How I Stumbled into Modeling
a Short Story by Kellis
Copyright © October, 2000, Kellis
It was a broad!
I had just loped out into the meadow, past a huge mountain oak, not running but still hurrying, and there she sat on a camp stool. I stopped about ten feet out of the woods to look her over. She had some kind of wooden contraption opened up in front of her with her hand poised to do something on it. She was big, blonde and fortyish, wearing a long green robe or smock that buttoned up the front. I saw nothing that looked like a weapon. She was no threat, except maybe in the long run.
She spared me a glance, then concentrated on her … painting. That’s what she was up to: an artist painting a landscape. I’ve seen them do it on TV.
“H’lo, there!” I called as I drew near.
She looked up then. Flick, flick, flick: her eyes went all over me. She smiled. “Good afternoon, sir.” She glanced at her wristwatch then back to me. “I’m awfully glad you made it.”
“You were expecting me, then?” I suggested, sort of grinning.
“Oh, yes. Everything is ready for you.”
By that time I had come up beside her. Hey, this old gal was good! In front of her was a damn big boulder and the meadow stretching down to the cliff and the distant landscape beyond that, plus white clouds in a blue sky. Damned if she didn’t have them exact, shapes, colors, everything! A photograph couldn’t’ve shown it better.
“Do you think you can climb that rock?”
I turned to look it over. “Yeah, in the back. See where it slopes down?”
She peered where I pointed and chuckled. “I guess, if you have a monkey’s agility.”
“I’m in pretty good shape,” I admitted.
She turned to look me up and down again. “I hope so. Take off your clothes.”
“My … what?”
She said primly, “Heroes wear no clothes.”
She was so matter-of-fact that she tickled me, telling a strange man to strip! Why the hell not? Then I thought of a reason why not and cocked my head to listen. But all I could hear was the breeze in the trees above us plus crickets and a bird call or two. The county’s engines had either gone away or been shut down.
But what did she have in mind? “Why don’t you strip, too?” I suggested.
She smiled. “Oh, it would be so cool and free, wouldn’t it? But it’s such a bother, getting acrylics out of your hair, if you know what I mean. Go ahead. I want to see your pectorals particularly. And your penis. I can adjust proportions to suit the objective, but only if the prototype has good character. Lay your clothes on the grass behind me and put your boots on top so the wind won’t bother them.”
“Let me get this straight. You want to make sure my pec — pec —”
“The big muscles in the front of your chest. From what I can tell under that orange suit, they should be very satisfactory.”
“Them and my dick you want to make sure has character, did you say?”
“Oh, I do hope so! Please make haste, sir. The sun has just about reached the perfect angle.”
What the hell! Clothes would just get in the way of what I was beginning to fancy, anyway. One advantage, maybe the only advantage, of a jail suit is that it goes on and off easy. I shrugged out of the top and threw it beside her.
“What about the … pecters?”
Her eyes lit up. “They're very good, I must say!”
I jerked off boots and socks, untied the rope belt and stepped out of britches and underpants. I pointed my soft dick at her and asked, “Any character?”
“You are so wonderfully pale, sir! The contrast will be perfect.” She shook her head, rummaging in her paint box. “Of course I can’t tell yet about the penis. At least it’s uncut.”
She came up with a tube that didn’t look like paint. “Lean close to me, sir, and let’s protect you from sunburn.”
She rubbed some white stuff all over me, starting with my forehead, ears, nose and cheeks. When she reached my chest she used both hands. “Oh, yes, sir, very nice pectorals indeed! And the shadows in your stomach ripples will stand out so attractively.” She worked on my hipbones, my ass cheeks, the fronts of my legs, my calves and the tops of my feet.
She was stooping by that time. She raised up and cupped my balls thoughtfully. “I guess these don’t need any special attention.”
“What about my dick?” I asked.
“It’s beginning to shape up, isn’t it?” She sounded pleased. Then she chuckled up at me. “Oh, you mean, in regard to sunburn, don’t you! I have just the thing.”
She dived back into her paint box and came out with a piece of cloth that proved to be a little bag with a drawstring at one end. “They used to send camera film in this,” she explained. “I normally use it for extra easel nuts, but in this case …” She was busy spreading the mouth of it. She slipped it right over the head of my dick and pulled the drawstring snug. “Now,” she smiled fondly, “there’s protection!”
Maybe, so long as I didn’t get a full boner.
She raised up and cocked her head at me. “Wonderful! You’re the perfect hero, sir!”
“Thank you,” I said. This was a smart old gal! I had always thought myself a hero, too, but she was the first to confirm it.
“Now please take your place and let me pose you.”
“On the rock, of course.”
Suddenly I figured out what was going on. She thought I was a model she had ordered from some agency. I shrugged mentally. All right, I would play along for awhile. So far it was interesting.
I scampered up the backside of her boulder and looked down at her.
“Like this, sir, if you please.” She struck a pose, shoulders thrown back with arms in front of her, both fists raised about even with her head. “You have just saved the world. This is the Olympian salute to the gods.”
If she said so. I stuck out my belly and raised my fists.
“Good. Turn a little more toward me… Put your left foot forward and the right back… Perfect!”
She bustled around with her paints for a moment, then stood behind the canvas, looking back and forth between me and it, shoulder twitching as she painted.
I listened to the birds and the bugs and the breeze. After awhile I asked, “How long do I have to stand here?”
“Are you tired or just bored?”
I had to chuckle. “Tired? This ain’t work.”
“No? Don’t tell your union that. They think it’s worth 500 an hour.”
No shit! But she didn’t sound too put out. I asked, “You don’t think that’s too high?”
“Well, it’s high, but not when it persuades a specimen like you.” She chuckled. “You probably know that women only get 250.”
Had I been out of circulation that long? I commented, “The last time I looked, that would get you five women!”
She smiled. “Perhaps, but those women don’t have to hold still.”
Interesting point. Should it be more expensive for a broad to hold still than to swivel her hips? I said, “I don’t think I’d pay one to hold still.”
“Ah, I see. You prefer dynamic art!”
“Huh! Is that what they call it these days?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. Travis Jointree got twenty grand for his Wobbling Tarts.”
“What’s that? Wobbling?”
“So he calls it. It’s just three female bodies, sculpted in rubber, threaded on bent wires driven by a common crank. I don’t think they look arty at all. Or even very tasteful. But I have to admit, every man standing around the exhibit had his hand in his pocket. Of course, there’s no accounting for taste.” She smiled up at me. “Though I suspect you would find it more to yours.”
“Better than broads that hold still,” I groused.
She nodded. “Some of the new schools would agree. They take photographs and paint from them. But I’m fast. I learned to paint a quick likeness in the carny. And there’s just no substitute for the live model. If the shadow’s not right in the photograph, you have no remedy but to guess. Whereas here … Turn just a bit away from me, sir, if you please.”
I took a breath. “Ma’am, do you by any chance have anything to drink with you?”
“Well, yes, a thermos of coffee. If you can stand it another couple of minutes, I’ll reach a point where we can take a break.”
From her concentration and shoulder twitches she was painting like mad when it happened. With a roar that was almost an explosion two county hogs sailed out of woods behind her. I’d seen it before: the trees and the folds in the land could muffle engine sounds, even from motorcycles big as these, until they were right on top of you. The deputies in their brown uniforms hung about with all kinds of technical crap were leaning forward, staring at us from under their helmets through silvery sunglasses.
I tensed, ready to break for the woods again, even wearing nothing but a cotton codpiece. But I saw my artist do something that changed my mind completely in a flash. She reached out with her foot and drug my orange clothing out of sight under the flaps of her camp stool. I had flinched, but I straightened back up with my fists in the air.
The hogs pulled up beside the woman as their engines died. The closest mounty cocked his head, looking back and forth from her picture to me. She just went right on painting.
In the silence except for the bugs and birds that I’ve already mentioned, he cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Ms. Hendrick, I really hate to bother you.”
From her shoulder twitches I could tell she was still painting. “That’s all right, Deputy Brindle. You’re not bothering me, though if the rain this morning hadn’t settled the dust I suspect I’d have some unkind things to say to you just now.”
God, she even knew these pigs! If I dropped behind the boulder and kept low, I might make it to the cliff — But the man was talking.
“Ah, yes, ma’am. Excuse me. We’re looking for an escapee who came this way, about five ten, 180 pounds, a white man a lot like that fellow on the rock, except for an orange suit and a shackle on his leg dragging a chain. Have you seen anybody answering that description?”
“What’s his name?” she asked, still painting.
“Kellibang! What an unusual name!”
“We believe it’s an alias, after that Australian porn star. Have you seen him, ma’am?”
“A porn star?”
“No, no. Have you seen our escapee?”
“No one who looked like a Kellibang, you may be sure! In fact until you and Deputy Jones arrived just now, I hadn’t seen anyone except myself and my model, there.” She cocked her head. “Now that you mention it, he could be a star, couldn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know. What’s his name?”
“Well, it would hardly be Kellibang!”
The farther pig, Deputy Jones, I presumed, got off his hog and took a couple steps toward me. “What’s your name, bud?” he inquired coldly.
“He’s from Kamchatka,” the woman declared with a sniff. “You know: eastern Siberia. Doesn’t speak English yet. Up there he’s got a better view than I have. Let me ask him whom he’s seen.” She raised her voice and called with an earnest and solicitous expression, “Gobble cardastink fordebag clod?”
Say again? It was all I could do to keep a straight face, but I could sure speak that language! I answered with a sneer, “Forda porsche quatpoot.”
She nodded. “As I expected. He’s seen only you two … Ahem! You two policemen. I’m afraid he used a rather impolite word, but the Siberian police have treated their people so poorly …”
“An impolite word?” Deputy Brindle bristled. “He called us pigs, didn’t he!”
“Oh, no. The Kamchatkan word, quatpoot, actually means female reindeer, but as you know, among reindeer the female bosses the herd.”
The deputy looked from her to me to the painting. The other one asked, “What’s so impolite about female reindeer?”
“Nothing about the animals themselves, of course. It’s their habit of making their mates pay for … ah … favors. You slept through that class, didn’t you, Deputy Jones?”
But Deputy Brindle was studying me closely. “He sure is pale!”
“Well, of course. Kamchatka is just coming out of its long night. In a few days he’ll be as tanned as you are. I needed a pale model for the contrast, you know. I was lucky to get him right off the plane.”
“Ms. Hendrick, I am concerned about your safety. Did you get him from a proper modeling agency?”
“You’ve known me a long time, Deputy Brindle. Did you ever hear of me taking up with just anybody who came waltzing around an oak tree?”
“Well, no, ma’am, I guess I never heard that.”
Jones demanded, “What’s that on his di— his penis?”
“A film bag. He has to stand just so, you know. I wouldn’t want that part to get sunburned.”
Jones huffed a few times, sort of a deep belly chuckle, then noted with a leer, “Sure is cute.” The son of a bitch!
“Yeah, cute,” Deputy Brindle agreed dryly. “Ms. Hendrick, please keep your eye peeled for Kellibang. You got your cell phone?”
“In the paint box.”
“Good. Tell your Mr. — By the way, what is his name?”
She cocked her head at me. “Curdle pondrover shimmytaze?”
Of course I answered, “Shimmytaze fankidder.”
“Fankidder?” she asked, face lighting up.
I nodded deadpan. “Fankidder.”
She smiled around at the cops. “Fan! That means … well, it means penis in Kamchatkan. Literally his name would translate as Masterpenis.” She chuckled a little. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m sure it’s a family name with no personal significance.”
Deputy Jones studied me some more. “Yeah. A family name.”
“How do you spell that?” asked Brindle, pulling out his notebook.
He surrendered the notebook and pencil to her but scowled when he got it back. “What’s that chicken scratch?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course they use the Cyrillic alphabet. Here, let me write it in Roman characters.”
“Okay, Fankidder.” This time he put it away. “Let’s go, Jones. I still think Kellibang turned left at the fork.”
Mounting his hog, he said to the woman, “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Hendrick.” He grinned, thumb poised on the starter. “You’d please Jones if you’d make his ass bigger.”
She answered sweetly. “It would give him a better seat on his motorcycle, wouldn’t it!”
He growled. “I meant Fandiddle’s ass.”
I shouted, “Fankidder, you bastard!” Va-room! Their engines had caught with the barest touch, drowning me out. They made a tight circle, semi-dirts tearing up the grass, and roared back over the ridge. Almost immediately the sound faded out.
I looked down at her. She was painting like mad. “Damn cops!” she muttered. “Took the best light. Fannie-boy, would you turn just a little further away from me?”
“Aray ouyay a azycray oadbray?” I asked, turning just a little further.
She grinned, shoulder twitching furiously. “Why, Mr. Fankidder, I had no idea you were such an accomplished linguist!”
“Well, are you?”
“Surely you’re not complaining. Or is it Kellibang?”
“Ms. Hendrick, ma’am, what are you counting on? Here you’ve gone and run off the cops. Do you think I ought to be grateful? Well, maybe I am, but in case you’ve forgotten what a man in good shape can do, I could reach you in a jump and a leap, long before you might get that cell phone out of your paint box.”
“Oh, Mr. Fankidder, what a splendid idea!”
“But can you hold off just a bit? I need your masterful penis now.”
“That’s what I meant.”
She grinned. “I mean in the painting.” She laid her palette on the paint box and came toward me. “Sit down on the rock, please, and I’ll help you pose it.”
I obeyed, curious as to what she had in mind. She wanted my legs to dangle off the edge. On tiptoe, she could get her head up about as high as my ass.
She pulled the film bag off the end of my shrunken dick and grinned up at me. “I hate the taste of suntan lotion.” The next thing I knew she had stretched up and sucked me right into her mouth.
Whoa! Mine was sure as hell not the first dick she ever sucked nor the first set of balls she ever squeezed. The hang-jaw surprise of it helped, along with the realization that she had meant to do this from the beginning. I think my Rambo came to attention faster than he ever did before. She actually sucked the foreskin back over her tongue while swabbing out the eye. Delicious! I hadn’t touched a woman in two years nor my fist in three days. I was straining to give her mouthful. She felt it of course and backed off.
“There!” She was dashing back to her paints and calling over her shoulder, “Stand up, Mr. Supercock. Come back into your pose, please!” She grabbed up her palette. “Keep what almost happened in mind and it’ll happen yet.”
“It’s going to happen right now,” I announced, getting to my feet before leaping off the rock.
“Now, now, sir. You know how dangerous it is to rape a crazy broad’s mouth. But in two minutes it won’t have to be rape.”
She had a point. My pal Joey has got half of his left for just that reason. Up went the fists again.
“Turn a little more, sir. Ah, yes! Now that’s character!”
I couldn’t believe what she implied. I asked, “Are you really going to suck me off voluntarily?”
“Oh, yes, my dear Mr. Well-named Fankidder. Tell me: when you climax, would you prefer I spit the head out and let it cream all over my face? Or would you have me keep it inside?”
Her shoulder was twitching like mad. I groused, “We ain’t making a movie.”
“Meaning that you don’t need to see it on me; you can feel it in me. Very good. So, then, when you have finished, should I swallow or spit?”
“Good god, ma’am! By the way, what is your name?”
“Oh, my, I’ve done it again: sucked a cock without being introduced! But why should that be embarrassing? Did you ever think it might be the best arrangement?”
“I … never thought about it.”
“My first name is Chastity, which is actually more descriptive than not. Which you should approve because, as you may have noticed, chaste women give the best head. Enthusiasm, you know.”
“If you say so.” I studied her intent face. “You’re not nervous are you?”
“Because I’m talking a lot?” She grinned. “I do have a reason, a very nice one, and it’s still standing straight out. In just about half a minute you will jump down from that rock and poke it into my mouth. I’m also interested in what you plan to do after that. Will you need a long period of recuperation?”
“Of rest before you can again rise to the occasion. I am most anxious to feel that plump gristle in a very tender spot with your hard chest lying on my soft one. This grass is so nice and thick. It will make us a soft nest.”
“But what if the cops —” I had to chuckle. “The reindeer come back?”
“Now, Fannie-boy, you aren’t supposed to be concerned just now with such practical matters. But what if they do? I don’t think they can arrest us for taking our pleasure under God’s blue sky — on land that happens to be my property.”
“223 acres, Fannie-boy, all the way down to the cliff.”
“Good god, Chastity!”
She chuckled. “I’m glad it pleases you.”
“Chastity, I need a place to stay for awhile.”
“I suppose you do. And I need a willing model. You’d be surprised how few will show their cocks, not to speak of those many other uses for one. There! You can come down now and I’ll go down!”
I didn’t need a second invitation. As I jumped she was shrugging out of her painter’s smock. Would you believe this broad — naked as a jaybird under it? And lush. Big, soft, saggy tits, wide hips, plenty of hair where it belongs, and, god, a whole pan of bacon frying! My mouth watered. I almost ate her out without thinking, except she beat me to the knees in the grass.
This is some talented broad! “What are you, Chastity, a retired Las Vegas showgirl?” Of course she couldn’t answer and I didn’t care, because about then Rambo starting giving her his best pulsing throat spray. Must’ve been. He is six and a half from the backup pad and every inch was out of sight. She held still until I finished, then did a tingly clean-off. She spat a glob into the grass, but I’m confident it was a lot less than Rambo slipped her.
“No,” she said finally. “I’ve never even been to Las Vegas.”
“That’s amazing. You suck better than they do! Better even than a …”
She chuckled. “A vacuum cleaner?”
“I was about to say, a shower crowder.”
“The prisons are full of them. Lay back, will you?”
“Don’t you want some coffee first?”
“Oh, yeah. I am thirsty!” I took a deep breath. “All right. We’ll wait a bit to find out what comes next.”
She rummaged in her paint box, came up with a thermos and a cup. The top of the thermos made another. She spread a plastic sheet on the grass, sat on it and patted a spot beside her. I sat, too. We drew our knees up Indian-fashion. She poured the coffee in both cups, then opened a plastic vial and poured maybe a teaspoon’s worth of clear liquid into both.
“What’s that, sugar water? I prefer it straight.”
“I, too,” she agreed, “except for this. It’s called ‘valipor.’ Something new. When your brew has been sitting in a thermos half the day, it takes the edge off — you know, the bitterness. Try it.”
She handed me one cup and raised the other to her lip. I took a cautious sip. “Not bad,” I admitted. “It tastes a little different, but not bad.”
“You like it? Let me give you a little more.”
She extended the vial and dropped in another dollop. “Shake it around to stir it up.”
More didn’t seem to make any difference, but it was tasty enough and I was thirsty, all right, having pushed a mile or two through the woods at a fast walk after I found the right pair of stones to smash that manacle. Posing for half an hour, strutting for the county mounties and whitewashing Chastity’s tonsils hadn’t helped. One thing the extra dollop did accomplish was cool the coffee just enough for me to turn it up and pour it down.
She smiled. “Want more?”
“I don’t want to clean you out.”
She turned the thermos up and frowned. “I’m sorry. We’ve already done that. Are you still very thirsty?”
“I could use another, but it’s all right.”
“Here, drink mine. I’ve hardly tasted it.”
“Are you sure?”
She leered. “I just had a drink, you know.”
If that’s how she felt about it … Hers was too hot to chugalug, but it felt good going down. Wet is wet when you’re dry. I smacked my lips. “Ah, Chastity, you saved my life.”
She smiled slightly. “Maybe I did. What was your problem, Fannie-boy?”
“My problem? Do I have a problem?”
“Oh, Fannie, do you ever have a problem! Or should I say, ‘Andrew?’”
“I like Fankidder, if it’s all the same to you.”
She nodded. “I agree with Shakespeare, with a little adjustment. A weed by any other name doth smell as rank.”
“That’s not what he said.”
“No, not quite.” She studied me. “But how do you know?”
“I watch TV, too.”
“Ah, yes. The modern public university! Well, Andrew …” She stole her empty cup back, closed up the thermos and got to her feet. I leaned on my elbows and watched her stir around. Very nice jiggling tits she has, big brown nipples. Most blondes have pink ones. Then it dawned on me. Her pubic hair was a thick dark brown. That struck me as funny and I giggled.
“What pleases you, Andrew?” She was closing up her paint box, putting the tubes of paint carefully back into their slots.
“You’re a two-tone woman,” I explained, laughing again.
“You noticed!” she exclaimed, flashing me a grin. “Would you believe that blonde hair is cooler in the sun? I have to wear a beret when I leave it brown.”
I laughed again. That was the most ridiculous reason to change your hair color I ever heard. But that was her trademark, wasn’t it? — the ridiculous delivered dead pan.
She took down her painting after touching a few spots gingerly to make sure they had dried. For a moment I was curious. Did my dick have enough character? I thought of asking her to show me, but it was too much trouble. How nice it was just to lean back and let the breeze cool my wet crotch.
Wet? How did it get wet? She hadn’t spilled any on me! I looked down curiously and saw another funny sight. I was pissing myself. That was worth a guffaw or two except I seemed to run out of breath before I could express it fully. I had to quit laughing and concentrate on deep breaths.
She folded up her easel, took up her smock and slipped it on. She glanced at me and said with a slight smile, “Now don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”
Take your time, I wanted to respond, but it was too much trouble.
I heard a roar and turned my head toward it. That was tough, turning my head! Especially as I needn’t’ve bothered. An SUV pulled up beside me. It was big and blue. Chastity put her paint supplies in the back, returned and knelt in front of me. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t crush my grass with this thing, but you’d get all scratched up walking up the ridge.” She took a tissue from her pocket and sponged off my wet thighs. “I’m sorry, Andrew. I forgot I should’ve let you relieve yourself first. Come on, now. See if you can bear your weight.”
With her help I found that I could. Not that she had to do much lifting. I was still plenty strong, but somehow without her urging, everything was just too much trouble. She got me on my feet and led me around the SUV to the passenger side. She helped me in and buckled the belts. At least I had quit pissing.
She got into the driver’s seat but didn’t restart the engine at first. Her hand came out and gently turned my face to look at her. “I expect you’re wondering what happened, aren’t you, Andrew?”
When I only stared at her, her eyes narrowed. “Answer my question. You can talk.”
“You … you drugged me,” I managed to stutter. Everything was such a lot of trouble!
“Very good! See, the brain continues to work, even if a bit slower.” She smiled. “What happened is that you had awfully bad luck this afternoon, Andrew. In the Westerns the hero says, ‘You’re about to make your worst mistake, Wild Bill,’ meaning his last. Well, that’s you, Andrew. This afternoon you made your worst mistake.
“They published your arrest picture about three years ago, the one taken on the beach in a bikini. I never could get it out of my mind! Then this morning I heard about your escape on the scanner, that you were heading this way. I grabbed that old landscape and came out here to wait. Now for a little luck, I thought. And I hit the jackpot, didn’t I? — a good one for me, bad for you. Because now, Andrew, your bulging pectorals, your ribbed stomach, your hard little butt and your nice fat cock are all mine!
“I’ve got just the place for them, too. Nobody will ever miss you, Andrew. As far as the world is concerned, you ran up the mountain and fell over a cliff. Your account is settled. But you and I shall have so much fun together! Well, I shall, at least. And I’m all that matters, as you’ll soon come to realize.”
When she ran down I managed to ask, “What … what was that stuff?”
“The valipor? It’s new, just as I told you: a derivative of valium — you know: the tranquilizer. Valipor is used in psychiatric hospitals. I’ve tried it myself to understand the effects. An overdose is especially effective and like valium, has no lasting effect.”
“Wha … what does it do?”
She chuckled. “You tell me! The point is, you are not going to be any trouble at all for the next eight or ten hours, and by that time you’ll be so … adjusted that you’ll never cause trouble again!”
She leaned over and kissed me, then licked my face like a dog. She licked my eyelids closed and flicked her tongue tip into both nostrils, the closer ear, then my mouth. Even second-hand my ear wax was bitter. She bent down and bit both my nipples, one after the other, while her fist closed on my balls. All three hurt, the balls like a kick in the belly, but the most I could do was moan a little.
“See? No trouble at all.” She chuckled and cocked her head to look at me as I imagine a mother might. “You need a little work, but we’ve got plenty of time for that. You’re my personal model, Andrew, all mine.” She shivered a little. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”
I wanted to shiver, too. I managed to ask, “What are you, Chastity? What do you do?”
“You haven’t guessed yet? I thought you said you watch TV.”
“The mad scientist?”
She laughed with genuine humor, started the car, turned around and drove us up the ridge.
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