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People call me BC. Big Cat. A nickname I’ve had since I was a boy. However, during my years at art college I was known as ‘Fluffer’. These are the stories of that time. Fluffer’s tales.

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My college put on a series of fundraising events, one of which was a chance to do a life-drawing class with the college’s star, a French artist called Madame Jolie. Obviously, this wasn’t her real name, none of us could remember that, so even she started referring to herself as Madame Jolie. The nickname was supposed to be ironic because she always dressed in dour, antique Victorian funeral clothing. Apparently she was: “Mourning ze death of ze individual since ze industrial revolution”. However, being in her late twenties and shapely, with thick white mascara, heavy black eyeliner and trussed up bleached-blonde hair, she looked more Monroe than Morticia. More Madame than Mortician.

Mme Jolie had been let down by their life model, who selfishly had to go and give birth, so needed at very short notice, a nude. Don’t ask me how she talked me into volunteering. Work it out for yourself from these two facts: a) I was still nursing a crush on Fleur so Mme Jolie’s accent was irresistible, and b) Madame was the mentor of my best friend (not a typo), Sara.

So one bright, cold, Saturday morning I found myself under the spotlight in the school’s grandest studio, dressed only in a woman’s silk robe in front of a crowd of – predominantly female – strangers.

As part of my architecture course I had attended plenty of life-drawing classes on the other side of the easel, so I knew what to expect. A blast of 5-minute warm-up poses then 2 or 3 longer, 20-minute ones. There was a great big clock on the wall, which I imagined would be my only friend over the next 90 minutes. The wall of mirrors behind the students certainly wouldn’t be. The reflection already tortured me with a view of this alarming tranny-hulk. Sweating and on the verge of tears.

Mme Jolie clapped her hands, jerked a nod at me, and I dutifully closed my eyes and unfastened the robe. In a rustle of black silk she was at my side to remove it and asked me to sit on a stool. “Tres Bien! Tres Bien!” she clucked as her eyes skipped all over my trembling gooseflesh.

“OK everybody we have a lot of detail here, lots of bumps and dips and veins on this body. Very good, monsieur. Five minutes. Allez!”

First pose, no problem, sitting with my hands in my lap. No-one could see the jewels. Clap. Second pose stood facing away from them. A little more difficult as they gawped at my bare arse, but I couldn’t see them, so fuck it. Clap. Third pose. Bollocks. No I mean it. Bollocks. Full frontal, hands-on-head. Some tittering from a couple of girls and Mme Jolie just chucked them out, immediately, no second chances.

“You don’t know how to really see! As artists see! You are still children! Get out!” She chucked charcoal after them.

I relaxed, with Mme Jolie on my side this might not be so bad. I cruised through the other short-poses, recognising the looks on the “artists” faces. They were focussed on shape, shade, and proportion. No one was concerned with the fact there was a guy in the room with his very real cock out.

Except maybe… her. A feline girl with an open, good-humoured face and a dark tumble of curls piled messily on top of her head.

Typical. You tell yourself something, convince yourself it is true, and then your mind simply has to find the exception. And no sooner had I found the twinkle in this cheeky cat-girl’s eye when she smiled a complicit little secret smile back at me.

Seed of doubt sown. As the short poses ended, I remembered with a jolt of horror, that these weren’t art students. These were ordinary civilians out for a distraction on Saturday morning and – with the exception of one middle-aged bloke – all female. What’s more, it almanbahisbahis seemed the cat-girl was getting more and more “distracted” by the minute.

I told myself this was just wilful arrogance on my part. My puffed-up pride forcing me to see things that weren’t there. Like: No one, surely, could look at this body, this member, without becoming aroused!

First long pose. No place to hide. Reclined, all out there. “Everybody look at my package!” for 20 long minutes. My brightly lit reflection, silhouetting my audience, was the dullest peepshow on the planet.

Halfway through, Mme Jolie picked up this silver-haired woman’s sketch. “Tres Bien! Everybody look! Look at this! This woman is an artist! She has drawn a lion! Ready to spring!”

“Actually, it’s a jaguar.”

“Oui! C’est magnifique! My dear why did you chose to draw this animal and not our helpful model over there?”

“Ah… he just looks like a jaguar.”

“Oui! And monsieur.” She turned to me. “You ARE like a coiled animal, too tensed. Loosen up. We are here to draw you, not admire your physique.”

The second pose was a haze of trying to avoid Cat-girl, who continued to smirk at me if I caught her eye, and who was getting pinker as the morning wore on. She even took off her jumper, biting back a giggle as I clocked her nipples, stiff against her cotton blouse beneath.

Third, and last, pose. Mme Jolie stuck me on a chair, and clasped my arms behind me, legs apart. It couldn’t have been a worse position. Cat-girl, directly in front of me, lit up. My heart kicked off, smashing at my ribs, quivering my pecs. The cheekster was crimson, lips parted, unabashedly gawping at my cock. And then I realised why. Oh god in heaven. It was stirring.

Madame Jolie didn’t notice at first, she was busy chatting. Cat-girl bit her lip, stopped drawing, and crossed her legs. She toyed with a stubby piece of charcoal. Whether real or imaginary, the heat of her horn ignited mine. And by nodding degrees, unstoppably, my cock grew monstrously erect.

A ripple of throat-clearing ran around the studio and a couple of the students huffed and puffed and packed up their stuff to leave. In panic I turned my attention away from Cat-girl and away from my shameful reflection, to the poor lone bloke, hoping this would turn me off, but he freaked out. He all but ran out of the room.

Madame Jolie looked up and pursed her lips. She checked the clock and, professional that she is, clapped for everyone’s attention.

“OK everybody, this is a rare opportunity! Maybe you won’t ever get a chance to do it again. Test yourselves! Can you draw this? Can you capture its fleeting vitality! We have just 5-minutes left!”

So I had the agony of a dozen strangers scrutinising my hardon, including Cat-girl. Of course, the cock just loved it, bouncing around in its 5 minutes of fame. Madam Jolie kept it light, cajoling: “Come on! Off your asses! Move about! Yes sweetie, get close!” No prizes for guessing who that was. “This is real life! Grab it by the balls!”

Much hilarity.

I counted down the final minute and burst a sigh when Mme Jolie clapped to finish. I lunged for the robe, but to my horror, she planted her hand on my shoulder to keep me put as she ushered them all away. They disappeared in seconds flat, with the exception of Cat-girl, who dawdled, asked for some information on the college and if they did evening-classes and so on. I sat there literally, exactly, like a spare prick. Even with my legs crossed, my bastard-cock still nudged at the arms across my lap, and was all like, “Get her number, idiot!”

But I promise you, there is no way on Earth that a naked and erect man can sensibly ask for a woman’s phone number.

“You have a fan there I think,” Madame whispered as the girl waggled her fingers at me and left. I braced almanbahis giriş myself for the bollocking.

Mme let out a long sigh, and wiped a theatrical hand across her brow. “Thank you very much for your time today, but I don’t think I will be asking you back, BC, if you don’t mind.”

She grabbed a sketchbook and a chair and sat stiffly in front of me. She regarded my body with hooded eyes, like I was a curious statue in a gallery. “However, I would like just a few minutes with you, now if I may? Like these people, it is not every day I get to draw… this.”

I shrugged, relieved at not being in trouble even if my hell was to be extended. Actually this could be quite nice, Mme Jolie was an attractive woman after all. She gestured for me to stand up, made me fold my arms, and shift back into the light so my cock shone like a fertility totem.

I was still sturdily hard as Madame pulled a pencil from her hair and drew in fluid, confident arcs across the page, peering up at me between strokes.

My spoilt child of a ‘manhood’ adored the first scrutinizing glances. But unfortunately, it soon grew bored when it realised this wasn’t the admiring gaze of a lover, but the cool observation of an artist. She noticed it flagging before I did.

“Oh Monsieur it is tired now, no? Don’t worry I won’t be long, but can you keep it…up?” She rustled to the floor, making a black meringue of her antique skirt, and carried on, working quickly.

I closed my eyes and pictured Fleur’s flushed and naked curves laid out in the moonlight. “Merci BC, but you missed a bit”. Opening her legs. Of her hissy tittering, splayed over my face in the attic room. This kept me up for a bit, but they were overused images, so it didn’t work for long.

Apparently in the zone, Madame frowned when I couldn’t keep up with her. As it were.

“Merde! Please do not move.”

She ran over to the studio door and locked it. On the way back, she fiddled with her skirt, her pencil held in her teeth as she unfastened it enough to wriggle it down and kick it off over her ankle boots. Her costume wasn’t only one layer deep it seemed, underneath she wore knee-length, loose Victorian underwear, albeit white, which she quickly wriggled out of too.

Mme Jolie, the college’s rising star, was left dressed in booted opaque stockings and her formal buttoned-up jacket but nothing else. When she laid her skirt on a chair and I took in her creamy naked buttocks swelling from the confines of her starched clothing, my cock sprung to attention.

She turned and I’d have liked to have made the witty comment that she ‘wasn’t a natural blonde’, but she was entirely hairless. She smiled at the re-pumped results of her handiwork. “Bon. Sara told me you cannot resist le minou! You have a special friend there, BC. She is a real individual, non?”

My cock bucked as my brain freewheeled and Mme Jolie strode back to her place and picked up her book, coquettishly bending over to retrieve it. “You must imagine I am one of Schiele’s whores!”

She sat, one knee raised, one rotated ninety degrees to the studio floor offering an uncompromising view of her shockingly plump vulva. Sorry. Minou.

Now I had something to look at the time flew by. I have no idea how long Madame spent drawing me. All I know is she posed for me, I posed for her, and I liked it. Whether she enjoyed this as much as I did, I couldn’t tell, though she seemed to ensure that each time she moved, there was something to keep me entertained. Lying on her front, sketchbook on the floor, she kicked her feet in the air and opened her knees. Or sitting on a chair, holding up her sketchbook between us, she poised her bum cheeks on the seat edge and opened her legs crazy wide. It was in this pose that she said, “Monsieur you keep swallowing, would you like a glass of water?”

“No canlı bahis I’m fine. It’s just my mouth watering.”

She peered around the sketchbook. “And why is this?”

I flicked my eyes down at her spread folds, where her conspicuous hood and inner labia stuck out like a shark’s fin and I just ached to open her up. Preferably with my tongue.

“Oh I see! Well I am flattered this makes you salivate so.” She patted her pussy and it wobbled and that didn’t help at all. “Sara told me what she did for you, and what you did for her. And I think you would do this thing for me, too if I asked, oui?”

“Oui— I mean yes. Yes, I would. In a heartbeat.”

She seemed to find this hilarious. “But my dear I am married, and enjoy resisting these urges. They are for my husband, n’est pas? As delicious as the thought may be… Bon!” She finished another drawing in a flourish and told me to turn sideways. She crossed her legs and hid herself, maybe for my benefit, maybe for her own. It made no difference at this stage. It would take me a week to lose this erection.

We were soon finished, but Madame Jolie’s nakedness, and the whole situation, had me madly ready to fuck; a fact she noted as she grabbed her clothes and I didn’t. She cast me a proper look this time, one that made us both blush. She let me watch her dress, in silence with a knowing expression. She pulled up her skirt and fastened it’s many hooks blind, then smirked and let out a sing-song sigh.

“Monsieur Jolie is not going to believe his luck this afternoon I think! ” She pulled on a glove, hooked a tiny handbag on her arm, and fiddled with the other glove while stepping over to me. “Sara is right you are an excellent… fluffer.”

Upset at how this ‘fluffer’ thing was too often for the benefit of some other lucky bastard, I remained naked and erect, in the vain hope she might change her mind. And I think she meant to walk past but drew to a halt beside me. She wandered a slow, very un-artistic, gaze down my body. Her hot breath tumbled over my stomach as she regarded my groin. A heated perfume of old-fashioned powders rose from her and I inhaled it until my vision spotted. She growled softly as she started, then stopped, putting on her second glove.

She suddenly reached down and brushed the flat of her bare palm lightly along the underside of my cock, pulling the skin back from my head. I shivered. Her breath trembled too as she took my balls and the base in a cool firm grasp, staring at everything all bulging out of her hand. She squeezed hard, forcing more blood in and engorging me further, making it pulse purple. Pre-cum trickled over the head.

She gasped. “Now it is me who is – how you say? – watering…” She relaxed her clamping grip and slid the skin back up, as if putting me away. “You will cum, soon, no?” She released me and slid her glove on.

“As soon as I can,” I said from clenched teeth.

Madam cleared her throat, her cheeks mottled crimson. “Do it now. Quick.” Her voice was barely audible. I grasped my rod of rock and rubbed briskly.

It was the work of seconds. In a dozen strokes I groaned, arched onto my toes and locked rigid. Madam muttered something in French. I was going to make a show for her, make it an eruption she’d never forget, burst a fucking fountain. I balled it up, ready, then screwed shut my eyes. Swore. My hips shuddered and—

A rustle of silk. A hot engulfment. I exploded. But Madame’s head was at my hips. Spot lit in the mirror, her prim stoop, her mouth locked to my cock. I jetted violently into her, yet she remained still, almost polite. She shifted her handbag up her arm while her swallowing tongue slid slick under my end, drawing more from me than I ever knew I had. She sucked until my wrenching spasms ceased. Until there wasn’t a molecule of flesh, blood or bone left in my body.

Then she stood, patted my arse and marched off. My legs unlocked and I collapsed to my knees, then onto my back, slapping to the floor like a butcher’s slab.

From the door, she shouted over her shoulder, “Merci Monsieur! Tell Sara I paid her fluffer well! Au revoir!”

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