Drawing Lessons

Mrs. Crow’s evening figure drawing class at the local women’s education centre was more than just a hobby—it was a release valve. A quiet rebellion against predictable lives. Some of the women came to actually improve their technique—others came to feel something, anything, that didn’t involve folding laundry or pretending not to notice their husbands texting someone else. For some ogling naked, sculpted men under the noble banner of art felt far less pathetic than slipping bills into a thong under strobe lights.

The group had formed quickly. Heather, a recently divorced mother of two, always wore oversized sweaters to hide the body she was still trying to accept. Her best friend Myra, a curvy Black woman with sharp eyeliner and a sharper tongue, had her own son and no patience left for men—especially her ex. They sat side by side, united by disappointment in marriage and a quiet hunger for something hotter than that.

Sally, the tattooed hairdresser with candy-colored hair and a dozen piercings, was bubbly, flirty, and actually serious about learning to draw—especially manga. She often sketched on the bus ride home. Dr. Nancy Callahan, cardiologist and CEO’s wife, maintained an air of boredom - but never skipped a class.

Chris, who pumped gas by day and smoked pot by night, mostly kept to herself, always arriving a bit late, always looking vaguely stoned. Her sketches always having something sad about them. Helen, a middle-aged bank teller with a warm laugh and soft belly, adored her husband but still nursed a quiet hunger for something that she couldn't put her finger on.

And then there was Freya, a reserved twenty-something with a sketchpad full of moody eyes and faceless bodies. She said almost nothing, but her charcoal work was raw, like something wild caged just beneath her calm.

The week before, the class had drawn a bodybuilder—bronzed, massive, and utterly professional. He struck his poses like a living statue, muscles taut, cock hanging like it had its own stage presence. The room had buzzed with hushed laughter and flushed cheeks. Even Mrs. Crow had looked briefly impressed.

Tonight, the air shifted. The new model was a lanky teenager, nineteen, with long limbs, slouched shoulders, and a face that looked permanently embarrassed to be there. He stepped onto the platform like he wanted to disappear into it.

Heather and Myra exchanged a glance. They had sons that age! Myra gave a soft snort and folded her arms; Heather looked genuinely offended. Across the room, Dr. Nancy Callahan arched a single brow—somewhere between clinical curiosity and low-key disappointment that today’s anatomy study wouldn’t come with abs.

Chris, meanwhile, sat up a little straighter, squinting at the boy like she saw something no one else did. His posture, the way he held his jaw, that flicker of discomfort—she thought it looked familiar. ****. Sad. Not that anyone else seemed to notice.

But Mrs. Crow had chosen him for a reason. “No more Greek gods,” she’d told them the week before. “Real bodies make better drawings.” And this one, who went by the name of Jason, with his bony hips, slouched spine, and nowhere to hide—was about as real as it got.

The classroom was silent, save for the soft scratching of charcoal, as twenty adult women sat in a loose circle, sketching Jason—naked, lanky, and slouched awkwardly on a stool far too small for his long limbs. Heather frowned at her page, unsettled by how much Jason’s body reminded her of her son’s—gangly, pale, and not something she wanted to see naked. Helen, by contrast, was calm and amused, adding a little extra muscle here and there, just to make the drawing more interesting. And Chris stared a little too long at the curve of his spine, convinced she saw something fragile in him that no one else did.

Sally was shading the inner thighs when she paused, her brow furrowing. Something didn’t line up. On her paper, Jason’s dick floated awkwardly in midair—nowhere near the stool. She squinted, looked up. It was definitely touching the edge, hanging low and soft. She erased and redrew the line, nudging it longer. When she glanced up again, it was higher. Not dramatically—but enough. Her pencil froze. Was he getting hard? Her eyes flicked to his face. Still blank. Still bored. But between his legs, the shift was undeniable—slow, heavy, rising. Sally felt a flush creep up her neck, heat pooling low in her belly. She crossed her legs and pretended to adjust her sketchbook.

“Um… sorry.”

Jason’s voice broke the silence, flat and casual. Everyone looked up. He had stepped out of his pose, now standing fully upright—relaxed, unbothered, and unmistakably erect. His cock was so thick and long, it hung downward despite its erection, swaying gently with each idle shift of his weight.

A ripple moved through the room.

Heather stared, stunned. This was not the same species, that was lounging on her couch playing video games. Helen, seated beside her, flushed bright pink. She smiled nervously, instinctively crossing her ankles. The arousal caught her off guard, and she had no idea what to do with it.

Jason stood quietly, arms at his sides, gaze distant. Not embarrassed. Just faintly irritated, as if his body had betrayed him mid-shift and now he had to fix it before they could all move on.

Sorry, Mrs. Crow,” Jason said.

Mrs. Crow looked up from her book, her eyes making a split-second stop at Jason’s massive erection before settling on his face with eerie familiarity.

Myra and Heather looked at each other: _Oh hell no. She’s fucked him. _They didn't say it out loud but they knew it was true.

Jason sighed, visibly annoyed, and gestured downward. “Mind if I take a quick break? Just need to take care of this. Won’t be long.”

Mrs. Crow gave a composed, almost fond nod. “Of course.”

Then she turned to the class. “Does anyone have a tissue for our model?”

Heather’s hand moved before her brain caught up. “I do,” she said, her voice too quick, too eager. She dug into her bag, grabbed the small pack, and stood to hand it to him—careful not to look directly at his cock, though her eyes flicked. Once, twice... okay three times.

As she passed him the tissues, something fluttered in her chest. What the hell am I doing? But there was also that other voice, quiet and hungry: Maybe he’ll remember that.

Jason took the tissue pack with a polite nod, and without a word, he pulled up the nearest chair and sat right in front of Heather, in plain sight of everyone around him. But to Heather, it felt like being chosen.

She kept her eyes down, pretending to adjust her charcoal, pretending not to notice that the same fat cock she had just handed tissues for was now only a few feet away—thick, swollen, bobbing slightly with each breath.

Jason spread his knees. The motion was casual, unthinking—but the result wasn’t. His balls hung low between his thighs, heavy and fully exposed in the light, right in Heather’s line of sight. Her breath caught. Her pencil slipped. She didn’t dare move.

Jason leaned back slightly and began stroking—one hand steady at the base, the other working the top in calm, measured rhythm. No theatrics. Just quiet focus, like he was finishing something he didn’t want to leave undone.

Then he glanced up—toward Helen—and offered a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry about this,” he said. “I know you paid for an art class, not... this. I’ll be quick.” Helen managed a tiny smile and folded her hands tighter in her lap, cheeks flaming. She gave a tiny nod, her face flushed. "Take your time."

Sally, grinning to herself, finally whispered, “This is fucking awesome,” and fumbled for her phone—then paused, turning toward Mrs. Crow like a kid asking to pet someone’s dog.

“Mrs. Crow? Is it okay if I film this?”

Mrs. Crow didn’t look up. “I don’t see why not. J?”

Jason gave a brief nod, eyes still on the middle distance. “Yeah, I don’t mind.”

Sally smiled wide and angled her phone towards him.

Heather stiffened. “Just… please don’t get me in it.”

Sally nodded absently, already too focused on framing.

Then Myra pulled out her phone.

Heather’s head whipped around. “Seriously?”

Myra smirked. “What? Everyone else is doing it.”

“You could at least not record me in the middle of a guy jerking off.”

“I’m not even aiming at you,” Myra deadpanned. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Don’t be a bitch.”

“Don’t be so jealous.”

Mrs. Crow didn’t even blink. “Ladies, please. Quiet voices, or take it outside.”

Heather and Myra shot each other matching glares, but both settled back into their seats—Myra filming anyway, Heather rolling her eyes.

Dr. Callahan sat stone-still, but her hand had crept up to her collarbone and was now resting across her chest—fingers lightly stroking the fabric of her blouse. Her breathing was shallow.

Chris kept drawing. Or trying to. Her pencil moved, but her eyes didn’t leave Jason’s hand.

“Hey—sorry, just curious,” Sally said as she approached, aiming her phone at Jason’s cock, “—has this ever happened to you in class before?”

Jason hesitated, his stroking slowing slightly. “Actually, no…”

Sally grinned. “So usually you’re a total pro?”

There was a soft laugh from somewhere behind an easel.

Jason gave a small smile. “This is actually my first time modeling nude.”

“Oh really?” Sally’s eyebrows lifted. “You seem so confident for a newbie. How’d you end up doing this?”

Mrs. Crow finally glanced up, her voice firm. “Miss Holloway, stop flirting with the model.”

“I’m not flirting,” Sally said sweetly, eyes wide. “I’m engaging. Artistically.”

“She’s documenting,” Myra muttered, still filming. “Maybe she’s an investigative journalist.”

“Investigating what exactly?” Mrs. Crow asked, one eyebrow raised.

Probably how you and this hung stallion half your age ended up in bed, Myra thought—but only said, “I don’t know. Ask Sally.”

Mrs. Crow gave a dismissive wave and turned back to her book. “Jason, don’t take too long. People have paid for drawing lessons.”

Sally hadn’t put her phone down. She tilted her head and leaned a little closer—just enough to make Jason glance sideways.

“So if this is your first time,” she said casually, “how’d you get the gig? Did someone refer you?”

Jason shrugged, his focus still between his legs. “Kind of.”

“Uh-huh,” Sally said, nodding like a detective who just caught a lie. “Let me guess. Mrs. Crow spotted you somewhere and thought, ‘Now that’s art.’”

Mrs. Crow didn’t look up. “Miss Holloway—”

“No, seriously,” Sally said, all wide-eyed innocence, “you two seem super comfortable. Like… we’ve-shared-a-hot-tub comfortable.”

There was a sharp exhale of breath that might’ve been a stifled laugh.

Myra smirked behind her camera. Heather didn’t move, but her jaw tightened.

Mrs. Crow finally looked up—calm, unbothered. “Jason came highly recommended.”

Sally raised both eyebrows. “By who, exactly?"