Date: Tue, 31 Aug 2004 20:26:20 -0700 (PDT)
From: ybother1122@yahoo.com
Subject: Good Girl 6

This is a story about the sexual awakening of a young woman. If you either;
A) aren't into that, B) aren't old enough to be reading it, or C) can't
read, you should really stop here. If you liked (or hated) this story, drop
us a line at ybother1122@yahoo.com. Don't take anything you read here too
seriously, I certainly didn't.



"So you aren't angry with me?"

Heather lay with her head in Steven's lap, her hand still gently stroking
his deflating erection. Denise spooned with the girl, running her
fingernails back and forth over her trim stomach. The shaking, crying and
shivering had subsided for the three as the sun's first full rays shone
down on Sabine Maas' white villa.

"Why would we be angry with you, honey," Denise said, kissing the back of
the girl's neck.

"I-I wasn't faithful to you, everyone saw it."

Steven reached over to the night table and lit one of the cigarettes he
kept in a silver holder, "I don't remember us marrying you. For that
matter, I don't remember either of us asking you to."

Heather was still unsettled, "Well, you know..."

"What kind of hypocrisy would that be," Denise laughed, "My husband and I
open our bed and marriage to you and then demand you stay true to us?"

"That would be pretty bad," Steven said, firing three rapid smoke rings
into new sunbeams coming through the bay window. "You're thinking like
we're in high school."

Steven thought about that for a second and shrugged at Heather, "Not that
there's anything wrong with that."

"But what did it look like to the others?" she said. "The three of us
screwing like crazed weasels on the beach in full view of anyone in the
area."

Denise accepted the cigarette from Steven and took a long drag, "The
admiral thought you looked like a sea nymph rising from the ocean – he
actually said that."

"What?"

"He's an amateur poet," Denise said. "His wife said she wanted to be you."

Heather shuddered, "I am so embarrassed."

"You shouldn't be," Denise said. "She's the most self-absorbed woman on the
face of the..."

Steven made a short, arcing hand sign to his wife and addressed
Heather. "You should be more concerned about the impact you're having on
Solique," Steven said. He crushed out the cigarette and pulled the slight
teenager up to his shoulder. "I think she's falling in love with you."

"I've known her less than 24 hours!" Heather protested.

"She calls you her `anjo,'" Steven said. "That means `angel' in
Portuguese. I think she's becoming attached to you. She was giving you the
eye all the way through dinner."

Heather closed her eyes, "I don't want that. It's not like we're going to
be together very long. I mean, we had sex at the dress shop...oh Christ!"

"Oh, you kinky girl!" Denise twirled her hand around the girl's labia,
reawakening the lust so recently put to bed. "Who was on top?"

Heather squirmed, protesting everything, giggling and touching. Steven's
need reawakened itself against her belly and she ground it against her. She
decided the conversation had gone too long against her, "How do you two
know Sabine?"

"She was my first lover," Steven said. "I was an army brat living in
Hanover and her father owned a beer garden in a suburb, Garbsen. She took
me to my first clothing-optional beach; I was younger than you at the
time."

"How old were you?" Heather was entranced by the idea that Steven – her
definition of a worldly man - might have been a virgin once. Of course he
had to have been, but the idea didn't quite fit in her head.

"I was 14," he said, "And she was 25."



************

Sabine Maas had finished laying out paints in her small home outside
Hanover and had brewed a small pot of coffee. She was waiting for her model
to arrive so she could start work on her sketching. Most of the art circles
in mid-70s Germany were circling closer and closer to political multimedia
presentations, something she wasn't interested in. She was more interested
in the oldest art subject, the human form.

She had just poured her first cup when she heard a knock at the door. She
opened it to see a teenage boy, all denim, mirrored sunglasses and
sneakers, standing there. He nodded a greeting, "Can I speak to Frau Maas,
please?"

An American, she thought. His German had the peculiar spacing and phrasing
that marked it separate from British German. It wasn't bad, for his
apparent age.

"I am Sabine Maas," she said. "Can I help you?"

"I'm here from the college employment office," he said.

"I don't need my lawn mowed," she said. "There must be a mistake."

The boy rummaged through his denim jacket and pulled out an envelope with a
university seal in the upper-left corner, "They told me to give this to
you."

Sabine opened the envelope to find a short, handwritten letter from Hermann
Moeller, the head of the art department. It read: "Sabine, All of the usual
subjects are taking part in some tedious performance piece near Checkpoint
Charlie. Steven should fill your needs nicely. He could have filled
mine...but you know how Americans are about such things. Kisses, Hermann."

Sabine rolled her eyes. This is what Hermann sent her when she needed a
model. The foul old queen, she thought.

The boy stood patiently, seemingly content to admire the trim on the door
while she studied the letter. She thought carefully and invited him in, "So
you're Steven Lindeman?"

"Yeah," he said as he walked into the studio.

"The name sort of threw me; I thought you'd be a local boy."

Steven rolled his eyes then pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead. "Most
people do. Listen, if you don't want me just let me know, the college will
send a German kid along as soon as possible."

Sabine took in the dark cast of the boy's eyes; they had a spark of genuine
anger lurking beneath the usual teenage indifference. That's hard to fake,
she thought, obviously his accent has cost him more than one job. She shook
her head and motioned towards the small couch near the studio, "You'll do
just fine. That is, if you care for the work."

Steven sat down and accepted a cup of coffee. He was trying not to stare at
the albino beauty in front of him. He wished he had kept the sunglasses on
his face, that way he could pretend he wasn't being rude.

Steven considered himself a pretty worldly person, considering his own
age. He spent the first three years of his life in Texas, the next five in
South Korea and the last six in Germany. He'd seen some stuff; he had
pictures to prove it.

But the woman in front of him was very different. She was tall and willowy
and white as snow. He could see the swell of her breasts beneath her
painters' smock and the drawstring pants she wore hinted at hard thighs. It
was easier to ogle her body privately than it was to ogle her face.

An albino, she was almost ghostly in the indirect light of the studio,
blazing when she walked into a shaft of sunlight. Sabine's irises were a
livid pink around the edges that slid into a vermillion at the center. They
were framed by high, wide cheekbones and firm jaw which gave her a regal
bearing. Her white hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

"I don't know what they told you at the university office," Sabine started
slowly. "I'm sorry, would you prefer we speak English?"

"It doesn't matter," he said in English.

"Do you have your work papers?" she asked. Underage workers needed
permission slips from parents and the local schools before they could earn
wages in West Germany. He produced a sheaf of official documents, signed
and dated in two languages. They showed that Steven Jesse Lindeman, 14, was
a student in good standing and permitted by his parents, Col. Arthur and
Penny Lindeman, to work.

"Good. I don't know what they told you at the office. I'm a painter."

He nodded. Sabine noted the boy's disposition had changed from sullen anger
to genuine excitement. It had obviously been a long job search for the
teen. "That's not a problem, I didn't wear good clothes. I also don't have
a problem with solvents or thinners or whatever you use."

"Ah," Sabine said carefully. "Then Herr Moeller didn't mention anything
about what I need from you today?"

"He said there wouldn't be any heavy lifting," Steven said. "So I figured
you weren't a sculptor. Not that it's a problem," he reassured her quickly,
"I can do heavy lifting."

Sabine finished her coffee. "There's no lifting at all, but there will be a
lot of sitting. Steven, what I need is a model."

She watched the boy try to sort out the concept in his head. Eventually, he
figured it out, "You want to paint pictures of me?"

"Sketch, really," she said. "I'm working in pencils."

"That doesn't seem too hard."

"Well, you should know that I'm working in nudes exclusively," Sabine
said. "Is that going to be a problem for you?"

Steven Lindeman was entirely unprepared for what the woman just told
him. He was thinking he'd be stretching canvases or mixing paint, or
trimming hedges for that matter. The idea of stripping in front of an
employer hadn't entered his mind.

"If that's not an option, it's all right," she said.

"I just hadn't considered it," he said. She could see the thoughts boiling
inside the boy. Steven decided to return to concepts he could grasp, "What
does it pay?"

"Fifty marks an hour is standard modeling salary," she said. "A minimum of
three hours work per day."

Steven did the math in his head very quickly. He hadn't anticipated nudity,
certainly, but he also hadn't dreamed of a one-day paycheck three times the
size of a one-week paycheck at any of the other places he'd applied in the
past month. His need for spending money was overshadowing his modesty at a
frightening speed.

"OK. That sounds good to me," he said with a nervous chuckle. "Is anyone
going to see these?"

"Would that be a problem?"

"I don't think so," he said. "My parents wouldn't like it but they don't
get much art. We wouldn't be breaking any laws, right?"

"Not if you don't," Sabine said and smiled.



Sabine prepared her metal easel while Steven removed his clothes and folded
them on a chair. She started to wonder if a military household can really
take the slob out of a teenage boy (nothing did it for her three brothers),
when she realized it was modesty. No one took that much care with tube
socks, she thought.

After five minutes, he stood there in all of his nervous glory, hands
carefully placed in front of him. She saw that, for his age, he was
well-formed. He had a physique that spoke of lots of running, though more
likely in an American football uniform than the European
version. Eventually the sculpture of his form would tend towards a heavier
upper body as a broadening chest foretold.

"Excellent," she said lightly. "Let's get you situated."

She took him by the arm and led him to a stool flanked on three sides by
neutral drop cloths. With minimal touching, she put him in a pose that put
his genitals out of immediate view: the classic "thinker" image. As she
directed and arranged him, she glanced between his legs at the boy's
penis. That's probably mostly nervousness, she thought.

"Have you had trouble finding work?" she asked.

"It's been a drag," he said. "There are all kinds of kids available and
they aren't going to give any of it to a kid from the base if they can
avoid it. It's tough. I know three freakin' languages."

"People can be petty."

She started to work quickly, hashing out the large details first before
putting details in. After almost 20 minutes, she pulled back from her easel
and nodded, "Come and look, Steven. I think it's a good first effort."

Steven came over and looked at the drawing. It didn't look a lot like him,
at least in the face, which was something he immediately appreciated. Other
than that, he thought it looked good.

Sabine leaned back and gazed over the boy in his first unselfconscious
moment since taking off his clothes. Half leaning over to view the drawing,
he was giving her a nice view of his entire body. She leaned in and
breathed the boy's flesh in. He was all soap and minty gum.

"You're really good," Steven said brightly.

"Glad you like it," she said. "Now back to work."

She brought a hat rack from the corner of the room and had him stand next
to it with one arm laid over the top and his head pointed down. After a
couple minutes of his fidgeting, she understood what was wrong.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah," he said, unconvincingly.

She got up from the easel and went to his side, "Are you feeling a little
self-conscious?"

He nodded sheepishly. Sabine patted his shoulder, "That's alright. I can
help."

With that, she unbuttoned her shirt and removed it to reveal her bare
chest. Steven stared mutely at the ivory-white globes, each tipped with a
palest pink nipple.

"Now we are both nude," she said and turned back to the easel.

As she worked to render the pose, she noticed Steven glancing at her from
the corners of his eyes, each time taking in the curves of her chest. She
was a thin woman, toned from running but still quite spare. He gazed from
the tips of her nipples to the taut plane of her belly and wondered if she
had ever felt the sun at all.

Sabine suppressed a smile as she watched the boy's cock twitch and
grow. Arousal was par for the course in nude portraiture, for artists as
well as models. Many of the models she knew were exhibitionists who posed
for the thrill, which was not uncommon either. But the boy was new, so his
reactions were honest.

She wondered a bit about her own arousal. She had been around models for
years but never got more than a twinge from them. Maybe it was because it
was a boy, practically more than a child that caught her attention. Maybe
it was because he thought he'd be mowing the lawn today.

Maybe it was the thought of something new. He couldn't have any experience,
could he? No, his nervousness proved he didn't, she thought. There is the
appeal of holding that unique spot in this beautiful boy's history. The
one. The first one. You can only have one first time, and who she was in a
mood to be that woman. He would forever remember this afternoon in her
studio. Her hands, her mouth, would be the measure for all others.

Steven was ready to scream. He thought it was enough of a leap for one day
to peel down in front of a stranger. Enough for a whole week, actually. But
being naked in front of this woman, staring at her perky titties was way
too much. The growing horror from the realization that, yes, he was getting
a boner was making him start to sweat. Please don't pop a boner, whatever
you do, do not get a boner.

"Come and look, Steven," Sabine said after what felt like a decade.

Steven came over to the easel and forced himself to look at the drawing
there. Not at the titties, the easel. He was immediately put off guard by
what he saw there.

"I don't think that's me," he said.

"Of course it's you," she said.

"I'm not that well-defined," he said.

It was true. The figure in the picture looked like he was carved out of
wood. The muscles in his chest twined sinuously over to his shoulder to
wind around a seriously cut bicep. The man in the picture looked like he
was covered in tissue paper rather than skin.

"It's a technique," Sabine explained. "The pose is all about revealing
muscle groups. I took a class in anatomy to get that right. Let me show
you."

She stood before Steven with her charcoal pencil in hand and started to
draw on his chest and arms. Calling out their names as she went (trapezium,
deltoid, pectorals), she traced out the major and minor muscle groups on
his skin. She dropped to her knees and outlined the various muscles within
the boy's quadriceps leading up to his abdomen.

When she got there, she almost batted herself in the nose with his
now-engorged cock.

Oh, she thought, he was nervous. Or was he? She was beautiful, she
knew. Even to a teenager accustomed to lusting after nubile young
things. Wasn't she? Of course, she was experienced and cool and hot and
distant, at least on her icy exterior. Inside she was a school girl, trying
to win over his attention and approval, as if a 14-year-old with a hard-on
is challenging prey.

Steven started to splutter apologies when she wrapped her hand around his
girth and stroked him gently. His voice trailed away after a second into
ragged, shivering breathing. Taking great care, she pulled the boy into her
mouth.

Steven gasped as his cock entered a soft, hot universe. The artist's cool
lips ran further and further down him, bringing more and more of him into
that oven. He reached back reflexively to hold onto the easel, a chair,
anything because his knees were threatening to give out on him.

When she pulled back, the sharp end of her tongue fluttered against the
head of his cock, causing his entire body to shake. Sabine bobbed her head
rhythmically a few more times before she felt the telltale convulsions, the
precursors to orgasm. She knew that fucking was going to be impossible and
frustrating to her, so she chose to be his perfect first time. All about
him, she thought. Let it be all about him. Still, even though she knew it
would be his experience, the ache between her legs grew more intense. Damn
virgins anyway – she'd just get a taste and then he'd be finished.

Steven felt the muscles between his legs start to pull hard as his entire
length went into its final, strange numbness. A second earlier he might
have been able to stop himself, but now the end was inevitable and
unavoidable. He cried out as he fired pulse after pulse of cum into
Sabine's mouth. The easel, which had slowly bent out of shape under
Steven's weight, finally collapsed in a clatter and scrape on the tiles of
the studio.

"Aagh," Steven's face furrowed with pain.

Sabine quickly pulled away from him, horrified at the idea she may have
bitten him at what should have been the sweetest moment, "Did I hurt you?
Are you all right?"

"Shit! My back!"

He rolled over, revealing a long scrape starting at his armpit leading down
to the middle of his back where one of the support bands of the metal easel
dragged a bouncing, jagged end along his skin. It wasn't deep, there was
little blood, but it was the kind of flesh wound that would leave a mark
for weeks.

She touched the blood, the bright red livid against her white fingers. She
stared at them for a second, then looked up to see Steven staring into her
red-tinged eyes. He laced his fingers into the hair on the back of her
head, leaned in and kissed her. It was a sloppy, inexperienced kiss, a
virgin's kiss. Sabine drank it in, carefully correcting his ministrations
until they were flawless.

They broke away after a few moments. Steven looked at Sabine's bloody
fingertips with a single intensity. He turned to her and stared into her
eyes, "How many times does this happen: it's the guy's first time and he's
the one that bleeds?"

Sabine put the fingers to her lips, smearing the blood roughly and kissed
him. This time they kissed for a very long time. Afterward, she pulled back
and leaned on her elbow.

"Do you want to come back for work tomorrow?"

"Sure," Steven said.

"I still mean to pay you for posing, and I want for you to keep posing,"
she said.

"Cool."

"Don't move." She got up and set a palette of paper on her lap, hastily
sketching him frozen in a half turn that revealed the reddening scar on his
back. "You can tell your parents you got that clearing brush."



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