You've always been rather friendly with your university art professor Roger Taylor, so when he offers you the chance to boost your grade by simply posing in a robe for a few hours while he paints you for one of his upcoming shows, you jump at the opportunity.
The conversation flows remarkably well as you sip on your modest glass of wine and admire the hand-blown glass sculptures scattered about his small Brooklyn apartment while Roger preps his canvas. "These are beautiful, Mr. Taylor," you say as your fingers explore a particularly striking crimson piece before you notice a skunky-sweet odor wafting from the sculpture.
"For the last time, just call me Roger. 'Mr. Taylor' makes me sound like an old widower who spends his time complaining about kids these days and eating chalky mints. Wait! Don't touch that-"
"Cocaine?" You finish for him when you find a loaded bag of cocaine on the side of the neck, smirking at the slightly stricken expression on his younger-than-you-thought face as he waits for your reaction.
It doesn't make sense to you, how a man not much older than yourself with the features of a professional model got stuck teaching beginners painting at a subpar university. Everything from his depthless blue eyes framed by heavy lashes and cutting jaw to his tight black trousers and loose hanging white shirt wipes all sensible thoughts from your brain and replaces them with urges a student shouldn't have for her professor.
"Well," you tut as you down the remainder of your merlot to distract your mind and grab the cocaine from its shelf, "are you going to get something to line this up so we can get this show on the road or stand there like an idiot?"
Thirty minutes and about 4 lines later later you stand in front of his easel donned solely in your robe, struggling to stand still as your feet feel like they're ready to melt into the floor in a pool of incomprehensible bliss.
Each time Roger tips his head around the canvas to get another point of reference, you catch him darting his eyes to your bare legs and thighs, and to your nipples straining against the thin satin that you desperately wish he would tear from your skin. And each time he averts his gaze and clears his throat as If he wasn't thinking of fucking you just as much as you were thinking of fucking him.
With your inhibitions burning to ashes, you can't help but imagine him ramming into you from behind with his arms holding him inside of you as his teeth bury themselves down into your spine. Your lower region pulses when you can barely breathe because of the sexual tension filling the air and decide to take matters into your own hands.
"Paint me like one of your French girls, Mr. Taylor," you pout as your silk robe falls to the floor in a puddle of lavender, your fingertips ghosting languidly over the curves of your newly-exposed form.
Roger snorts from where he's poised behind the canvas, the retort he'd concocted stilling in his throat when he peeks around the easel and sees you. His expression is unrecognizable, as if there is a new found hunger behind his piercing gaze that is only restrained by the fact that student-professor relations are strictly forbidden.
"Put your robe back on," he instructs monotonously, his body still as stone but blue eyes roaming the hills and valleys of your tantalizingly bare skin without pause.
"Or what?" You challenge as you step forward, your chest barely pressed to his as you brush a fallen strand of blonde hair from his temple. "Are you going to tell on me? Fail me? Give me extra homework? What's it going to be, Professor?"
