Chapter Two

“The orientation is complete, and the students are paired off as instructed, sir.” Miss Laurier reported once they returned to the stage.

Cole’s mind was reeling like a giraffe with whiplash after his conversation with Viktor Von Gloot. The eccentric stork had turned from a good-natured patron of the arts to an elderly pervert in the space of a heartbeat, drooling over Lisa’s plus-sized caboose like a horny teenager.

Towards the end, watching him leer and lick his lips had been downright uncomfortable. But with a scholarship on offer…

“Good, good,” The Dean said, rubbing his palms in a businesslike manner. “Now that Cole has officially accepted my invitation let us meet the rest of the class.”

As if on cue, the audience lighting hummed to life, revealing the empty rows and the small group of young women gathered at the front. Cole's breath caught at the sight of them; six stunningly beautiful, full-figured knockouts blinking in the brightness and muttering complaints.

“We’ll start with you.” Von Gloot jabbed a finger at the mouthy brunette in the slinky black dress. “Please state your name and field of interest.”

To her credit, she didn’t balk at the sudden demand. Standing to stick a haughty nose in the air and plant hands on her lush hips, she spoke with supreme confidence.

“I’m Tahlia Barlas. Remember the name because I’m going to be the face of this millennia’s revolutionary art movement.” Tahlia gave her chestnut ponytail a self-satisfied flick. “Digital art is where it’s at now. Pixels have replaced your antiquated color palettes. My 3D printers sculpt plastic better than clay. The next fresco on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel will be a hologram, mark my words.”

Cole’s temper flared at the sheer arrogance of the buxom bitch, but the Dean simply chortled and moved his pointed digit to the next in line; an inky-haired girl with wide almond eyes set into an innocent face and the proportions of a headlining Vegas stripper.

She jumped to her feet, adjusting the pleated, plaid skirt that barely reached the tops of her thick thighs, then smoothed out imaginary wrinkles from her overstuffed white blouse.

“H-Hi, I’m Vivian. Umm… call me Vivi.” She stammered, timidly toying with a lengthy pigtail, casting anxious glances at Tahlia beside her. “I-I love post-impressionism. Paul Cézanne was my artistic crush growing up, so that’s what I paint.”

Tahlia snorted in derision but Cole shot Vivi a wink and a small nod of support. Paul Cézanne’s influences on cubism and the avante-garde styles of the twentieth century had affected him too. She smiled, then glanced shyly away.

“My turn!” Cried a short-statured blonde spilling out of a tiny pink crop top and gray spray-on booty shorts. She hopped exuberantly in place, raising her hand like a kid in class. She was small in height but large in jiggly parts. “The name’s Rachael, and sculpture is where I shine.” She cast Tahlia a dirty look. “Antonio Canova is the shizz. Cupid and Psyche? OMG, someone fetch a firehose because I’m feeling the heat!”

Down the line they went, sounding off names and disciplines one at a time.

There was a porcelain-skinned goth called Ebony dressed in a dark frilly dress with a corset bustier and lace choker. She looked like a particularly voluptuous doll except for the incongruous welding goggles sticking out of her nest of midnight locks and huge welder’s gloves. By all accounts, she breathed acetylene and created street art from scrap metal.

An effervescent redhead named Bella was a dancer, all but bursting from her tiger print leotard with irrepressible energy and more T&A than a Nicki Minaj music video. She specialized in interpretive dance but purported a passion for the full range of expression through physical motion.

Lastly was a dusky-skinned femme with an exaggerated hourglass shape draped in a forest-green gown, carrying an oddly shaped instrument case. Her neckline plunged dangerously low, and the slits in the skirts reached high on her wide hips to reveal shapely, toned legs. She introduced herself as Farah, a gifted musician of Middle Eastern ancestry.

“Wonderful, wonderful!” Viktor clapped excitedly, awkwardly stopping when nobody joined the applause. “Ahem. The lovely Miss Laurier should have coupled you all by interest. Our visual artists together, then the three-dimensional exhibit creators, and finally, our musical prodigies. This pairing encourages innovation through collaboration–”

“Hang on, what’s his deal?” Rachael raised her hand again, vibrating with curiosity. “Mister Tall-Dark-And-Mysterious beside you. Don’t we at least get a name?”

That only seemed fair, so Cole provided his name in a clear, confident voice and was about to list his major fields of study when the Dean gleefully spoke over him.

“Nudes! Glorious, arousing nudes!” The dirty old man enthused. “Our young prodigy here will be the next Farelo. Hopefully, without the pregnancy scandal, eh?”

He gave Cole a lewd wink that made him want to sink through floorboards.

The group received the mortifying announcement with mixed responses. Predictably, Tahlia looked disgusted, while Vivi, Rachael, and–most surprisingly–Bella peered at him speculatively. Ebony and Farah appeared unaffected by the news, their expressions neutral, for which Cole was thankful.

“Um… portraiture, actually,” He blurted, trying to distance himself from the Dean. “Classical realism in oil and acrylic with impressionist influences.”

Even Miss Laurier standing off to the side, gave a soft hum of approval. Vivi’s bright almond eyes grew even wider, and she glanced at her snobby study partner in dismay.

“Such modesty. So much humility from one so gifted!” The elderly degenerate caught Cole’s elbow before he could sidle away. “But you still need to be paired with somebody who can foster those talents, and these lovely ladies are already spoken for.” Vivi looked like she wanted to say something. “I would offer myself, but alas, administration duties devour my time. Miss Laurier?”

“Yes, sir?” The bespectacled brunette stepped smartly forward.

“I charge you with taking good care of my boy. Guide him. Be his mentor, confidant, and muse. See that he wants for nothing while enrolled at Von Gloot’s Academy of Fine Arts.” He bounced his bushy brows suggestively. “Even the mighty oak begins as a teensy tiny acorn. As our school motto states: Serit arbores, quae alteri saeclo prosint.”

Cole sat on a stone bench, shaded by the leafy boughs of elm, and lit a Virginia Slim. With a sigh, he blew out a cloud of blue-gray smoke and gazed blankly into the middle distance.

What had he got himself into?

“Working for that man is a penance.” Miss Laurier intoned, settling in beside him and stealing his cigarette for a quick drag. “People talk about eccentric geniuses and their foibles, but Viktor is a straight-up creep.”

They were seated in the commons, not far from the dick fountain Cole had passed earlier. It tinkled merrily in the sunshine, ejaculating a constant spray of sparkling water onto the rocks below.

“So why do you stay?” He asked, taking a full measure of the older woman. “Surely you can quit.”

Her knee-length skirt, blouse, and wool knit cardigan were all loose-fitting and in muted earth tones. She only lacked a shawl or calico headscarf to complete the middle-aged hippy vibe. Despite that, she had a glimmer of rebellion in her tourmaline eyes and youthful features, making Cole suspect she was hiding a significant amount of sex appeal behind the drab garb and plastic-rimmed glasses.

The mysterious Miss Laurier was barely in her thirties by his best estimation and more than merely pretty.

“Because the money is good, and the prestige is even better,” she replied, handing back the smoke. “No matter how badly Victor behaves, he’s still highly respected, and it’s hard to catch a break in this business—now more than ever. C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

They meandered through the commons together, enjoying the warm day in amicable silence, trading the cigarette back and forth until a question niggled at Cole’s mind.

“What did the Dean quote at the end, Miss Laurier?” He asked, quirking an intrigued brow. “Something in Latin about trees? I caught the phrase Serit arbores.”

“For fucks sake, call me Krystal, and yeah, the school motto is another of his petty conceits.” She snorted. “It’s from the Roman poet Caecilius Statius and roughly translates to ‘He plants trees for the benefit of future generations.’”

“Shit, I see what you mean. What a windbag.”

That drew a laugh from his companion, and she shifted nearer until they were walking hip to hip. “That’s not the half of it. Look around, Cole, and tell me what you see.”

Indulging the lady, Cole took in his surroundings. The campus was modern, built in the Bauhaus design favored by colleges not steeped in ivy. Large sections were given over to green spaces and well-kept gardens in a harmonious feng-shei arrangement.

And everywhere his searching gaze landed, there were girls.

Beautiful girls, lazing in the sunshine, strolling between classes, and chatting in happy gaggles. Bodacious hotties–every one of them–with large chests, trim waistlines, wiggling hips, and delicious derrieres of every race and creed squeezed into breezy coed attire to bask in the springtime warmth.

Cole had to actively hunt before finding a male student hidden amongst their number, a scrawny beanpole in a tie-dye t-shirt flipping through a sketchbook.

“Huh, is this a women’s college?” He asked in disbelief. “The Dean didn’t give me any details.”

“You’d be forgiven for thinking that. Almost ninety percent of our student body is female. The other ten percent are token male enrollees. Talented artists, honestly, but simply present to keep the education board off Viktor’s wrinkly butt.” Krystal scoffed, checking her phone. “Speak of the devil; he’s sent through the particulars of your scholarship. Seems like you’ll be getting the royal treatment. Your studio is on the east side of campus. This way.”

She steered them past a three-story administration building marked with a bronze statue of Aphrodite and Ares memorialized in an eternal act of PDA.

“Wait… I get a studio? I haven’t signed anything yet.”

“Our illustrious leader is many things–like a horny old goat, for instance–but he’s not cheap. I have to give him that.” Krystal said begrudgingly. “You’ll get the paperwork after he’s thoroughly wined and dined you, metaphorically speaking. Never accept a dinner invitation from the man. He’s got awful tastes when it comes to Austrian vintages.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Cole laughed, coaxing a smile from the older woman. “I’m not into wine anyway. One glass of a decent scotch, and I’m content.”

“Lagavulin single malt?” She guessed, an interested twinkle in her eye.

“In my dreams.” He jabbed a thumb at his chest with a grin. “Impoverished artist, remember? Had to steal nips of my dad’s twelve-year-old Chivas Regal.”

“You poor thing. I may have a bottle of the Lagavulin Offerman edition oak cask single malt stashed away for a special occasion.”

“Do not tease me, temptress.” Cole admonished with a hint of melodramatic flare. “I shall not succumb to your wicked wiles so easily.”

“Ha! We’ll see.”

A big thank you to the anonymous supporter who commissioned this fun tale. You know who you are. Advanced chapters can be found on my BuyMeACoffee page. Cheers for reading!

Character art of Cole.