When it comes to erotica, I enjoy it in many forms - blog posts, novellas, and short stories. When Decker Shane shared his excerpt from his erotic short, The Model, with me I knew I wanted to share it with you. Only 99 cents on Amazon, you can get yourself worked up without spending a ton of money - and support an erotic author who just wants to make you hot. Check out the excerpt, and if you just have to know how the scene ends, click the purchase link at the end.
About The Model
A girl at Decker's hostel offers to model for him in a very erotic street art piece, and helps him to get into the right mindset.
Excerpt from The Model
“I’ll model for you.” Rose raises an eyebrow at me. She’s French, from somewhere on the northern coast. Her English is impeccable, but her accent is still heavy.
“Really?” I say. “That — that’d actually be really useful.”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder. It spills in an avalanche of copper-colored curls down her back. She gazes at me cooly, then pulls off her tank top. Her shoulders are fair and freckled, her breasts full in the cups of her black lace bra. She unbuttons her jeans and pulls down the zipper, still maintaining eye contact. I feel my face warm. She pulls them down over her hips — they’re tight, and she has to wiggle a bit — then steps out of them. Turns her back to me, lifts her hair to the side, exposing her bra strap. “Give me a hand?”
I step forward, my pulse suddenly fluttering a bit, and snap it open. The straps pop apart almost eagerly, and she shrugs it off. When she turns to me, her breasts are soft and lovely and full, freckled across the tops, curved beneath, with wide nipples the color of roses. Fitting, I think, inanely. She bends over and slides down her panties, stepping out of them daintily. There’s a strip of pale reddish curls running up from her pussy. She piles her clothes out of the way and then straightens up, eyeing me. Raises that eyebrow again.
I tangle for a moment with her sudden nakedness — with, if I’m being honest, the sudden answer to all of those body questions we always have about the people we find ourselves attracted to — what sort of nipples does she have? Will she have any tattoos? Is she shaved? If she isn’t, that hair … ! and then I’m finding the professional artist core within and regain my voice, rally my thoughts. Shake my head slightly to clear it. “Ah,” I say, and cough. “Great. I’d like to start with some gesture sketches in order to get the pose right.”
She nods. “Just tell me what you want,” she says. “It’s Aphrodite, yes?”
We’re standing on top of an abandoned factory on a small island in Greece, in the shadow of a wall that I noticed from far below, down by the beach — visible, in fact, only from a specific doorway in the wall leading out onto that beach. At the time I thought only of doing a piece there. It was only after talking to Rose for the better part of a morning that I had the idea of it being Aphrodite. Something about that soft, sensuous, vulnerable sort of beauty on the harsh industrial canvas of the factory appealed to me. The same part of me that Rose’s own soft, sensuous beauty was appealing to right now. Damn.
“So you thinking a classical, Botticelli Aphrodite,” she says, pulling her hair over a shoulder so it covers a breast, turning her body half in profile to me, all Renaissance propriety and sensuality wrapped in one. “Pinup Aphrodite …” she cocks her hip and presses her breasts together with her arms in a pretty good Marilyn Monroe impersonation.
There are a couple of milk crates on the roof from previous illicit gatherings here, and I pull one into position now, sit down on it and open my sketchpad. “That’s pretty good actually,” I say. “Hold that.”
I draw quickly, capturing the pose in a few lines. Look up at her. My artist brain is taking over, a bit, and my head is clearer for it. “I want the image to be arresting the moment you see it. I want it to grab you.”
She relaxes the pose, considers. “Well,” she says, “who is Aphrodite for you? Love? Beauty? The feminine ideal?” This last with a little wiggle of her hips that re-engages my non-artist brain for a shaky moment.
“Sex,” I say. “Female sexual power.” I pause, consider. “I want it to stop you in your tracks because she’s powerful, because you’re powerless against her, not because you want to own her.”
Her mouth curls up in a smile. “I like it,” she says. “Very pagan.”
She pauses to reflect, then leans casually against the wall. Her gaze goes steely, full of desire, but no weakness, no vulnerability. Her head goes back a little, a haughty tilt, her hips forward, her breasts jut. She cocks one leg jauntily, free hand planted on her hip. My mouth goes a little dry, and I begin to draw. The pose has power, seduction, grace, raw sensuality. The figures that appear on the paper are bold, present. It’s almost right.
She walks over to look at my sketches as I finish up, and I’m suddenly aware of her body beside mine. “It’s close,” I say. “Very close.”
“Mmmmm.” She’s looking over them with a critical eye.
“You look like you want to dominate me,” I say, “which is close, but not quite right. I’m not exactly going for that kind of power.”
Rose nods slowly. “You want it to look like less like I want to own you, and more like I want to fuck you,” she says, “fuck you like a goddess. Without owning.”
I nod. “Exactly.”
She rubs my head. “Good, then.”
She saunters back to the wall, and I can’t help dropping my gaze to watch her. She has an ass like a valentine. God.
She pauses at the wall to compose herself. Pulls her mass of copper curls so that it falls over her shoulder. Then leans again, against the wall. She meets my gaze, and then her eyes travel down, until she’s staring squarely at my cock. Her mouth parts slightly, and she flushes, just a bit. Her legs part, and her free hand strays to her pussy, where it rests, lingeringly. Her other hand, elbow braced against the wall, moves to rest loosely over her right breast, fingers just brushing her nipple, which stiffens at her own touch. I find myself suddenly hard, straining against my trousers, and I think I can see just the hint of a sly smile. My breath catches, and I begin to draw.
This time, it’s perfect. The kind of pose that, even glimpsed from a long ways off, will make people stop in their tracks and stare, jolted suddenly into awareness of this female sexuality. This female sexuality that is, as I begin to flesh in the details, as much Rose’s as it is generically feminine. With her flaming mass of hair, she looks like some kind of fire nymph. I wonder, as I shade in her nipples on the page, if she’s hot to the touch.
I take my time, wanting the sketch to be perfect before I start on the wall piece. When I’m done, I look up, exhale. Tilt the paper down for her to see. She saunters over and leans down to look at it. I can’t help but notice how her breasts hang, full and heavy, nipples pointed down. How easy it would be to reach out and hold them in my hands, feel the weight of them, the stiffness of her nipples. They’re still hard, her breathing quick, and she’s just a little flushed.
“I love it,” she says. She glances up. “You going to paint it right on the wall?”
I nod and gesture towards my bucket of brushes, my cans of black and white paint. For really public locations a lot of times I’ll go with spray cans, stencils, paste-ups. But for a secluded canvas like this one, I’ve always liked my brushes.
Rose drapes her clothing neatly over another milk crate and sits down on it. “I’ll keep my clothes off, in case you need more reference,” she says, with a little smile. I grin at her, allowing my eyes just the slightest non-artistic appraisal of her body. “I appreciate it.” I kneel by my tools and dig through them until I find my chalks. Start to sketch out the pose, life-sized, on the wall. After a little while, Rose moves to stand beside the emerging life-sized figure, leaning against the wall and watching me work.
The sketch on the wall is close, but it doesn’t quite feel right to me. It lacks the energy of the sketch, the heat. Rose watches me erasing lines here and there for a moment in silence.
“You know,” she says, “I think you should be naked too.”
I pause, wet rag poised above the wall, in the act of removing a line, and look at her. The corners of her mouth curl up in a smile. “I saw how you looked at me when you were doing the first sketch,” she said. “In that moment, you wanted me.” She gestures at the wall. “Now you’re just trying to get my tits right.”
I look at the wall and frown. That is, indeed, what I’m in the middle of doing.
“Take your shirt off,” she says. She walks over to her crate, sits down on it. Spreads her legs casually, one hand hanging loosely between them, the way the young Greek men do in the plazas while they drink their coffee. The machismo of it, combined with her nakedness, those red curls over her pussy, heats up my blood. I feel myself stiffen again in my pants. Swallow, and take off my shirt.
About Decker Shane
Decker Shane is an erotica author, traveler, and street artist. The content he writes is mostly based on true events; names and details have been changed to protect the enjoyably guilty. You can find Decker on Twitter at @realdeckershane, and on Amazon at amazon.com/author/deckershane.