04. Madame Jolie's Art Class - Sex Stories

04. Madame Jolie's Art Class

People call me BC. BigCat. I have had this nickname all my life except for a period of 3 or 4 years at Art College, where I was known as ‘Fluffer’. These are the stories of that time. Fluffer’s time. My Art College was putting on a series of fund raising events, one of which was a chance to do a life-drawing class with the college’s star, a French Artist called Madame Jolie. Obviously, this wasn’t her real name, none of us could remember that, so even she referred to herself as Madame Jolie . The name was supposed to be ironic because she always dressed in antique Victorian funeral clothing, apparently “mourning the death of the individual.” However, being in her late twenties and shapely, with thick white mascara, heavy black eyeliner and trussed up bleached-blonde hair, she looked a little more Monroe than Morticia. More Madame than Mortician. Mme Jolie had been let down by their life model, who selfishly had to go and give birth. So they needed, at very short notice, a nude. Don’t ask me how, but Madame talked me into volunteering. No, do ask me how. Mme Jolie was a good friend of my best friend Sara and, with a reasoning that defies all logic, she decided I owed her for my ‘education’. (See 01. Sara and the origins of Fluffer). Since she’d taught me what was where I was having the sex of my life. She said. I guess I can only blame myself for letting her eke out the gory details every time I got any. So one bright, cold, Saturday morning I found myself in the middle of a ...

... light and airy studio, dressed only in a woman’s silk robe in front of a crowd of – predominantly female – strangers. At college, I had attended plenty of life-drawing classes, on the other side of the easel, so I knew what to expect. A blast of little 5 min warm-up poses then 2 or 3 longer, 20-minute ones. There was a great big clock on the wall, which I imagined would be my only friend over the next 90 minutes. Madame Jolie clapped her hands, nodded brightly at me, and I dutifully closed my eyes and took off the robe. In a rustle of black silk, she was at my side to remove it and asked me to sit on a stool. “Tres Bien!” She kept saying, as she looked me up and down. “Ok everyone we have a lot of detail here, lots of lines and crevasses and shapes on this body, very good monsieur. Five minutes. Allez!” First pose, no problem, sitting with my hands in my lap. No-one could see the jewels. Clap. Second pose, little more difficult as they gawped at my bare buttocks, but I couldn’t see them so it didn’t matter. Clap. Third pose. Bollocks. No I mean it. Bollocks. Full frontal, hands-on-head. Some tittering from a couple of girls and Madame Jolie just chucked them out, immediately, no second chances. “You don’t know how to really see! As artists see! You are still children! Get out!” She screeched, throwing charcoal at them. I relaxed, with Madame Jolie on my side; this might not be so bad. I cruised through the other short-poses, recognising the looks on the “artists” faces; they ...