Her ToyBear

by Bonnie Burrows

  “No, that’s okay. I’ve thought about all that stuff. You’re right; a trainer can end up with clients who slack off, or don’t call. That’s why the attitude of the trainer makes such a difference. I figure if I can motivate people the right way, they won’t want to stop calling and stop booking me. They’ll look forward to seeing me, and they won’t slack off. I’m gonna be the trainer they won’t quit. I’m gonna make ‘em want it more than anything.”

  Jennifer nodded appreciatively. “Yes, I’m sure you will…” She kept her eyes fixed on him, moving from one part of him to another. There was just so much to appreciate. And she had no doubt whatsoever that Wesley would make people “want it more than anything.” Without fear of contradiction, this lad would make them want it very, very badly.

  She snapped herself back to awareness. “So,” she asked quickly, “where are you from, Wesley?”

  “Originally, I’m from up in Canada. Quebec.”

  “Oh…!” she said, nodding, suddenly realizing that he had a hint of an accent. All the time she had been lingering over his face and his body, Jennifer had neglected the sexiness of his voice. He just kept getting better and better. “So what brings you down here below the border, then? Did your family move here?”

  “No, my family’s still up there. I just wanted to see more of what’s out in the world, you know. When I first moved down to the States, I settled for a while in a little town called Osborn Wood. I saved up while I was there until I had enough money to move here. Bigger cities take more money.”

  “That they do,” she agreed, hoping he was not too envious of the way she lived. But then he didn’t seem to be. “Osborn Wood…,” she ruminated for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

  “It’s kind of an out-of-the-way place. Not the kind of place you’d go if you weren’t looking for it. I did odd jobs—bartending, stocking inventory in stores, whatever would keep me fed and let me save up a little.”

  “Well, you’re a very disciplined young man, I can tell,” Jennifer said. “I think I’ve made a very good choice.”

  “Thank you,” Wesley said with a smile of youthful sincerity that warmed her heart. Jennifer could tell that he appreciated the way she appreciated him, and she couldn’t help but feel a little flutter inside because of it. Not only was he a very beautiful boy; she could sense that he was a very nice and genuine boy. He was not vain. He was not arrogant. He was not cocky. He was confident and honest, sure of himself without being conceited, aware of how gorgeous he was without being narcissistic about it. He was just…nice.

  “So,” said Jennifer, “would you like something to drink before we get started? If you want something more than water, I have tea or juice.”

  “I’ve brought water, bottled,” Wesley replied. “Maybe later. Right now…would you like to see me?”

  Jennifer raised her eyebrows at the question. “See you? Oh, you mean…”

  “Yeah…see me. Like I said, I’ve got no problem posing nude. I worked hard to get a body that looks good with clothes off, and I work hard to keep it this way. You wanted a nude model who’s in shape—that’s me. I can undress here now if you want.”

  And with his offer, suddenly time stood still in the living room of Jennifer Casey’s penthouse.

  The moment seemed utterly surreal. There he was, a spectacular-looking youth who must surely be twice as spectacular out of his clothes, offering to strip down and make himself naked right in front of her. Granted, on Mucho Model, she had seen him almost naked. His portfolio contained shots of him in short boxers, tight white briefs, and Speedos. There were shots of him in bed with the sheets covering the parts of him that one would want to see most and shots of him standing with those parts wrapped in towels.

  And there were fully nude shots of him from the rear, showing those delectable buns, and other full nudes that had him turned to the side, showing the delicious contours of said buns. But now he was sitting in her living room, telling her that he was ready to present the full inventory, an inventory much more select than what he used to unpack and arrange for the store where he had worked in that little town. And he was completely unfazed about it. Not only was he a pure wonder, he was totally unaffected by how wondrous he was.

  And considering that she was an artist, Jennifer realized, she should be equally unaffected. The human form was nothing strange and alien to her. It was one of the principal subjects of her craft. There should be nothing awe-inspiring or intimidating about a model telling her he was ready to undress for her.

  Except, of course, that Wesley Horne’s body was a thing more fantastic than that of the majority of humans. What he was about to do was to lay bare his perfection before her eyes. Jennifer was not accustomed to working with perfection—in person. Now, here it was.

  She refused to be less than a professional about it. She unfroze the moment, took a swallow, and replied: “You can undress here if you like, of course. Or if you’d be more comfortable undressing in the studio, in the setting where we’re actually going to work, we can go upstairs now, and you can undress there.”

  Good girl, Jennifer. Now that was professional.

  “No, I’m good undressing for work right here, then we can go upstairs, and I’ll do whatever you want in the studio,” he said, standing up. “You okay with that?”

  “I’m very okay,” she replied, doing her best to ignore her heart feeling like a dressage horse going over a hurdle.

  With a subtle smile and not a hint of awkwardness or embarrassment, Wesley began to take off his clothes. The first thing to go was the tank top, cast onto the sofa where he’d been sitting. Now his upper body was fully exposed, and Jennifer could see in person the array of pecs and abs, bristling with hair, that she had so admired online, and how they complemented the big, loaded guns of his arms.

  Next, he untied and pulled off his boxing shoes and slipped off his socks. Then he undid the button and zipper of his khakis and in a single gesture pulled down both them and the white jockstrap beneath them, resting them on the sofa as well. And there he was, in even greater glory than what his photographs on the website disclosed.

  There, hanging amply from a thick bush of dark hair at his crotch, was the one limb he had not shown. And what a pièce de résistance it was. Even flaccid, it was impressively thick, and just the very tip of it was visible from the thick turtleneck of his foreskin. Behind it lay a generously round sack of man-berries, nestled in a sack of soft flesh. Jennifer drew in a long breath and moved her eyes up and down her newest “body of work,” returning again and again to the revealed mystery between Wesley’s legs.

  “Do you approve?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “All that working out pays off very handsomely,” Jennifer replied.

  “Thank you,” Wesley said. “Wanna go to your studio now?”

  Her admiration unabated, Jennifer answered, “By all means.” She stood up and waited for him to bundle up his clothing and put it in his bag, following every flex and ripple of every muscle as he did.

  _______________

  In her studio, Jennifer already had her easel and chair set up and a table beside them with her pencils, charcoals, erasers, and a bottle of tea. A fresh, new sketch pad waited on the easel. At the center of the studio, she had placed a stool, a futon with one pillow, some boxes and crates, and some towels and blankets on a thick white tarpaulin—the perfect staging for a collection of poses that would take them through the afternoon.

  Wesley set his bag down at the edge of the tarp, out of the way, and stepped over to the futon where he stood with arms akimbo, still perfectly casual in the nakedness of his inhumanly beautiful man-boy body and the perfect handsomeness of his boy-man face. As she settled down in the chair at the easel, he startled her by asking, “How do you want me first?”

  She shot a surprised look at him, her entire body tingling at the question. “Excuse me…?”

  “How do you want me to pose first?”

  Emba
rrassed at how flustered she was, Jennifer replied, “Oh…oh, I’m sorry. Let’s see. Um…let’s see… How about, er…legs apart, arms curled, showing your biceps?”

  He struck perfectly the exact pose that she’d described. “Like this, right?”

  Jennifer could not help but feel time freeze around the two of them yet again. He was the most utterly perfect, breathtaking thing she had ever seen in her life. This was truly the pleasure of being an artist, to be able to partake of such absolute beauty.

  Finally, she said, “Perfect.” She reached over for a pencil, grasping the cylinder of wood and pushing to the back of her mind the thought that it was not the only wood she would like to grasp.

  Where time had formerly stood still, Jennifer now forgot there was such a thing as time at all. She was just enjoying this too much. There was an inexpressible delight in having this heart-pounding vision of manhood just out of boyhood, standing and sitting and bending and kneeling and crouching and reclining in her studio, doing anything and everything she asked at the instant that she asked.

  Wesley gave her the initial pose from the rear, displaying the marvelous musculature of his back and the firm package of his buttocks, as well as his heaping biceps. He dropped to his knees, put his hands behind his back, and flexed his torso, showing off the sculpting of his chest and abs another way. In this pose, he also displayed the piece at his crotch, and Jennifer smiled with a corner of her mouth at the way it went half-erect, as if proud to be presented to her.

  He sat on one knee, turned to one side, and flexed one bicep. He lay back and rested on his elbows, bending one knee. He stood with one foot up on a box, and sat with legs spread on a box, showing again the foreskin-bearing girth of his tool—which ended up pointing right at her like a loaded weapon—and the fullness of his sac. Her breaths deepened with every stroke of her pencil on the pad.

  Wesley lay before her on the futon, this time on one side, resting on an elbow, again with one knee bent and his flesh pipe resting against one thigh. After this pose, she called for a break. Wesley went to his bag and pulled out his bottle of water while Jennifer discreetly tucked the drawings she had made of just his male parts into the back of her sketch pad. Returning her attention to him, she found him sitting on the edge of the futon, his legs spread and the thing to which she had paid such special attention lolling on the futon cushion while he took long swallows from the bottle. “Am I doing well so far?” he asked after one gulp.

  Reaching for her bottle of tea and twisting it open, Jennifer replied, “You’re doing wonderfully. I’m getting some great stuff here.” And she sipped at her tea, continuing to admire all the “stuff” that Wesley had to give.

  After the break, Jennifer suggested he try some positions with one of the blankets, wrapping and draping it around himself in different ways. He stood, picked one up, and draped it over his shoulders. “You want me to keep it out or cover it?” he asked, glancing down at his half-stiffened member.

  Balancing her artist’s focus, her professional detachment, and her other interests, Jennifer replied, “Keep it out, please.” And he did. She captured him posing with a blanket over his shoulders, stretching it out behind him with his arms spread wide and both the fabric and his piece hanging down, turning to one side with it hanging from one hand, lying back on the futon on one elbow and letting the blanket cover just one leg.

  Finally, he rested with one elbow on one arm of the futon, propped up that way while the rest of his body stretched out down the length of the cushion. The blanket draped over the back of the futon and down over his lower legs while he lay that way, and with his other arm, he put his hand behind his neck. He looked like a young lad waking up from a nap, his tool now unabashedly erect, as if he were asking for attention upon coming out of sleep.

  “Um…is it okay if it’s, you know, a little hard? I can’t stop it from getting like that,” he said. “I’m sorry if it, you know, distracts you.”

  With a gulp that she hoped was not too conspicuous, Jennifer replied, “It’s perfectly fine. It’s natural; it’s what they do.” And she went on drawing, letting the movements of her hand with the pencil divert her from the other reactions she was having.

  For the last pose of their session, Wesley sat on the futon on his knees, with his legs spread and the blanket lying under him. He picked up the pillow and hugged it tightly to his lusciously hairy chest, giving her a pouty look which made Jennifer feel as if her heart were turning to melted butter.

  His piece was now a fully hardened, gloriously erect pole, protruding from between his open thighs, the roundness of his sac resting behind it. Jennifer permitted herself one audible deep breath, careful not to let it escape as a sigh, as she rendered this final display of Wesley’s body. He was, without question, the best subject she had ever had.

  Completing this pose, Jennifer took her phone from her blouse pocket and checked the time. The hour was nearing four in the afternoon. “Oh my,” she said. “Look at the time. We started a little after twelve, and it’s almost four. You probably want to be getting home before rush hour.”

  Wesley stepped off the sofa, the muscles of his man-boy body still seeming to sing after hours of posing. “Can I see?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “Come on over.”

  He took a step towards her, and a tiny ache down below reminded him of his state of total undress. “Whoops,” he said, “I’d better put something on.” And he turned back to the futon to grab the blanket again.

  Jennifer was of a mind to tell him, Oh no, you don’t have to do anything like that. But instead, she seized the opportunity to stash another close-up of his hardness at the back of the sketch pad. She returned her eyes to him just in time to catch a glimpse of something else she wouldn’t mind seizing: his buttocks, as he leaned over the futon to wrap his lower body in the blanket. And she couldn’t help a little voice in her head saying, Damn… as he did.

  So Wesley, his lower body wrapped up but his upper body still delectably exposed, came over to the other side of the easel and let Jennifer carefully show him the pages of the sketch pad that were not tucked in the back. He smiled broadly at the work she had done.

  “Wow,” he said. “You’re really good. These are great.”

  “Oh…thank you,” she said, abruptly feeling and sounding modest, looking up at him and then looking off, seeming embarrassed at the compliments. How odd; this was the first time that praise had ever made her feel shy.

  “No, seriously,” Wesley said. “Can I tell you something? Something really honest, I mean?”

  Curiously she said, “Of course. Yes, of course you can.”

  “I’ve never had anybody draw me before. I didn’t bring it up until now, but this is the first time I’ve sat for somebody who wanted to draw me. All of the other artists I’ve worked with, they were photographers. You’re the only one who’s ever wanted to draw me.”

  Now, Jennifer met his eyes without looking away. It was wrong, she knew, to think of this young man as a boy, and yet there was something about him, something so sweet in his earnestness and simplicity, so charming and affecting in his youth. He was twenty-five years old, this Wesley Horne. He was in no way a child. And yet…he was such a boy. Such an absolute, beautiful boy.

  “Well,” Jennifer said, “then I’m honored to be the first. And I’m glad you like what I’ve done with you…the way I’ve drawn you, I mean.”

  He grinned, a boy’s grin on his manly young face. “I really do. You are a really talented lady. I’m glad we got together like this. You know, Jennifer, I’ve seen so many pictures of myself—photographs, I mean. I’ve had hundreds and hundreds of shots taken of me, all kinds of ways. But a picture from a camera…there’s some things it can’t do, you know. Photographers do all kinds of things to get artistic and go into all kinds of moods, but…I’ve never seen myself like this before. I’ve never seen myself drawn by somebody who sat down with a pencil in their hand and got me on paper. This is different. It’
s me, but it’s different. I just never saw myself like this. I’m probably not saying this really well, but…”

  “No, no,” she said. “I understand. Drawing is a completely different medium from photography. It does very different things. You don’t express yourself the same way with a pencil as you do with a camera; I understand.”

  “Well,” said Wesley, “you express yourself great. Really great. I really love these. You ought to show them someplace; they’re so good. I said the first session was free, but man, I ought to be paying you for drawing me like that.”

  She closed the sketch pad and looked up at him with a smile that showed how much his words truly melted her heart. “Thank you, Wesley,” she said. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  He grinned, “Aw, I’ll bet people say nice things to you all the time. You’re so talented, you must get all kinds of compliments.”

  She looked at him and was completely captivated by his sweetness. God, what a boy this young man was. “Not like that,” she said softly.