Olive's Oiled

There were far too many volunteers for them all to apply oil to Olive’s body, so Miss Howells selected just three artists from those who raised their hands: Mary, who had found the oil in her bag, Clara, who was, to be honest, the teacher’s favourite student, and Peter whose idea it had been.

The tutor asked Olive to step down from the podium and raise her arms as the three artists dribbled body oil into their cupped hands. Olive was both pleased and anxious to learn that Peter with the sexy voice was indeed the attractive man she had noticed when she walked in, and the idea of him smearing her naked body in oil was in equal parts embarrassing and horny.

The difference in approach between the three artists was striking: Peter was respectful and gentle, massaging the oil into Olive’s shoulders and back with firm but delicate strokes. She thrilled at his touch, aware of a dribble of oil tracing a path down her spine and tickling as it disappeared between the cleft of her buttocks. She held her breath, waiting and hoping for him to notice it, to touch her there and move his fingers lower.

She half wished that Peter was in Mary’s place: Mary was not gentle, pawing at Olive as her slippery hands rubbed over her breasts and over her abdomen. Her touch was both ticklish and too rough, but Olive knew that if it were Peter caressing her boobs, running his hands down her stomach toward her pelvis, he would be smiling, looking her in the eyes, and she would be close to melting into his strong arms.

Clara appeared almost as embarrassed as Olive: despite volunteering for this task she now seemed nervous, not wanting to touch the model in the wrong way. She dabbed at her hips and legs gingerly, not stroking but softly patting Olive’s skin leaving little glistening handprints of oil behind.

The teacher and the other models watched in silence, making the exercise even more awkward.

Peter did eventually begin to massage Olive’s ass, and she thought his hands felt wonderful on her skin. In spite of herself she leaned forward the tiniest amount, spreading her legs a little, inviting his fingers to explore deeper, more intimately. But he was too much of a gentleman, and all too soon he stepped away from her.

‘Well,’ announced the teacher, ‘doesn’t our model look beautiful?’ She moved closer to inspect the student’s work. ‘Did they miss anywhere?’

Phoebe knew exactly where they had missed: she had been watching and waiting. She raised her hand. ‘Miss, yes. Her breasts are well oiled, but Clara only did the areas around the nipples. She missed the sides and underneath. And nobody oiled between her legs or her vagina.’

Miss Howells leaned closer to check. ‘You are quite right, Phoebe.’ Olive turned directly to Peter – if any of these three were going to touch her there, she wanted it to be him. However as he stood there rubbing his hands together Clara stood right in front of the model, hands dripping with a new coating of oil. ‘Sorry, Miss,’ she said, and gripped Olive’s right breast, lifting it and slathering oil on the areas she missed. Then she pinched Olive’s left nipple to do the same. She wasn’t gentle at all, and Olive, looking directly into Peter’s piercing blue eyes over Clara’s shoulder, let a high pitched squeak escape from her throat.

Clara knelt down, pushing Olive’s legs apart, and rubbed oil up the inside of her thighs. Her fingers roughly slipped between her folds, hard against the entrance to her pussy and clit. Again, as she looked intently at Peter she let out an involuntary noise; a low groan. When Clara reached further back, her fingers prodding between Olive’s ass cheeks and finding her anus, the model moaned more distinctly, at a slightly higher, more urgent pitch.

‘Please be gentle, Clara,’ the teacher admonished.

Phoebe had another, brilliant idea and raised her hand.

‘Miss Howells,’ she said, ‘I’ve had an idea for a new artwork. You know those little noises the model just made? They sounded a bit like musical notes. How would it be if we all created an art installation using Olive here as the centrepiece?’

Everybody looked at her, interested but unsure of where she was going with this.

‘If she makes a different note each time she is touched on a different part of her body, I was thinking that maybe we could turn Olive into a living musical instrument. We could create a beautiful living artwork, and she would be the star of the show. We could create an exhibit where the audience can find ways to create new notes by touching her in different ways. With practice, we could probably even play a tune. What do you think?’

Miss Howells considered this, looking from the model to the students. She imagined travelling around the world to different famous art galleries discussing the prize winning interactive musical art installation. It would be both a celebration of the female form and a powerful polemic on the way women’s bodies have been used and objectified through the ages, twisting that statement by inviting the audience to use Olive’s body to create something beautiful. She had to wipe away the start of a tear at the thought of how famous and celebrated and rich she was going to become.

‘Phoebe, I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ she said.