The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 2

She moved quickly across to try and hide the sketch which was pinned up on her easel but I was too quick for her and craned my neck round to catch sight of a superbly executed likeness of her own face, her hair curled around her cheeks and a shy but happy smile upon her lips as she kissed the uncapped knob of a large erect penis which she was carefully cradling in her hands. I wanted to ask her whether the finely drawn cock in question was based upon any particular masculine member but felt that such a question would be in poor taste, so I simply remarked: 'You should not feel the need to hide this sketch, Elena, it is a bold yet sensitive work that will be appreciated by all lovers of erotic art.' 'You're too generous, Henry,' she smiled back. 'Although I must admit that Aubrey Beardsley said much the same to me when Roger and I met him at Mr. Geogliegan's gallery back in '95.' I pressured Elena into letting me see some more of her sketches and she showed me a small selection of pencil portraits, some of which were splendidly imaginative. My favourite was of a small orchestra made up of several Society notables with their instruments replaced by others of a decidedly unmusical nature. Miss Norma Grove-Radlett was depicted playing upon a flute fashioned like a greatly elongated prick whilst Lady Brenda Hampstead was seated with a giant cock between her knees which she was bowing like a cello whilst the tympanist, Lord Stanley Goldhill, was using his colossal cock to play on a kettledrum. 'Give me your honest opinion on whether you think I have any real artistic talent,' pleaded Elena and when I replied that I stood by my earlier observation, she looked at me with a lusty gleam in her eye and said: 'Then would you pose for me, Henry?

It is so difficult for me to find suitable models for my admittedly recherche life-studies? Even when I have been in London I have found there to be a taboo against women artists and if nothing else I would like to show the world that the sex of the artist should be immaterial.' 'I don't believe that sex is ever immaterial,' I remarked, which made Elena laugh and retort: 'Touche, monsieur. But please help me, Henry dear, there's no-one else in the house who I could ask.' 'Well, I don't know,' I said doubtfully but she clasped my hand and went on: 'Oh please help me, Henry. Look, I have a good idea which might make it easier for you to agree to my request.

I'll take off my dress before I sketch you. This will allow me more freedom of movement and you will feel less self-conscious about posing in the nude.' How could I refuse this heartfelt plea? I am not a natural exhibitionist, although I am far from ashamed of my body. So I told Elena that I would be happy to oblige her and sat down and removed my shoes and socks. Then I slipped off my jacket and unbuttoned my trousers. 'Give me your clothes and I will fold them up neatly for you,' said Elena as I pulled down my trousers and pants and stood covered only by my flapping shirt, in the long mirror on the wall I could see her looking down at my prick dangling down between my thighs when I slipped off my shirt. 'Thank you, that would be useful,' I said as I passed her my clothes and then, after placing my garments in a neat pile on a chair, Elena also rapidly undressed until she was clad only in her chemise. 'Stand over by the window please, Henry,' she ordered. I took up a position facing her with my hands on my thighs in front of a well-upholstered armless chair. 'Yes, that's excellent, can you hold that pose comfortably?

Good, now try and keep completely still.' I did my best to obey and flexed my muscles as Elena began her sketch, but I could not prevent nature taking its course when I looked at her bare legs and her large, creamy breasts overflowing over the top of her chemise.