Michael meets Bee

Michael meets Bee

Michael meets Bee

“I WAS decent at sketching at school but when I floated the idea of attending Art school, my dad wasn’t keen. He didn’t appreciate my gift but I stymied him when I was awarded a scholarship to one of the most prestigious Art colleges in London.

I had a few months before my first term and decided on a trip to Thailand. My plan was to sketch ‘Working girls’ that worked the seedy hostess bars of Bangkok. I liked the look of them and had seen enough online to send my libido off the Richter scale.

Within days of arriving, I rented a real studio and it didn’t take long to find the bars. I saw an interesting looking place, local to me and stepped inside. A girl wearing a long, red evening-gown with a slit in the side caught my attention. Her face was made-up nicely and her eyes had a look of a dreamy sadness. Her curvy body was to lust for; her hair was long and black – I was drawn to her. I met Mon the mamasan, paid the bar-fine and waited while Bee changed.

She appeared a few minutes later in a pair of ripped jeans and a short, tangerine t-shirt that barely reached her belly button. I took her home in a taxi and directed her to the bathroom to change. I placed my sketchpad on its easel, searched through my pencils and selected two of a similar shade.
I waited a while then leaning my head to one side; I caught a glimpse of her in the bedroom kicking off her jeans. She stood there in a tight pair of tiger panties that stretched over her taut buttocks – I couldn’t help but stare. She pulled her t-shirt over her head and unclipped her tiger bra exposing her upturned breasts. She slid down her panties revealing a tiny path of pubic hair and then tossing her clothes onto the chair; she stepped over to the bed and slipped between the sheets.

She saw me watching her, grinned cheekily then turned back the top sheet, inviting me to join her. My heart was racing. I had the most beautiful girl in my bed waiting for me, but all I could think about was sketching her.
I walked over, held out a towel and waited as she wriggled into it. I led her to the studio and sat her on a stool facing me. She watched as I began sketching her, but couldn’t keep still. I offered her a whisky Cola and after several sips, she relaxed.

I sketched her for hours, pausing only to loosen my wrists, change pencils or take a drink. When I was ready, I showed her what I’d done. She smiled, took a picture on her mobile then sent it to a friend.
We worked all night, finishing in the early hours of the morning. I paid her a couple of thousand, put her into a taxi, returned to my studio then rolled into bed. Against my better judgement I had allowed her beauty and innocent charm to burn into my brain – I knew I had to see her again.

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