Drawing

Uzachi led me into a room with tables arranged around a platform. A professor gestured for me to approach.

• Ah, there you are, my dear. Please undress, my dear. You will pose for my students, who will sketch you in charcoal for their preliminary drawings. Stay, Uzachi; you will be useful to us.

He bowed. They watched me undress on the platform as about ten students began to enter, some snickering in surprise.

The students' eyes devoured me as my trembling fingers undid the last buttons of my blouse. The fabric slid down my bruised arms, exposing my heaving breasts to their eager gazes. A murmur rippled through the room as my skirt collapsed around my ankles, revealing the principal's dried stains on my thighs.

"Classic position, please," the professor ordered, tapping his stick against the platform.

I positioned myself as instructed, feet slightly apart, arms relaxed at my sides, feeling the cool air of the room caress every inch of my bare skin. The first strokes of the charcoal scratched the paper, their eyes tracing my curves with an intensity that made me shudder.

Uzachi stood near the professor, his fingers casually playing with a silk cord he was wrapping around his knuckles.

• Very well, Uzachi, we are now moving on to a more advanced situation. Go and take this young woman who has already begun, it seems, to offer her body to others. Dear students, seize the moment that allows you the miracle of artistic creation.

Uzachi bowed to the professor, removed his clothes, and climbed onto the platform. The professor brought an easel for me to lean on while Uzachi slowly kissed my body, allowing the students to take photos with their phones. The professor himself set up his easel, took a blank canvas, and began to draw.

Uzachi approached, his lips first brushing the nape of my neck in a moist caress that made me shiver involuntarily. His hands slid along my sides, pausing on my hips to press a possessive pressure against them. I felt his warm breath against my shoulder as he nibbled at the soft skin, eliciting a muffled moan that echoed in the focused silence of the studio.

His fingers dug into my flesh as he pressed me against the easel, the cold wood biting into my hips. The charcoal scraped faster now, capturing every twitch of my tense muscles beneath Uzachi's lips. A student moved too close, his phone shaking as he zoomed in on the beads of sweat sliding between my breasts.

The charcoal scraped frantically across the paper as Uzachi pressed his lips to my stomach, his tongue tracing a wet path down to my navel. A student dared to reach out and brush against my ankle—the professor immediately slammed his cane against the floor, making the class jump.

"Maintain your distance, gentlemen," he growled, expertly tracing the curve of my back beneath Uzachi's fingers.

Uzachi suddenly bit the curve of my hip, his teeth eliciting a cry that startled the nearest student. His hand traced its way up my spine with calculated pressure, forcing my chest to arch against the easel, its chiseled edges digging into my ribs.

Uzachi's fingers dug into the flesh of my thighs, spreading me apart with a calculated brutality that tore a sob from my constricted throat.

The professor's charcoal squeaked faster, capturing the trembling curve of my back as Uzachi's burning tongue traced a wet path along my right buttock. Then, slowly, he positioned his penis in front of my vagina, remaining there for a long moment, taunting me.

He knew this waiting position frustrated me, but it allowed the students to sketch the moment before penetration. The room was breathless, as the charcoal drawings continued to move with feverish intensity. Uzachi maintained this unbearable tension, his penis barely brushing against my entrance in an almost imperceptible movement that made my thighs tremble. The students held their breath, their charcoal sticks hovering above the paper like predators awaiting the fatal moment.

A bead of sweat trickled down my back, stopping in the small of my back where the professor's fingers suddenly landed to adjust the angle of my hip with surgical precision.

Uzachi exhaled a hot breath against the nape of my neck as his penis barely quivered against my entrance, each micromovement amplified by the absolute attention of the class. The students' pupils dilated, their charcoal sticks trembling with impatience above the paper like loaded weapons.

Suddenly, he thrust his hip in with a sharp, swift motion—but stopped short after barely an inch, the pressure just enough to draw a hoarse moan from my throat.

The cry I'd been holding back finally burst forth, hoarse and broken, as Uzachi's tip barely parted my taut flesh. His fingers closed around my hips with calculated brutality, preventing me from escaping this suspended penetration that left me gasping. The charcoal scraped in response, capturing the aching arch of my back, each muscle bulging beneath the damp skin.

The professor gave Uzachi an instruction:

"I want to capture her orgasm. It's a rare moment in painting," he said, pointing to a student. "Take some photos. This will serve as the subject for our next classes." Uzachi obeyed with calculated slowness, his breath quickening against the nape of my neck as his fingers traced insidious pressure up my sides. The click of the camera sounded like a gunshot, freezing my body in a pose of delicate terror.

His hips sank down another millimeter, just enough for me to feel every vein of his sex burn against my taut walls. Slowly, he began to accelerate, with a sway of his hips; he knew how to wrest my pleasure from me.

His hips now pounded out an implacable rhythm, each thrust calculated to wrench spasms from my body that it could no longer control. The smacking of our wet flesh echoed between the studio walls, punctuated by the feverish scratching of charcoal and the panting of the students.

Uzachi suddenly changed the angle of his penetration, aiming with cruel precision at the point where every inch of him made me see flashes of white behind my closed eyelids.

I gasped harder and harder; pleasure rose like a slow but inexorable wave.

• Yes, yes, continue, she'll come, students. Remember those seconds before female orgasm, the professor said, basking in the satisfaction of capturing this moment.

Uzachi's thrusts became an unrelenting tide, each one plunging deeper into the throbbing heat of my body. His fingers dug into the hollows of my hips, forcing me to accept each brutal blow while the students' charcoal pencils scribbled frantically on their papers, capturing the way my spine arched, desperate, broken. The professor's voice drifted through the air, urging them to notice the flush rising to my chest, the way my thighs trembled with pleasure, taut as a spring.

A moan escaped me as Uzachi's penis brushed against that sensitive, swollen spot inside me. The sensation was so intense it blurred my vision; I lost control, forgetting the stares fixed upon me, the photographs being taken. My body tensed like never before before being shaken by the first spasm of pleasure, and suddenly the dam broke. Orgasm shook me from head to toe, and I screamed with pleasure.

My cry broke into sobs as my stomach still throbbed with the last waves of ecstasy. Uzachi gave me no respite—his fingers dug more cruelly into my hips, holding my trembling body against his as he intensified each thrust. Icy sweat trickled down my spine, mingling with the tears that burned my cheeks.

• Observe the contraction of the abdominal muscles; it's precisely this post-orgasmic release we're trying to immortalize, this suffocating face, this is the little agony.

Uzachi didn't slow down; on the contrary, his thrusts became more staccato, more possessive, as if he were trying to extract from me every last tremor of pleasure transformed into pain.

I felt his nails dig into my flesh as he suddenly thrust my torso forward, exposing my dripping neck to the flashes of the cameras.

He came inside me, which added a small dose of pleasure that prolonged my orgasm; the indecency of the situation amplified it.

Uzachi's seed pulsed inside me, burning hot, each pulse sending a fresh shiver through me as my overstimulated nerves twitched around him.

His grip on my hips became ferocious as he thrust deeper, making sure not a drop escaped, the wet sound of our joined flesh echoing obscenely. I could already feel the next orgasm rising, a cruel wave wrenched from my body, exhausted by the relentless friction.

• Magnificent! The second orgasm—watch how her toes curl !

Uzachi released me, withdrew from my vagina, and I fell to the floor like a broken doll.

The professor was overjoyed to capture these moments that would culminate in a unique work of art. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his sketchbook, his pupils dilated with the frenzy of observing every detail of my collapse. I lay on the floor, my knees scraped from the fall, Uzachi's warmth still dripping between my thighs.

The bell rang again, clearly to the professor's dismay.

• Alright, put your things away and don't lose the materials. We have plenty to work with. We'll test other themes with this model during the week.Uzachi helped me up while I was still groggy.

I tried to get dressed, and Uzachi told me we'd have our sexuality lesson again after lunch, while I could feel his semen mingling with the principal's drying semen on my thigh. Seeing this, he mocked me.

• You're overdoing it, and it's only halfway through the day.