Middle-Age Spread

The only sounds in the room were the soft scratching of pencil against paper and the occasional cough from the model. I glanced up at him each time, and found him looking back at me with a flat yet focused look that had me awkwardly sliding my eyes back to the page in front of me.

How old had he said he was? Forty-something? He didn’t look it. The only wrinkles on his body were on his sheath; I took extra time to capture the detail there. Then the balls - but those didn’t take as long as I’d first thought, when he’d undressed and I’d seen them drop heavily out of his underwear like two fat fruits under a branch. They were smooth; easy to shade. Easy on the eyes.

He knew I was done when I leaned back in my chair with a satisfied sigh to stare at the completed sketch before me. His seat creaked a bit as he stood up and walked over to stand right beside me, his loose genitals barely an inch from my face. I held my breath as he regarded the final product, unable to prevent my eyes from sliding to one side to take in the intoxicating sight of his flaccid cock, wrinkled sheath, and shiny balls.

“Hmf,” he grunted. I hoped that was approval; he didn’t sound unhappy. I rubbed my suddenly sweaty hands against my shirt and gave a little cough.

“So…it’ll be in next month’s issue…”

“Double page spread? Middle of the magazine?”

“Yes…yes. Just like you asked.”

The stallion stared thoughtfully at the sketch a moment longer, then dropped a hand to cup his balls and heft them, as if comparing them against the image of himself. “Nice,” was his only comment, making me flush. He turned and walked to his clothes, and I got one awesome eyeful of hefty backsack before his pants slid back on. “You know what to print under it?” he asked, doing up his buttons.

“Yes, I…have it here somewhere…” I scrabbled through the loose papers covering the bottom of my easel, and pulled one out. “Um: ‘Experienced breeding stallion ready to…’ I had to whet my lips to continue. ‘…to give you a very good time. Dominance a speciality. Dial 1-800-…’”

He cut me off. “That’s it.” He’d finished dressing and stood at the door, looking evenly back at me. His suit was immaculate, with tiny golden horseshoe cufflinks at each wrist, and his mane cascading down over his collar. A perfect mix of formal elegance and rough-and-tumble. “You’ll invoice me?”

“You um don’t,” I garbled, making him frown at me. “The…it’s on the house,” I said thickly, and he stared for a long moment, then shrugged. One hand dipped into an inner pocket and withdrew a card, while the other found a pen and scribbled something on it. I watched cluelessly.

“I don’t like to be in people’s debt,” he explained when he was done, tucking the pen away and dropping the card on the table by the door. “Fifty percent off a session. We’re square, yes?”

“…yes,” I said faintly. Only when the door had closed behind him could I gulp down some breath.

“Yes, sir.”