My Hercules

The first time I saw him, he was immediately different from every other man I had ever seen. It wasn't just that he was smaller than the rest. He was just so immediately kind.

Many times, being a model for the local artists club was excruciating. One in ten artists was a woman, and the other nine artists always seemed to think I was there for their pleasures. At least five times a session a man would touch me, or make lewd comments. Because I'm a woman, there's nothing I can do about it. Tonight is no different.

"Good evening, (Y/N)." One of the regulars says, his voice is absolutely sickening.

"Hello." I say quietly.

I have been dressed in ancient grecian clothing and my arms have been draped with silk scarves. Before the session even begins the artists are allowed to come up close and study the model. Everyone has gathered around, circling the platform on which I am positioned. Every once in awhile a man will touch me. They'll pinch and squeeze my behind, run their hands along the curves of my body, cup my breasts and other vulgar things that make me clench my jaw in nearly futile attempts to keep my mouth shut. Because I am the subject of their pieces I cannot interact with the artists, which means there's nothing I can do about their violations of my body. I'm left on the pedestal to be humiliated. The only comfort is when Steve steps into my line of sight.

"Hey." He whispers, a small smile curves the side of his mouth.

"Hey, Steve." I squint my eyes and scrunch up my nose slightly at him. It's the closest I can get to smiling at him right now.

"You look great tonight." He brushes his hair out of his eyes and shoves his hands in his pockets. "You look great every night, but ancient Greece suits you."

"Steve, you're too kind." I can feel my face growing warm. It's not like when the other men are touching and ogling me. It's comfortable. "Are you ready to draw tonight?"

"Maybe a little." He looks at the floor and bobs his head.

"Well you'll have to show me after my shift. Your art is always amazing." He grins at me, earning some glares from the men around him.

"I will." As he turns to go to is easl I can see a light dusting of pink on his cheeks. I can't help but smile to myself. When I see the owner of the studio, and my boss, glaring at me I immediately straighten out my features.

As everyone heads to their own easels, I receive a couple of smacks on my butt. A growl rises up in the back of my throat and I'm forced by my intense need of money to grit my teeth and suppress it. I stand with my right arm extended towards the ceiling, my left over my abdomen. Everyone's charcoal and pencils move quickly over their paper, some sketching out rough images, others going into extreme detail. The only sounds that fill the room are the scratching of pencil and pastel on sketch paper and news print.

The sound of a small bell signals that it's time to change positions. I fold my hands and pull them to my stomach, hanging my head and giving myself some rest from having to hold myself upright for hours on end. With the change in pose the artists noisily flip to another page in their sketch books. In the time that I've worked here, I've seen a lot of artists. They're all rather good, but I honestly wish I could scrub my brain with steel wool so as to forget what they've drawn. I've never been a nude model, but there are many men that have drawn me as if I were. It's disgusting. The only thing that makes me feel better about my job is seeing what Steve's drawn at the end of each session. His art is light and soft. It almost makes me feel good about being a human museum piece.

The session ends two hours and fifteen poses later. As I'm climbing down from the pedestal in the middle of the room, some of the more elderly artists walk up and thank me for my services. They're always a nice presence in the room. Then the scuzzy crowd saunters up, leering and smirking and just making me uncomfortable.