Art
   The other ladies in the class could have been cabbage patch 
kids for all I cared. I sketched quickly, capturing upon my pad 
the model's handsome face, his muscled shoulders, his lean torso, 
leaving the good parts, his rugged wool, his sleepy penis, his 
nestling balls, for last. The model was good, but I knew what I 
wanted; I'm an artist. I roughed him in, toning his tight 
belly with my thumb, smudging the wool, drawing his dreamily 
slumbering shaft up and out with my fingertips, and stiffening 
the outline with my nails until his cock was full and firm and 
aimed right at me. Then I measured the dangle of his balls, 
chalking them, chucking them, cradling the contours and teasing 
the wrinkles and palming the heft. A single stroke more would do 
it, but I held off, admiring the cock's velvet beauty and the 
droplet of juice welling and gleaming in the tight little slit. I 
turned my pad just in time. The cum splashed like cream. I let it 
drip for just a moment, then turned the drawing face up so it 
could dry. All art needs that touch of reality, don't you agree?