Jay, who now barely resembled anyone like his formal self, bent over the paper, breath coming hot and heavy as he added to the imagery line by artful line. His pale face- now lovely, with round lips, almond eyes, and wide, angular features that spoke to his new Korean heritage-were blushed with embarrassment. Most of his (no, not his. That seemed so wrong) fellow students mistook Jay as Japanese, and he was embarrassed to admit he did not exactly dissuade them. Japanese girls had such... exotic reputations. A part of Jay, a part the rest of him flushed even further to think about, liked to be associated with that.
The picture taking form under his pencil was a masterpiece. The proportions of the two bodies were perfect- realistic without being static, dynamic without being abstract. The chiseled, hard lines of his body, running up and flowing into the soft, delicate curves of... Jay's embarrassment grew so intense he had to pause, collapsing over the picture as he caught his breath. His breath was heaving, his face red, and even he had to admit it wasn't all embarrassment. Boldly, he stole a glance at Ronald, the muse of his work. The object of his shameful desires. Despite his secret hopes, the boy was not looking his way this time, seemingly ignorant to Jay and his work.
No, Jay decided. Ronald would notice him, in the end. His art would make sure of it. He straightened in his seat, setting his pencil to page once more. His shirt, or what was once his shirt, was not a fashionable maroon sweater that clung to Jay's willowy arms and torso, showing the inward curve of his waist, the matching shapely lumps of his breaths. These same features were emerging, bared, on the page, held close in the art-Ronald's embrace. Jay was mortified someone would see him, report him, but he also knew he couldn't stop. Not when he was finally getting it right.
As he worked, Jay's free hand crept, one long nailed finger over the other, across the soft tissue of his inner thigh, wrapped tightly in the soft material of his thigh high stockings. Inching up further, deeper, to the lower hem of his skirt. And beyond. The realization of what he was doing only added to Jay's sense of embarrassment and terror, but also added to the warmth swelling in his chest, the thrill running down his spine. The other girls always thought me such a mousy, timid thing, he thought, as he sketched the curve of hip he knew perfectly well. W-w-well I'll show them! I-I'm showing them right now!
His fingers had reached the end of the journey, well beneath the hem of his skirt. His long nails tickled at the lacy, surprisingly bold panties beneath, answering a call that grew within Jay with each line of contour and shading. The two bodies were a perfect match. Him powerful, strong, certain. A little tender, perhaps, but most certainly in charge. Her demure, dutiful, and wanting. Deferring to his will, reveling in taking him in. And taking him she was, legs wide and back arched, clearly caught in the fullest throes of passion. All he had to do was say the word, make his move, and she would be his woman, in every way he wanted her to be.
Painted nails traced along the front of the lacy panties, feeling the dampness growing there. Teeth were biting into her soft lower lip so hard they nearly drew blood. She felt like she was about to faint, her head swimming with all the blood that's rushed there. It took a tremendous amount of effort to keep her hands from shaking as she filled in the last lines, shaded the last few corners. Part of her just wanted to rip of the paper, rush into a corner, and curl into a ball. But, then, finally, it was done. She was finished.
As the class bell rang for the end of the period, Ronald frowned. Towards the end, he had actually been called out by the teacher a few times for not paying attention to the lesson, so had to keep his monitoring of Jay's progress to a minimum. To make matter's worse, he had not even gotten the chance to start with Kyla, and class was already over. He looked over to where Kyla was gathering up her things, frowning. Then he glanced over to Jay's desk, only to find it empty.
Before he could look around to find the changing boy, a shuffling of paper drew Ronald's attention to his own desk. There, placed atop his textbook, was a drawing. A picture he had only seen in its early stages-- a little bit like manga in its style, but much more detailed and realistic than any he'd seen before. The contents were so explicit even he instinctively covered them up for a moment with his binder, then after a moment he lifted the obstruction for a second look. Beneath his desk, he felt himself stiffen in his pants.
As he studied the picture in detail, he finally realized two things on the page other than the subjects, which in his defense were more than a little eye catching. One was an artist's signature-partially in characters that Ronald vaguely recognized as Korean, and below written in English. 'Ji-Yu Duncan'. The other was another line, this one only in English, along the top. A title, Ronald realized. It read: 'Anytime'.
Ronald went back to suck in the pornographic splendor of the drawing itself again, but his attention was drawn by a voice, so quiet and timid he almost did not hear it over the bustle of his classmates. "E-e-excuse me," stammered the voice.
