5. Jessa
five
Jessa
T he penis doesn’t seem to match the scale of the rest of my drawing. I turn my tablet from side to side, even upside down, checking my drawing from every angle.
The authors I create NSFW character artwork for will likely appreciate its size, but it seems way too large to be believable. Not that I have anything other than the lady porn I watch as a reference.
Yes, I’m that person who can say I watch porn for educational reasons.
Getting a job as a character artist fell into my lap right after I graduated from high school. It all started when I began drawing for a summer art class I was taking, and one of the older women in my class asked me to draw some pieces from a book she was reading.
I took the book home and devoured it in just a few hours—all the naughty scenes filling my mind. The urge to draw them was so strong, I spent the rest of the night sketching each one before showing them to Mrs. Arneson the next day in art class.
She was so impressed by my drawings that she gave my name and contact information to a few of her author friends, and one thing led to another.
Now I have twenty-five authors I draw for.
Some are more detailed than others, but this is the first time I’ve drawn such a large penis.
It must be the run-in with Bay’s bulge that inspired me.
A dull pulse throbs between my legs as I remember just how close I was to the real thing.
If I can't have the real thing, I'll just have to continue to draw what I think is caged behind the zipper of his tight jeans. With a sigh, I shade the underside of the shaft, making it appear almost three-dimensional—almost like you can wrap your hand around it.
Once I'm satisfied with the monster between his legs, I move to his face and my sketching takes on a mind of its own and before I know it a picture of a very handsome, very naked, scars and all Bay is staying back and me from the tablet with a smirk on his face, like he knows he's the one making my clit throb in agony.
There is no way I'm going to survive the night with this pulsing between my legs without taking care of it myself. But it feels wrong to masturbate in my fake fiancé's bed.
I shift my gaze toward the bedroom door, making sure Bay doesn't catch me with my drawing. I'm not ashamed of them; I just don't want him to judge me for my line of work.
When I still hear the shower running in the bathroom, I go back to my drawing, focusing on the details of what I imagine Bay's happy trail would look like.
With a smirk, I deepen the trail with more shadows, emphasizing the six abs I know are under his shirt.
“Are you drawing a naked picture of me?”