple “Uh-huh.” to tell her that yes, you do like them, yes, you would also like to press your face against them. And yes, you no longer gave a fuck about modelling.

“They’re like little stress balls aren’t they,” she giggles, letting you have your chance to touch her. You wouldn’t call them little, but they certainly helped you relax. A little squeeze here, a quick feel there. God, you could do this all day.

“As much as I’d love you to, you still have a job to do.” She wasn’t a mind reader of course, you’re just too horny to control your mouth that it translates thoughts into words. 

“So what’s this, my payment?” you ask, forcing yourself to look back up at her grinning face.

“This is a break,” she answers, hands coming back to your crotch, fumbling around with your belt. “Your pay comes after in my apartment. Unless you want cash instead?”

Fuck the money, you’d rather fuck her instead.

“Sure you can’t cancel the class,” you say absentmindedly. You have to give credit to yourself, managing to not leave your focus on her gaze. Your confidence gets higher, groping her firmer, committing the feel of her breasts to memory.

“A bit too late for that.” Magenta’s worked her way through your belt, the button, the zipper. With the only thing left stopping her is your underwear. “Besides, consider this your test.”

“For what?” You’re a little disappointed when she pulls away to tug down at your pants. You raise your hips to help her, eager to find out what she has in mind. She’s as excited as you are when your cock is finally freed, hard and throbbing and pointed right at her. 

She’s setting a diabolical view. Licking her lips before she forms a smirk, her eyes focused on your shaft before looking she rests her hands on your thighs and turns her attention back towards you. “For modelling, of course.”

Magenta gives your thighs a gentle pinch before she straightens up, her hands sliding down to the hem of her top. She makes it a little show out of pulling it off her, drawing it out real slow. “You stay still while I,” Her top’s up and off her, already forgotten at her side, leaving her bra exposed and that top did not do her justice. She’s playing with them, pushing them together to deepen the valley of her cleavage, and the sight makes you twitch. “I get to fuck your cock with these.”

A hand moves to her back, unclasping her bra with ease. Her other hand holds it up, keeping it there, letting you simmer in anticipation. She lets a giggle out when she sees your state of unrest because you’re acting like this was your first time getting laid. Leg tapping up and down, fingers all handsy, hell you might even be drooling. 

To be fair, this is your first time getting a tit fuck with a pair that big with a face that pretty. Right before a job where you need to act like a statue too.

Talk about whiplash.

“Don’t move.” She’s asking for a lot here, telling you that. Every bit of willpower is committed not to cup those tasty mounds she has. And when she finally lets the last piece of fabric keeping them hidden fall, you really do start drooling. “And for the last time–”

She gets closer in between your legs, each small movement causing her tits jiggle and bounce and fucking hell you can’t look away. She shakes, gives them a little sway that hits your length and it makes you groan.

“Relax.”

You wanted to explore every inch of her chest, feel how large they are in your hands, wondering if you can palm it all or not. How her nipples would taste when you’d suck on them, bite on them. What she’d sound like moaning in your ear. Maybe she’d tell you to get rougher, pull you in closer. Or maybe she’d let you do whatever you wanted to her, let you enjoy everything she can offer.

It’s a damn shame you’re too mesmerized to do anything. Especially because she’s kneeling in front of you, her breasts so close to your cock. Until it wasn’t, her hands cupping them together before Magenta leans down to spit smack dab the middle.

It’s enough to get them wet. And it’s enough to get you twitching all over. Eyes, fingers, cock—then it all ends when she has you wrapped around her mounds, and you let a hiss out from finally getting the pleasure you’ve been long teased for.

“Holy fuck,” you gasp, your thighs flexing from the pressure. It’s everything you’ve ever imagined. Hot, wet, snug, pillowy, beautiful. She’s only just enveloped you and sensation is overwhelming. Magenta’s grinning face over the sight of your cock in between her tits all adds to it. “It’s so…”

“Amazing?” she finishes, looking back down to let saliva drip from her mouth. Falling onto the tip of your cock, she squeezes—a move that makes you groan and tilt your head back. She tuts and shakes her head. “Eyes on me now.”

You lock eyes with her, a pout replacing her happy expression. “I was gonna say mind blowing.” you answer, your hips giving a little thrust. “But that works too.”

“Then sit back and relax.” Her smile comes back in full force, a giggle escaping her lips. “And no moving. I see you getting a little handsy over there.”

Here begins the three step process of surviving (enjoying) Magenta’s tits; she starts to move, you hold down the urge to touch her or do anything that constitutes movement, and she steps it up a notch. 

At first, she kept it slow, making sure you felt every bit of her soft chest. It was pure torture, having Magenta take time with you. Unable to move over because she told you so. And it’s not like you can say no because you know for a fact that you’re wrapped around her finger, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

Like you would want to anyway. It’s almost a dream come true for you.

Her breasts have you enthralled, watching them slide up and down your shaft. She lets another batch of spit drool down from her mouth, and it makes the friction feel maddening. You can see her lips move, saying something that you drown out because she feels so suffocating and you’re willing yourself to sit fucking still and it’s making you stupid—

You’re not gonna last at this rate. And you don’t want that. No, you want to prolong this. Who the fuck knows when you’ll have a chance to have these perfect tits all over your cock. (You completely forgot about her payment, and you can’t really blame yourself. She’s too fucking much.)

Deep breaths bring you back to reality, to her embrace. She’s taken on a faster rhythm, the soft flesh enveloping all sides of your length, her gaze locked in the way your cock disappears between her tits, your tip peeking up at every bounce down. It’s such a turn on to see her so enthusiastic about it, jiggling them, squeezing them, using them on your cock like a fleshlight.

“You’re so hot,” she pants, her eyes taking a peek upwards, letting her see how much you’re trying to hold it in. “So hard and big. I could fuck this all day.” She gives you a tight squeeze, swallowing your entire length whole. “And you’re being so good, keeping still for me.”

All those compliments are making your ego swell. And your dick throb while she’s fucking you so good with her breasts. Telling her helps take the edge off, even just a little bit. Helps take your mind off the fact that you’re so close to bursting.

Go off about how fucking soft her tits feel, almost choking your cock with them. The constant stream of spit she’s letting fall down the valley of her cleavage, letting her work you faster. Her little sounds of excitement—the giggles, the moans, the chuckles—all fucks you up that you don’t even have the words to express them anymore, leaving you a moaning mess.

Letting her know about it is the complete opposite of what you wanted, because she starts going harder. Faster, filthier, messier. “Yeah?” She’s grinning right at you, her pace getting erratic. “Bet you wanna fuck ‘em. Hold them and just go to town on my big fucking tits.”

You don’t care about the modelling bullshit or the stupid test she’s given you anymore. All you're focused on is how good she feels, and the idea she’s planted inside your head was the last straw.

Your hands cup over hers, and your hips start to rock against her own movements. Her smug laugh riles you up even further, knowing that you couldn’t hold in it. She follows your tempo, sliding down when you come up, and all you can hear is the slap of your hips against her breasts, cuss words thrown around the air, her moans, your moans.

It’s impossible to stop now that you’ve started. And yet this isn’t enough for her. Not anymore, now that you’ve taken control. Whenever your tip shows up, she gives it a little kiss. Or a lick of her tongue, or both. And you chase after it, wanting more of it, going faster just to get more of her warm, wet mouth. The insistent ache in your balls is telling you that—

“I’m so close,” you pant, throwing your head back. Your body has a mind of its own, bucking up to the chokehold that is her chest. “Fuck, Magenta–”

“Cum.” It’s a simple word. Hearing her say it, even once, is the beginning of your undoing. Magenta doesn’t stop there, oh no, she goes all in. Full on demands it. Begs for it. “I want it. All over me, all over these tits. Paint me in your cum–”

Her words are drowned out when you let one last moan come out of you as your cock throbs and lets out spurts of your load. The first sticks to her cleavage, and she gasps as the first drop of your seed hits her skin.

“Fuck yes,” she moans, milking you of your cum. She squeezes you tighter, letting you pump your hips as you glaze her. Her chest gets drenched, streaks of white hitting her collarbone, a strand hitting her chin. And she watches you, eyes wide and lips grinning, happy to let you cover her.

And when your climax starts to fade, you’re left slumped over the chair, panting ragged breaths. She lets you go from her embrace, her hand taking over to give you these slow, lazy pumps that make your entire lower half twitch. 

She lets out this sinful giggle before taking your cock into her lips to clean you up. Getting a small taste of you, her tongue swirling around your tip to have her fill of any last drops of your release. 

“Yummy,” she comments, planting a kiss right at your tip before she lets you go, treating you to the beautifully perverse view of her fingers scooping up your cum and licking it off them. “Y’know, it’s a shame you failed the test.”

“What?” You can’t believe this. Here you have Magenta in front of you, cleaning herself off of your load, rosy cheeks and all, and she’s talking about the test for the job? She might not have her priorities straight if she’s being serious about—

“But I think we can cancel last minute,” she continues after she pops her thumb off her lips. “My model might need more practice staying still.”

You take it back. Her priorities are absolutely fine, and you are completely on board with all of it.

“And when do we meet back for practice,” you chuckle. Your hands get a little grabby, reaching forward to squeeze her heavy mounds. “Tomorrow?”

“How does Saturday sound?” Magenta smiles, leaning in to let you play with them. Her hand returns to stroke your sensitive cock, and another comes to cup your balls. “Same time, same place? Maybe have lunch before we start practicing?”

“We could meet for breakfast and I’d still say yes.“ You are so down fucking bad.

“So eager,” she teases, a pretty smile on her face as she stands up and heads to one of the nearby tables. She leans back, smirking as she tilts her head and juts her chest forward.