Date: 3 Oct 2002 10:04:15 -0700
From: Dave <davmay699@icqmail.com>
Subject: The Artist's Model ("Adult Youth )

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The Artist's Model
By
Dave


	I am a Navaho Indian that grew up on a reservation near
Taos, New Mexico.  Taos is an interesting area.  It is located on
the Pakos River, the last river in the west that flows into the Gulf
of Mexico.  The only remains of the Assize Indians or as we
called the "Old Ones" were the ruins of villages that must have
held thousands of people.  How they fed that many people has
been lost in time.

	My people had developed a trading system that collected
abalone shells from California, turquoise from Arizona, coral
from Florida and semi precious tones from Mexico to make
jewelry with local silver and copper.  The Spanish disrupted the
trade routes and American's tried to destroy the native people's
culture.  It has only become fashionable to be an Indian artist in
the last couple of generations.

	Taos has a large artist colony.  It developed from the
twenties into a Mecca for eastern artist that wanted to exasperate
the east and the feel of the western visual expansive vistas.
They gathered against the mountains east of town.  They sought
out local Indian artists and studied the Indian legends and art.
Some just made cheep copies of the Indian art, but a few truly
immersed themselves in the culture and became very good.

	At the time I was a brown child that ran around the
reservation under the watchful eyes of my grandparents while
my parents worked in Oklahoma oil fields.  I was always trying
to con the tourists into paying me to allow them to take my
picture.  It was this greedy act drew the attention of one of the
eastern artist.  He was not trying to paint our sketch in the
Navaho stile.  He was making sketches of faces, while he sat
with the elders listing to every legend that the old folks would
tell him.

	I tried to hit him up for money because he had sketched
my face.  He laughed at me and said, "If you really want to earn
money for posing as an artist's model I would pay you.  If your
were willing to pose for hours without complaint."

	I jumped at the offer.  We had to get permission of my
grandfather first.  It did not take much money to buy my
services.  There were four of my brothers and sisters running
around the reservation with a lot of our cousins.  All of our
parents had to leave the reservation to make a living.

	So I got to know this big white artist that had been
hanging around the reservation for a long time.  I should
describe him for you.  His name was Paul.  I would say he was
at least six-foot two.  His blonde hair was turning gray and he
pulled it back into a ponytail.  The hair was held in place by a
leather thong with silver bugles on the ends (funnel shaped
tubes).  His hair was thinning on the front, typical of a white
man over fifty.  I'm sure in his youth he had an athletic figure.
Now his belly hung over his pants.  The silver and turquoise belt
buckle was almost hidden.

	The arrangement was for him to take me back to his
studio in the morning and return me in the evening.  He would
feed me too.  I was thrilled because he had been arriving on the
reservation five and six days a week on a Harley Davidson
motorcycle.  It was a teal and cream two-toned bike I was to
learn was an STC (Soft Tail Custom).  The high rise handlebars
had leather thongs hanging with matching bugles to his hair
bindings.  The leather saddlebags had fringe decorated in Indian
stile too.

	He swung his leg over the bike and offered his hand for
me to climb onto the back on what he called the bitch seat.  The
chrome foot-pegs were flipped out and I settled back against the
little backrest.  The brass eagle with upturned wings looked neat
to me.  He touched the electric started and the engine thundered
to life.  The noise was ear shattering.  As we rolled down the dirt
road on our way to the highway the thump-de, thump-de, thump
of the engine shook the bike like a vibrator.  The leather saddle
between my legs felt like it was managing my butt.

	It was about a 45-minute ride to his studio.  When he
parked the bike under a shaded carport and swung out the hasty
stand and turned the switch off on the gas tank, I slimed off and
felt the tingle in my butt.  We entered the back yard and I found
it to be so different from the reservation.  Where the reservation
was dry and red dust every place, his back yard has a small
creek running down the rocks between pine tees.

	We spent most of the morning with him sketching me.  I
was dressed in jeans and T-shirt. His sketches were changed to
colorful Navaho costumes.  We broke for lunch and took the
bike to Taos for a nice lunch.  He made a stop at an art store to
buy some supplies, before we returned to the home.  We spent
the rest of the day working.  After dinner he took me home.
When the sun was setting it was still warm and comfortable
riding on the back of the bike.

	As the days passed I was getting use to Paul moving me
around to pose me the way he wanted me.  I even started getting
a little hard-on when I felt his big hands touching me on my
chest, crotch and inner thighs.  One day he asked me if it would
bother me to pose naked?  I had slept naked with two of my
older brothers all my life.  So the only question I had was would
it pay more.  Paul laughed and said yes.

	I stripped off my clothes and struck the pose, Paul asked
for.  He sketched for hours.  It was the grumbling of my stomach
that reminded him that we needed to have lunch.  He tossed me
a thin cotton robe and we went into the house.  While he made
lunch I checked out the paintings on the easels.  They were very
nice oils of me with the bright colors of the southwest in the
background.  After lunch we went back outside and we were
back to sketching again.  When he started putting his hands on
me to move me into the pose he wanted me in, my skin tingled
and I got a boner.  Paul hardly seemed to notice.

	When he took me home that night I had hot dreams about
what we did that day.  I was up bright and early.  I wondered if
Paul would want to have me pose naked again.  By the time we
rolled into the driveway I had a painful boner.  This time we
went into the large family room and he had me strip.  On
Navaho reservations the adobe cooking ovens are outdoors.
Paul had one in a corner of the family room.  It served as a
fireplace.  He had me pose in front of it.  During lunch brake I
got a chance to flip through the sketchpad.  I was thrilled to see
what he was doing.

	Indians are known for lack of body hair naturally but at
my age I did not even have pubic hair above my cock.  I have a
brown skin tone all over my body.  There is no light area from
short sleeve shirts or bathing suit lines.  My hair is cut typical of
the boys my age on the reservation. Black bangs and the back
was tapered down my back.  My nipples are kind of oval and
horizontal to the grown.  As for my penis, it was about the size
of an Oscar Myer winner.  I had a full foreskin.  When I pulled it
all the way back the inside was a darker color than the skin on the
outside of the shaft.  My scrotum was small and tight against my
body.  Each testicle was no larger than a desert hen's egg.  When
I bend over you see that the skin around the pucker of my
asshole is dark too.

	The sketches of course don't show the color but the
darkness shows in the shading.  At one point when Paul wanted
me to lift my leg and place it on the some logs, he touched my
butt and a finger grazed my asshole.  I got a boner that stuck out
straight out in front of my body.  Paul gave me a big smile and
complemented me on what a nice looking cock I had.  I smiled
shyly.

	Paul asked, "Do you mind if I touch it?

	I smiled, "I don't mind."

	Paul took hold of my cock with his thumb facing my
tummy.  He stroked my cock a few times.  Then he kissed me on
the mouth.  No one had ever kissed me that way before.  As he
kissed me he was running his hands over my body.  My skin felt
like tingly all over.

	Here was this huge man towering over me.  He was
dressed in expensive cowboy boots that were custom made for
him in Texas.  He has on faded blue jeans, which were long in
the legs and frayed at the heel because his boots were stepping
on them all the time.  He had on a black Harley Davidson T-shirt
with a white picture of a Harley V-Twin engine on the back.  On
the front was a ten-year-old date and the words Laughland Run.
As always his belly was hanging over the belt buckle.  The front
of the shirt was pulled out of his pants and you could see graying
and wiry hairs on his lower tummy.

	I stood there looking into his blue eyes as he unhooked
the buckle and toughed on the top of his jeans and as they
opened I saw that he had on light blur cotton European stile brief
underpants.  They had no fly like American underpants.  He took
hold of the waistband and pushed them down and pulled his
cock and scrotum out and over the underpants.

	Paul had a lot of body hair.  It was turning gray too.  What
can I say about the way he was hung?  His scrotum reminded me
of an Indians "Possible's bag" a loose, soft leather bag to carry
personal items, like flint and steel, religious totems and tobacco.
The sack just hung very low, with the left ball lower than the
right.  Then there was his cock.  It drooped towards the grown
like a limp hose.  As for the diameter I had seen horses that
didn't have dicks as big around as Paul's cock.  The head was a
reddish purple.  Paul wrapped his hand around his shaft and
stroked it until it was standing up in a curve to his left side and
almost touching his belly.

	I leaned over and took it into my hand and stroked it for
Paul.  Then I put my face close to the head and smelled him.  It
was a heady odor of sweaty flesh, laundry soap and the faint sent
of Bay Rum after-shave.  I opened my mouth and licked the
head of the head of his cock.  I opened my mouth as much as I
could.  All I could get in my mouth was the head and that
portion of his cock that marked where his foreskin had been cut
off.  I started bobbing my head up and down, as I sucked his
cock.  I could taste the salty meaty taste of his flesh.

	The act of bobbing my head up and down was making my
little dick start bobbing up and down until it was slapping my
hairless lower tummy.  I was about to reach between my legs to
masturbate myself, but Paul reached between my legs first and
took hold of my winner sized cock and started masturbating me.

	He finally picked me up and carried me to the leather
couch and sat down with me on his lap.  He was kissing me
while he was stroking my stiff dick up and down.  As he was
milking my cock I saw drops of a clear liquid appear at the piss
hole.  Paul leaned over and licked up the liquid.  I had a climax
and for the first time in my life I squirted some cum out of my
dick.  Paul licked up every drop and thanked me for giving him
my cum.  I told him that was the first time I ever came.  He
kissed on the mouth and thanked me for the gift.

	I had to get back to tasting his cock.  So, Paul lay back on
the couch and I knelt on the floor and took hold of his cock with
both hands and put as much of it into my mouth as I could.  By
the time Paul filled my mouth with cum, my jaw was aching.  I
swallowed as much as I could.

	As the summer was coming to an end and I knew I would
soon have to go back to Texas and go to school I hated that I
would soon have to leave Paul.  I was desperate to please Paul.  I
wanted to know what else we could do with each other.
Paul told me that when I want home, he would hips his canvases
to New York for an exhibit.  He would have to go there and be
sense as a quaint regional artist.  They like to think that I am part
Indian.  They think I live on a reservation.  They have no idea
that I have a Masters degree from the University of California at
Berkeley.  I am a third generation scotch Irish mix.  I dress up in
Dear skin western jacket and Stetson hat with Navaho silver
sweatband on it.

	But he told me I could fuck him.  We had finished
sketching for the day.  Paul knelt face down on the floor in front
of me, and I knelt behind him and guided my dick into his
asshole.  It was strange to watch my foreskin being pushed back
as my cock slid into his asshole.  When I was all the way inside
him, I started fucking his ass.  I was holding onto his hips as I
fuck him.  When I climaxed I just lay on his back.  After a few
minutes my dick lost its erection and just slipped out f his hairy
asshole.

	Paul rolled over and gathered me into his arms.  He had a
hard-on that felt like a log pressed against my belly.  He asked
me if I wanted to try letting him fuck me.  I was apprehensive
about the possibility of him getting that thing in my ass.  I was
excited about the possibility just the same.

	Paul picked me up and took me into his bedroom and
placed me on my back.  He reached over to the nightstand and
took a jar of Vaseline out of the drawer and put plenty on the
shaft of his dick and used his slippery fingers to grease my
asshole.  Then he guided the head of his cock at the little brown
hole.  I didn't know what to expect.  When I felt a sharp pain, I
placed my hands on his belly and tried to push him away.  It felt
like I was being split open.


	Paul pulled back and the pain was not quite as bad.  He
wrapped his hand around my cock and held on like it was a
saddle horn, as he shoved all of his cock deep into my ass.  I was
almost crying as he started fucking me.  Soon I felt like every
stroke into my butt was making my dick pulse.  I even climaxed
and shot cum all the way to my navel.  Paul was sweating all
over my face.  Then he started squirting cum into my asshole.

	We showered together before he took me back to the
reservation.  I did get to see Paul on Holidays until the next
summer.  As the years passed I saw him take sketched of me as I
was and have me making love to an older version of me.  He
told me that most were for his private collation, but he did have
a market for a few private collectors that were willing to pay
large amounts for an original sample of his erotic paintings.



If you enjoyed the story and have a story you would like me to
write send your comments to davmay699@icqmail.com.