========
Message-ID: <172321Z16051996@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: an109288@anon.penet.fi (Kid Dynamite)
X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.stories
Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 17:18:48 UTC
Subject: (*) SS - 2

ss_2.txt

carry around a ruler to check their length.

As if that wasn't bad enough, the old rule about black socks had been
abolished.  Now, the students had to wear either black kneesocks that
reached above their hemline, or something called "thigh highs".
Needless to say, the young women of the Academy being what they were -
rebellious teenage rule benders (if not outright rule breakers) -
there wasn't a day that I wasn't treated to a wholly unasked-for
glimpse of nubile white thighs.  Those damn short black and red plaid
skirts were notorious for riding up as they bent over their lockers,
blowing up in the wind, and falling open or to the side at the
slightest provocation.

Why, in the first two weeks of this semester alone, I had seen creamy
thighs at least a dozen times, and on four occasions had been witness
to the appearance of panties!  (Three white cotton, and one
flower-print nylon pair.)

The tease value had gone off the scale.  Now, instead of constant
exposure to lean, lithe, nude legs, and an occasional temptation to
peek for the odd up-the-skirt look, I was constantly reminded that
just an inch or two above their skirts, I could see their bare legs,
and more, if I was lucky.  It was terrible.

Finally, there were the blouses.  Gone were the days of safe,
knit-cotton and polyester oxford shirts.  Alas.  Now they were wearing
these short-sleeve scoop-neck pullovers. Black.  If a student were to
wear a bra even a shade different than jet black, it was instantly
apparent.  It was if they weren't even wearing blouses at all.  Even
from the front, under the jittering florescent lights, I could make
out the outline of their bras.  Blast!

I had constantly waged a war with myself during my tenure at the
Academy.  A war of temptation and virtue.  A war of longing and
righteousness.  I had always had a thing for ripe young women.  For
glimpses into their budding sexuality, and for stolen looks at their
firm, young, taught, bodies.

I feared that I was doomed.  I despaired that I would give in to
temptation.

If temptation vanquished virtue, the consequences could be enormous.
I didn't trust myself to be able to recover from even the slightest
slide down the slope of sin.  I feared that I would plunge headlong
into the pit, forgetting all else.  My job, my career, my reputation.
All could be lost.

To make matters worse, I had a new assignment.  I was teaching senior
art.  It was a one-on-one class, as were most senior-year classes.
The Academy was very small, and very selective.  This was wonderful
for both students and teachers.  Except in certain situations.  Such
as mine.

Was it me, or did most of the eighteen-year olds of this day and age
have the voluptuous physical maturity of a woman of at least twenty?

Worst of all, there was this transfer student.  Sally Thompson.

She was my Lolita.

She was barely eighteen, but as I've noted, a very well developed
young woman.  Stunning, actually.  She was on the tall side, and had
straight, blonde hair, which she usually wore up, in a girlish
ponytail.  Her eyes were deep blue, and she had a cute, innocent face.
Schoolgirlish was the only appropriate word.  She was very gentle,
soft spoken, and demure.  Her voice bespoke sweetness, innocence, and
above all, trust.

It was this implicit trust, this simple naivete, which was Sally's
most prominent feature.  Her suggestibility was demonstrated perfectly
during one of our recent classes.  The senior art instructor is given
a fair degree of latitude, as are the teachers of most senior classes.
Our goal at the Academy is deliver a unique education of the finest
quality.  Something that is a rarity in today's world of standardized
tests.  It was with this in mind that I began our art curriculum with
drawing.  Nudes.

There was the small matter of securing the consent of her parents,
which was not a problem.  They didn't even call to talk to me, as many
parents did.  So I hired a nude model.

Sally seemed quite a bit embarrassed, at first, but by the fourth week
of instruction, she had overcome all of her initial discomfort.  She
and I would both draw, using the model.  I would then critique her
work, and compare it with mine.

It so happened that one particular afternoon, the model had called in
sick.  My mind whirred with perverse possibilities, involving my
curveaceous young student, but I quickly quelled my thoughts.  I
contented myself with asking Sally to model for me for a while, and
then I would model for her.  Clothed, of course.

She readily agreed, and we began.  Some minutes into her session, I
dropped my charcoal, and stooped to pick it up.  My back caught with a
loud and painful "crack."  I regained my composure, and stood up,
muttering thankfully to myself that I'd "been closer" to not being
able to stand.

When I looked up, I nearly died of shock.  When I had stooped down,
Sally had been turned three-quarters view away from me, her hands on
her hips.  This was a pose which I believed she'd have little
difficulty maintaining for a few minutes, and which was easy to draw.

But when I looked up, she had bent over completely at the waist.  Her
hands were still on her hips, and her blond ponytail hung over her
head like a mane.  Worst of all, her short skirt had ridden high up
her rear end, revealing not only the strong, lightly-tanned tops of
her thighs, above her black kneesocks, but also a good three inches of
her buttocks.  She was wearing a pair of white cotton briefs, which
were most likely the "bikini" or "french bikini" or "high cut"
variety, because the strip of cloth that ran between her buttocks was
rather narrow, and had ridden up a bit.

I sputtered, dumbstruck, unable to tear my eyes away.  I could make
out how narrowly and tightly her panties covered her crotch.  I could
see quite clearly the outline her bulging mons and labia made against
the thin white cloth.  I could even see a few wispy blonde public
hairs.  I felt wild desire surge through me, and my John Thomas
snapped to attention.  Well, he began to wake up, anyhow.

I finally found my tongue.  "Sally!  Sally." was all I could manage,
though.

Still bent nearly double, she looked at me, upside down.  "Yes,
Mr. Howard?"

"I - you needn't bend over so.  I - that is, um, I believe it's time
for us to switch."

She straightened up, and bouncing down from the platform, gave me a
bright grin.  Completely ingenuous.

Still baffled and stunned, I took up my pose.  She remarked, "I guess
you changed your mind about wanting me to 'bend over'?"

Bend over?  No - "been closer"!  She had misunderstood my muttering
for a request to bend over.

Her tone spoke volumes.  In it, I heard more than just her words.  It
hit me.  Sally's suggestibility, that is.  Her tone told me, "I
thought there was something a bit odd about you asking me to bend over
for you.  After all, I know that you'll be looking right at my behind."

But she had gone ahead and done it, anyhow.  Something clicked, and it
wasn't my back.  The last few weeks with Sally had been full of tiny
hints about her, but I hadn't been able to put them all together,
until now.  She was so careful about rules, and about authority
figures...

I smiled back at her question.  "Yes, perhaps next time, dear.
Besides, we're running out of time for today."

"Dirty old man," I thought to myself with glee.

    * * *

I really liked drawing.  It was one of the many things that I had come
to look forward to at my new school.  The Academy was like a breath of
fresh air.  It was fun, and exciting, and I loved it.

My art teacher, Mr. Howard, was an older guy.  I say older, but really
he wasn't old-old.  Older than Mom and Jack, but he wasn't really old.
I'd guess you'd call him middle aged.

Anyhow, I drawing had become one of my favorite subjects.  There was
something peaceful and soothing about it.  It was like you had to
learn a new way of looking through your eyes.  Mr. Howard said that I
was good at it, too.

It was one of the two classes that I had one-on-one with my teacher.
The other was piano, with Mrs. Wolford.  But I liked art much better.
Mr. Howard was really nice, and very patient.  He said that I was
learning very quickly, and that I was a natural.

So, I was thrilled when he asked if I was interested in doing some
extra drawing.  "I think you'd benefit from more in-depth sessions,"
he said.  "An hour just isn't long enough, usually.  By the time
you're getting warmed up, the bell rings."

It was true.  Sometimes I could hardly believe that an hour had passed
when I was drawing.  I got so absorbed in it.

He asked if Friday would be good.  On Friday, art was my last class of
the day, and so he proposed that we just extend the class into the
afternoon.  "But," he added, "you'd better check with your parents,
since Friday is the start of long weekend, and everyone will be
clearing out as soon as the last bell rings."

I asked how long we would draw, and he said, "As long as you want.
You can call your parents for a ride home, if you'd like, or I can
give you a lift."

I asked Mom about it when I got home from school, and she said she
didn't mind, but that I should ask Jack.  I did, and I think he hardly
even heard me.  Too busy watching football.

Friday rolled around, and I was really looking forward to art class.
The day dragged on, and finally I made it up to the art studio, ready
to become the next Picasso.

Mr. Howard seemed glad to see me, as he always did.  "Ready for some
serious art?" He asked, joking.

I made a show of rubbing my hands together, and pretending to crack my
knuckles, like a pianist limbering up.

We spent the hour drawing with the model.  Time flew.  Before I knew
it, the last bell of the day was ringing.  Mr. Howard smiled at me,
"Today, we don't have to stop!"

"This is great, Mr. Howard.  I really appreciate you taking this
time."

He patted my shoulder.  "Of course, Sally, of course."

The model had to leave.  Mr. Howard explained that he couldn't afford
to pay during our extra sessions, because it wasn't in the budget.
"Anyhow," he said, "I think we need a little break.  It's too noisy
with everyone rushing out to get home for the weekend, anyway.  I'm
going to my office for a few minutes.  Why don't we meet back here in
half an hour, after things have calmed down.  Then we'll get down to
business."

It was just as well.  I went to my locker, and organized my stuff.
The halls emptied out quickly, and the janitor started making his
rounds.  By the time I walked back up to the third floor, and into the
art wing, the place was deserted.

Mr. Howard was waiting for me.  He smiled as I walked in.  "Why don't
you just put your books and jacket over here?  Now, Sally, I was
thinking that what we need to get is some good light.  The light in
the main studio, here, is all wrong at this time of day."  He was
walking towards the back of the studio.

I followed him, and went out through the back door of the studio, and
rounded the corner.  There was a locked door, and the back staircase,
leading down.  He fished a set of keys from his pocket.  "I think this
room has a window facing west.  It should be perfect."

He opened the door.  It was some sort of art supply room.  It was
small, and cluttered with all sorts of stuff.  There was an old brown
sofa, cans of paint and gesso, and rolls of canvas.  It was a mess,
and a bit dusty.

Near the window, I could see that he'd set up an easel, with paper and
charcoal.  He ushered me in, and closed the door behind us.

"See, the light is much better in here at this time of day."  He
gestured to the window.  The view was nice.  This room was on the back
corner of the main school building, and it looked down over the soccer
field, and into the forest beyond it.  The sun was beginning to sink
towards the horizon.

"Now, Sally, I've been thinking.  I was thinking that we don't have a
model, and that his could be a problem.  But then it occurred to me.
You and I can model for each other, like we did the day she was sick,
right?"

"Yes, Mr. Howard, that would be great."

"I was also thinking, that perhaps this was for the best.  Because, as
an artist, you have to have a connection to your model.  Your
connection to your subject will always show in your work.  So, it
occurred to me that this was a unique opportunity for you to develop a
special connection to the model."  He looked at me, expectantly.

"Oh, I see, Mr. Howard.  By modeling myself, I'm putting myself in the
model's shoes.  So the next time I'm drawing a model, I have a real
connection to my subject."

He nodded, beaming.  "Exactly."

He modeled for me, first.  The light was streaming through the window,
and I felt like an artist.  I could feel my creative energy.  I
fleetingly pictured myself as a famous artist.  I liked the picture.

It seemed like only a few moments had passed, before Mr. Howard
cleared his throat to get my attention.  "I'm sorry, dear, but my legs
and back just aren't what they used to be.  Do you mind terribly if we
switch?"

I didn't mind at all!  So, we switched.  He moved the easel away from
the window, closer to where I was standing.

"Mr. Howard, how should I model?"  I looked around the room, which was
cluttered with junk.  The sofa looked like it had seen better days.

"Um, let's see."  He frowned, looking around for something.  "There's
really nothing for you to sit on, is there."

"No, not really."

"Ok, fine, well, until we get that sofa cleared off, how about this?
Um, stand there, by the end of the couch, and put one foot up on the
arm, and reach down like you're tying your shoe."

It was a simple enough position.  Mr. Howard had warned me that one
must always ask the model to pose in a position that they could hold
long enough for you to draw.  Modeling, he'd said, was more physically
demanding than you might think.

He was right.  I held it for as long as I could.  Even just leaning
over like that was making my muscles ache.  After a few minutes, I
looked up.  "Mr. Howard?"

"Yes, Sally?"

"My legs are starting to get a little tired."

"Oh, of course dear.  I'm glad you spoke up.  Why don't you relax, and
stretch a bit."

I did, walking around in a little circle, flexing my shaky leg
muscles.

"Bend over and touch your toes, Sally, it will help your circulation."

I did, and it did help.  After a tapping my toes a few times, my legs
were feeling like they were returning to normal.  I looked up again.

Mr. Howard was smiling at me.  "Ready, then, Sally?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let's see.  This time, hmm.  Sally, do you think you could sit on one
of those paint buckets?  It might be easier on your legs, hmm?"

I grabbed one of the big white buckets he was pointing to.  They were
wide, five gallon buckets, filled with paint.  I heaved one over from
the corner, and maneuvered it next to the couch.  It was pretty low to
the ground, but it did look like it would be better than standing.  I
sat down, and tried to get comfortable.  It was a little bit awkward,
because it was so low.  With my penny loafers together, my knees were
up above my waist.  I leaned forward a bit, and crossed my arms over
my knees.  It wasn't so bad.  I was pretty sure I could hold still
like this for awhile.

"Sally, dear, turn towards me a bit.  I'd like to do a three-quarters
view, rather than a profile."

I turned towards him until he said, "Perfect.  Ok, now hold it."

He drew, and I watched him in my peripheral vision.  He was working
quickly and animatedly.  The charcoal made a scritching noise on the
paper.  He did a quick study, and then tore off the paper, letting it
drift to the floor.  Then he began working in earnest.

I watched the sun set behind him, out the open window, as he drew.  It
was a clear fall day, and the leaves were beginning to turn.  It was
beautiful.

Mr. Howard straightened up, and rubbed his nose with the back of his
charcoal-covered hand.  He looked from the paper to me, and back
again.  "I think that's a good one, for this angle," he said.

It was just as well, because my back muscles were beginning to
complain.

"One more?" He asked.

I smiled back at him.  "Sure!"  This was great.  Becoming an artist.

"Ok, now for this one, I think we need something a little more
dramatic."  He paused.  "I know.  Just stay seated, there, but lean
back.

I did.

"A bit more."

I leaned back even farther.  It felt very awkward.  My hands were now
folded in my lap, but my shoulders and upper body hung off the back of
bucket, unsupported.  My center of gravity was way off, and my back
muscles protested.  To compensate, I put my hands on the floor behind
me, holding up my torso.  It was much better.

"Yes, that's it.  Can you lean back just a bit more, Sally?"

It was no problem, really.  My arms would get tired faster, but I
could hold it for a while.

"Perfect, dear," he said.

I was almost parallel with the floor, supported by my arms and hands,
my butt, on the bucket, and my feet.  It was almost like doing the
"crab walk" race we had done at one of Jack's company picnics, when I
was a kid.

"Now, Sally, do you think you could just let you head roll back?  Look
up at the ceiling."

Again, I listened to the scritch, scratch of him drawing.

Before long, it was time to go.  I had enjoyed myself immensely, even
though I hadn't gotten to draw much.  Mr. Howard and I looked over my
drawings, and we critiqued them together.  Then we looked at some of
his.  I like the light in the drawings he had done of my standing with
my foot up on the couch.  I wanted to look at the rest, but Mr. Howard
reminded me that it was getting late.  Shit!  The time!

I had promised Mom that we wouldn't go any later than supper.  I
thanked Mr. Howard, and ran down to the phone on the first floor.

Mom was a little bit upset when she picked me up, but I was really
excited about drawing, and I think she felt better that I was enjoying
it so much.

At least she didn't tell Jack that I had called late, and get me in
trouble.

    * * *

I waited until I was home. It was all I could do to rush in the door,
charge into the bathroom, and unroll the sketches on the tile floor.
I was ready to explode.

There she was.  Even in my crude rendering, I could see the reflection
of her.  She was beautiful.

I fished my semi-hard member from my pants, and began stroking it.
Images of the afternoon burned in my mind.

She was so gorgeous.  And so oblivious.  Sitting there on that paint
bucket, she had no idea of the show she was giving me.  Because of the
height of the bucket, her plaid school uniform skirt had fell open to
both sides.  It had still covered her lap and the tops of her legs, to
her knees, but it left nothing to the imagination below.

I had stared in rapture for twenty minutes at the creamy expanse of
her fleshy thighs above the tight black embrace of her kneesocks.  I
had gorged my eyes on the narrow white strip of panties that emerged
from underneath her round buttocks, tightly covering her mound.  This
thin white strip of cloth cupped her firmly, disappearing between her
closed legs.  I had openly gawked at it, and found I was even able to
make out the swell and curve of each of petals that lay hidden
beneath.

It was a heavenly, hellish tease.  I loved it.

Sally's ladylike feet-together stance only made it all the more
entrancing.

Then, when she had stretched backwards...  Good God!

She had obviously construed the pose as completely innocent.  But the
position was entrancing.  Her body had ample curves, which might
someday sag with age, but which were now so full, perky and taught
that they were made me ache.

She had stretched out and back, throwing her head back, pushing her
chest out, which put a gentle arch into her back.  I nearly lost it,
right then.  Her breasts were quite large, so much so that they seemed
to strain against her blouse.  As she shifted one last time, getting
into the new pose, they had jiggled slightly, wobbling suggestively.
Her long hair looked like spun gold.

I looked down at my drawings, at my attempt to capture her image.  But
it couldn't compare with the picture in my mind.

I gave in to my wicked imagination, fueled with the images of her ripe
young body.  I ruined my charcoal renderings, standing over them.

Guilt, or perhaps prudence, caught up with me, though.

I spent the better part of the weekend frittering away with worry.
What if she had already blown the whistle?

Monday, the holiday, came and went all too slowly.  There was still no


ss_3.txt

phonecall from the school, or from the police.

So, I gathered my courage, told myself all was well, and went to
school.

It wasn't until I saw Sally's cheerful, innocent face, beaming at me,
and heard her bubbling excitement about "being an artist", that I knew
I was safe.  Relief flooded through me.

But the temptation came rushing back.  I had to have more.

I arranged for us to meet again the following Friday, even though
there was no holiday weekend.  Sally seemed overjoyed.  I worried that
there would be more people around, and that it would be that much
easier for us to get caught.  But I counted the days, hardly able to
stand the waiting.

In preparation, I cleaned up the supply room, arranging it so it
fitted my plans perfectly.

I told the model that it wouldn't she wouldn't be needed on Friday at
all.  Everything was ready.

Our time finally arrived.  I led Sally back to the supply room, and
she got settled.  I slipped back out into the studio, and locked its
door.  Now the only way we could be disturbed was by someone coming up
the back stairs, and I would easily be able to hear that.

I returned to find Sally standing at the easel, ready to draw.

I took up a pose for her, and surreptitiously checked my watch.  I
would give her a few minutes, and then step down, with the excuse that
my back was troublesome.

She seemed to buy the story.  She even seemed happy to pose again for
me.  Not an ounce of disappointment.

With my heart pounding, and a warm stirring in my trousers, I asked
her to pose.  Nothing particularly risque.  Just to get her and I both
warmed up.

When she started to tire, she asked for a break.  Naturally, I agreed.
While she was stretching, I unveiled a little surprise.

I had set up a large, full length mirror, several feet wide, behind
the couch and the area she posed in.  "So you can see yourself while
you're stretching, dear," I told her, pulling off the piece of canvas
I had covered it with.

"Oh, thanks, Mr. Howard.  It's perfect." She smiled at me again.  Her
face was so bright, so alive.  Her schoolgirl charm only drove me on.

She didn't seem to consider that I could have any ulterior motive for
the mirror.  Or that its reflection might reveal anything she didn't
intend for me to see.  Her innocence was astonishing.

We did another pose, also tame.  I made it a quick one, though.  After
a few minutes, I announced, "Ok, I think we'll try something more
dramatic again."

Sally looked up, grinning.  "Great!  What should I do?"

"I think I should do a study of your legs.  They are a very important
feature, and can be very difficult to get right.  Especially with an
element of perspective."  Legs.  God, did I want to do her legs.  But
here was the tricky part.

"I think, also, that it would be better, especially in this light, if
I didn't have to contend with the black of those socks.  Don't you
think?"

She looked down at them, and around the room, as if checking out the
light.  "Yes, Mr. Howard, I see what you mean."

Here goes.  "Ok, then, Sally, why don't you just take them off for the
next couple of poses?  Your shoes, too."

She grinned at me again, "Yes, sir."

Baby steps, Bill.  Baby steps, I told myself.  I forced myself to turn
around, to give her a chance to take them off without me looking.

"Ok, Mr. Howard."

I turned around, and my breath caught as I saw her.  Those legs!  She
had long, thick, toned legs, without being overly muscular.  Her
calves were quite prominent, and her ankles were so small and
delicate.  It was a vision.

I reigned myself in, before I lost control.  I asked her to do several
more tame poses, not knowing how far I could push things, how fast.  I
reasoned that small steps were the best thing.  This time, no socks.
Next time, who knows, I told myself.  Just go slow.

Before long, the session was over.  She bounded out of the room,
bubbling with youthful energy.  I watched her ample breasts bounce
with her laughter, trying not to be too obvious.

Before she went, though, I added, as off-handedly as I could, that
next Friday, she should just take off the socks as she was getting
settled, so we could get down to drawing that much faster.  She didn't
even blink.

"Sure, Mr. Howard.  Thanks again, it was great!"  Then she was gone.

I slunk home, weary with tension, but celebrating.

The week crawled by.  It was interminable.  I began wondering. If we
continued with these once-a-week sessions, I might never get anywhere.
Not at the pace it was going.  I didn't think I could wait that long.
When you get older, you don't get more patient - you get less.

Friday arrived again, and I hurried to get to the supply room.  When I
arrived, I found Sally waiting outside the door, her black socks
clutched in one hand.  Her bare legs beckoned me.

"Sorry I'm late, Sally."

"Oh, that's ok, Mr. Howard.  I'm usually late myself."

We got inside and got started.  This time, when her turn came to pose,
I didn't wait to turn up the heat.

"Ok, Sally. This time I'd like to do some more leg studies.  Ok?"

She nodded.

"First, let's get one with you on the couch, here."

I arranged her so that she was lying on her back on the couch, propped
up on her elbows, the back of her head resting on the arm of the
couch.  Then I told her to bend the leg nearest to me at the knee, and
to point her toes.  I watched as her plaid skirt flipped up, exactly
what I had hoped for.  The pose had bared the leg nearest to me, from
her toes nearly to her hip.  Her legs were incredible!

The activity in my trousers had gone beyond mere stirring, this time.
It had now become a salute.

The next pose was more daring.  After she had recovered, I summoned my
courage. 

"Ok, Sally.  This time, why don't you stand up, and face away from me.
That's it.  Now, stand with your feet a bit farther apart.  Uh-huh, a
bit more.  Yes.  Now, I'd like to get a better study of your thighs,
so if you would, just hold your skirt up a bit in back, so I can see
them."

I held my breath, watching the reflection of her face in the mirror
for her reaction.  I watched, studying, hoping.  But she seemed either
oblivious or unconcerned.  She reached to the sides, and grabbed
the hem of her skirt.  She began to raise it, craning her head around
so she could see how high it had risen in back.  I watched the hem
inch upwards like a curtain, revealing more and more of her creamy,
long legs.  She must have been a gazelle in a previous life.

My eyes flicked up from her legs to her reflection in the mirror she
faced.  I nearly gasped out loud.  She hadn't realized it, but in
pulling the hem of the short uniform skirt upwards in back, she had
pulled it much, much higher in front.  I could see her white cotton
panties, from crotch to waistband, and her flat tummy, all the way to
her navel.

They were cut so high! The thin straps arched over her hips.  The
gentle curve of her lower belly, covered in white, was too much.  I
openly stared, drinking in the sight of her panty-covered mons.  Sally
had wide hips, wider than I thought, at least judging from her slim
waist and flat tummy.  The combination was mesmerizing, and my eyes
would stray for a moment across her hips, or her belly, but they kept
returning to her mound, hidden beneath thin white cotton.

I caught her looking back at me expectantly.  "Oh, um, yes, that's it
Sally.  A bit higher, though, please."

She inched her skirt up higher still, as I gestured for her to
continue, until the hem was grazing just beneath the curve of her
round, jutting buttocks.

"That's it, Sally.  Now hold it there."

She smiled back at me.  "Ok, Mr. Howard."

I was in heaven.  I drew for a few minutes.  Well, I didn't actually
do much drawing.  I mostly stared at the radiant creature before me,
so willing and nubile.  But I had to have more.  I was desperate for
it.

"Now Sally, I want to do one more.  This time, just get down on all
your hands and knees, please.  Yes, that's it, facing away from the
easel."

The dog's eye view.

"Now, dear, I'd like to continue on your legs, so if you could move
your skirt out of the way again."  I held my breath again, waiting for
the fatal reaction.  For a cry of 'foul'.  But none came.  She simply
did what I asked her to, raising the hem of her skirt with one hand,
until it was just below her gorgeous, round ass.  I could catch a
fleeting glimpse the thin white strip of panties running between her
buttocks, and covering her mons.

But, she was having difficulty holding herself up with one hand, and
holding her skirt in place with the other.  I saw the opportunity, and
went for it.  "Sally, why don't you just flip your skirt up - ?"  She
looked back at me, and I gestured, indicating she should just flip her
skirt up completely in the rear.

She did, giving me an unobstructed view of her panty-clad bottom.  I
pressed onwards, heedless now.  "I think, Sally, that it would be best
if you just put your head down on the floor, there.  Yes, just bend
over a bit more."

It was better than my wildest dreams.  She was kneeling on the floor
in front of me, her skirt up, her long, luscious legs together, with
her knees drawn up, and her head on the floor.  It presented her rear
end upwards to me like a gift.

I took a long time to "draw" her in this pose.  I savored it,
memorizing her image.  Again, to the quickening of my heart, I could
make out how narrowly and tightly her panties covered her crotch.  Her
bulging mons and labia had stretched the thin white cloth even more,
to the point that I could actually make out each fat lip, and the
crevice between.

I replayed that scene over and over in the following week.  It flashed
through my mind each time I saw Sally's face in class.  She seemed as
happy, charming, and cute as ever.  But her body was beckoning me like
a Siren.

Well, if she was a Siren, there were rocks to worry about running
into. So, I decided to take a new tack.  I arranged with Sally that we
would now have two "special sessions" a week, one on Wednesday, and
one on Friday.  She was ecstatic.  So was I, but for different
reasons.

Despite my good fortune thus far, and the prospects for even more
interesting pursuits, I held myself in check.  During the next three
sessions, I limited myself to only the advances I had made previously.

I asked her to model in more and more poses to "emphasizing her legs".
But I didn't press on any farther than that.  I wanted to make sure
that Sally was who I thought she was.

At this point, I was convinced of one of two things.  Either she knew
what I was doing, and liked it, and did a very, very good job of
hiding it, or she was as naive and suggestible a young woman as I had
ever met.  I hoped for the latter.  If she knew, and was this good at
hiding it, I had gotten more than I had bargained for.

    * * *

By the third lesson in this "holding pattern", I was ready to explode.
Every step with my lovely Lolita had been more consuming than the
last.  I suppose I should have been content with my long, unobstructed
views of her panties, her bare legs, and the suggestive positions in
which she would pose for me, but it wasn't enough.  On the contrary,
it only whet my appetite.  I would have more, by damn!

Finally my obsession got the best of me.

I was waiting for her in "our studio", my palms sweating with
anticipation.  She bounced in, flashing her knockout schoolgirl smile.
My eyes were drawn to her bare legs like a magnet.  I couldn't help
it.  Her black thigh-highs were tossed casually over her shoulder.
She obviously didn't give it a second thought, now.

She got settled, and I took a deep breath, steadying myself.  "Today,
Sally, I'd like to do some upper body sketches.  Just remove your
blouse and bra, and sit on the couch."  My heart was thundering, but I
had practiced the line hundreds of times.  I knew that I was sounding
as ordinary and matter-of-fact as I was capable.

I couldn't bear to look at her, and quickly busied myself at the
easel.  But I caught a glimpse of her reaction.  There was a flicker
of something.  Something that made my heart nearly stop with dread.
But then it was gone, and her face brightened again, and she did
exactly as I asked.

I tried not to stare, only letting myself take sidelong glances, as
she pulled her black blouse from the waist of her skirt, and pulled it
over her head.

God, she was a sight!  Skin so fair, and so beautiful.  Her ample
breasts jiggled as she pulled the blouse over them.  Her black bra
stood in sharp contrast to her creamy skin, emphasizing her state of
undress even more.  She dropped the blouse onto her backpack, on top
of her matching thigh-highs.

I quickly glanced away again, but couldn't help sneaking another look.
She slid the straps of her bra off of her shoulders, and pulled her
arms through them.  She hooked her fingers into the cups, as if to
pull them down, but then hesitated.  I looked away.

When I looked up again, she had taken it off!  She dropped it, with a
faintly wistful look, onto the growing pile of her clothing.

My loins were raging with fire.  My vision felt blurred.  She was half
naked.

    * * *

I knew, now.  After two sessions in which I had asked my nubile,
willing student to take off her top and bra for me, that I could go
farther.  I knew that I had to.  I no longer had any choice.

I began the session as I had the last two, with a request that she
remove her blouse and bra.

I no longer pretended not to watch.

Sally didn't seem to mind.  In fact, after the few fleeting
uncomfortable moments the first time she'd done it for me, Sally
seemed completely herself.  She was charming, and her fresh, young,
glowing schoolgirl beauty was only accented by her innocence and
trust.

She seemed convinced by my fabrications about having to "learn to
model before learning to draw".  I was beginning to understand a bit
more about the young woman.  She was bursting with enthusiasm about
drawing, painting, and art.  Most transfer students went through a
period of adjustment, especially as seniors, but Sally seemed simply
thrilled to be at the Academy.

She seemed infinitely trusting, and always did what I asked without
question.   It was this fact that was slowly sinking in.  I became
determined - no - obsessed - with using this to my advantage.

I had to see more of her ripe, curvaceous body.  That was my goal.
The means were what I was concerned with.  I had to keep a modicum of
normalcy.  Though I was almost sure that she would cooperate, I still
didn't dare go to far, too fast.

I stared in mute desire as she took of her blouse and bra for me
again.  The moment her large, thick, pinkish-brown nipples sprang free
of the black bra cups was electric.  I yearned for them, entranced by
the tiny wobble and sway of her breasts as she discarded her bra.

She smiled at me, tucking an errant strand of blonde hair behind her
ear.  So sweet.

"Now, dear, I think we're making good progress, and we should
continue.  Don't you?"  The lead-in.

"Yes, Mr. Howard, that'd be great."

"Good, dear.  Now, just take off your underwear for me."  She
blanched, a blush creeping into her face.  I plowed on, determined.
"The buttocks can be a difficult part of the anatomy to get right."  I
blathered on, maintaining my facade of art teacher for a few moments.
Yes, Sally, I want to look at your ass.  That's what I wanted to say,
but didn't.  She seemed reassured by my explanation.  Her blush
softened.

She turned around, biting her lower lip.  I tried to calm my hammering
heart.  She hesitated again, but then quickly reached under her skirt,
and in a fluid swish, pulled off her thin white bikini briefs.  She
paused for a fraction of a second again, before she dropped them onto
the pile of her clothes.

I had won!

There was no stopping, now.

    * * *

I suppose I should have known better.

I suppose I should have seen what was really going on earlier.

But, I didn't.

I'd like to be able to say, that looking back, my reason for
cooperating with Mr. Howard was my lack of experience.  Or, my
sheltered life.  I'd like to be able to say that I had no choice.
But, I can't.  At least, not totally.

I can't deny what was going on, although I wasn't conscious of it
then.

The first time Mr. Howard asked me to take of my underwear and pose
for him, I was, well, sort of stunned.  I did it almost like a reflex.
I say almost, because even though I was stunned, and I went into the
kind of "automatic pilot" that I do sometimes with Mom or Jack, I
kindof knew.  Maybe not consciously, not then.  But somewhere, some
part of my knew that he was getting his jollies from it.

That night, after I went to bed, the part of my brain that knew took
over my thoughts.  I was up almost all night, thinking about what had
happened.  About him looking at me.  About me having to do what he
said, and having to take off my underwear for him.  About him making
me show him my body.  I was getting that strange, warm, tingly
feeling, stronger than I had ever felt it before.  I couldn't resist
it.  My thoughts were too compelling, and the images my brain conjured
were too vivid.

I had learned to be more careful since the "book incident".  I always
left my pajamas on, now.  I never used my fingers, even though I
longed to.

And I always kept an ear cocked for the sounds of Mom and Jack.

I don't know what time I finally fell asleep.

I waited with dread and excitement for the next lesson with Mr.
Howard.  I felt sure that he would ask me to take off my undies again.
I still didn't consciously realize what he was doing.  Or what I was
doing.  All I knew was that I was confused.

As I've said, I was dimly, subconsciously, aware that he shouldn't be
asking me to do what these things.  That there was some rule, some law
or code that forbid it.  I knew that I wasn't supposed to show my body
to anyone this way.  But the model did, and that was ok.  I also knew
that Mr. Howard was my teacher, and my elder.  And I did what my
elders told me to.  Especially because I liked Mr. Howard.  He was
nice.  And I really did love drawing and painting.

This jumble of emotions was churning inside me as the final bell rang.
The halls quickly emptied out.  I got my books and stuff ready.  I
felt lightheaded and nervous.  Maybe, just a little bit, I felt that
feeling, too.

I walked through the silent halls and went into the bathroom on the
third floor.  It was empty.  I went into the stall, and locked the
door.  I put the toilet seat down, and sat down on it.  My knees felt
wobbly.  I took deep breaths, and tried to calm my nerves.
Mr. Howard's voice, asking me to make sure I took off the high black
socks before I arrived for every lesson rang in my head.  I took off
my thigh-highs.  Goosebumps instantly came up on my bare legs.

I rubbed my legs, shivering as the cool air in the bathroom wafted
against them.  I was thinking about my underwear.  About what to do.
The part of my mind that knew that Mr. Howard's requests where
indiscrete, and that our lessons an affront was quiet.  In its place I
felt the need to please my teacher.  To obey my elder.  That growing
tingling feeling, though I was barely aware of it, was what pushed me
over the edge.

"Maybe I'll just take 'em off now," I whispered to myself.

But I knew that if I took them off, and he didn't ask me to take them
off, and I had to pose in some of the positions that I usually did,
that he would easily see.  What then?  A felt a guilty, but
nonetheless electric thrill.

And if I took them off now, and he asked me to later, which I was
pretty sure he would, he would definitely be pleased.  I knew that for
certain.

With a deep, shaky breath, I took them off.

I felt more self-conscious on the walk up to the studio then I think
I've ever felt in my life.  I kept looking around and behind me to see
if anyone was there.  If anyone could see me.  I felt like the instant
someone saw me, they'd know that I was buck naked underneath the short
school uniform skirt.  I held the back of my skirt with one hand,
gathering it closed.  Just in case.

My heart was pounding, and my face felt burning hot with my permanent
blush.  And yet, I was exhilarated.  Tingling.

He was a couple of minutes late.

He unlocked the door to our private little studio, and we went in and
started to get ready.  When he'd finished setting up the easel, he
looked over at me expectantly.  He looked very serious.  Not angry,
just humorless.  Almost grim.