Part One
I dodged the cars crossing the avenue, hurried into the University Art Gallery, burst through the doors, and there he was; Tetsuzo, the National Treasure, Master Artist surrounded by dozens of girls and women of all ages. They were hanging on him, flirting, and giggling over him. I was so disturbed and angry that I almost screamed out loud. It was just in the way those girls moved their bodies, their hips swishing, their boobs jiggling in front of his eyes offering themselves to him for his pleasure.
These were the hot girls; the beauties, the popular, wealthy, well-dressed ones, with big, pendulous jiggling boobs. The ones used to getting what and whom they wanted. The same ones whose rejection and derision I endured throughout my years of college. The ones who made me feel tiny, inadequate, infantile, and sexless. But he looked critically at all of the student theses and to everyone’s astonishment, most of all mine, he singled out my work for attention from all of them.
You could cut their envy and hatred of me with a sword. He analyzed and praised my work in front of them offering some critical observations. Then he, the National Treasure, directed me to join his studio in the spring as his intern.
So, it seemed to naturally follow that he would ask me to come see him and his new work right away. He never mentioned that he wanted me to collaborate with him illustrating his next volume, a modern Shunga. I didn’t allow myself the fantasy that he was genuinely impressed with me and my talent, in keeping with my low self esteem.
A few weeks later, wearing my best uniform, I found myself in his studio looking over his early sketches and drafts of the text. I wore my highest heels, black stockings, and had worked on my hair for an hour, even wearing the antique tortoise shell combs from my great grandmother. I wanted to look older, like a woman, maybe even attractive despite my size.
He explained how some of the important women of our culture also had been tiny like me and how I embodied that look. He said I matched the ideal and asked me to be his model for the Empress and some of the Courtesans. I trembled with excitement and no small amount of disbelief. In spite of his fame and talent, he made me feel at ease, perhaps even more? A tiny ripple of vanity coursed through my being and I felt a trickle of moisture escape from my sacred hollow and run down my legs. The dark inflammatory fantasy of sex rose in my body and mind like a demon. I shook where I stood. He explained to me that he felt I was the perfect model for some of these iconic women who defied the popular image of voluptuous glamorous beauty. He saw how tiny I was, that I wasn’t voluptuous, nevertheless, he asked me to pose for his drawings and I did so without hesitation.
My heart was racing with excitement and felt like it was going to explode in my chest. He maintained eye contact with me the entire time and listened intently to every one of my words as I answered his questions about my life and ambition. When he told me to disrobe and take a naked pose on the platform I complied without a thought. He described my figure from head to foot as he drew. My long, jet-black hair, skin like burnished ivory, slim neck, round face and pretty lips, impossibly small breasts, nearly black nipples in small circular islands of pigmented mounds. (erect now), narrow wasp-like waist, flat tummy, soft patch of silky jet black pubic hair. Pear-shaped ass, softly rounded mound, shapely legs, and tiny feet, He guessed I must be 150 cm and 47 kg, just about right. I have no explanation for my calmness standing naked in front of this man’s intense gaze.
At this point in my life, I had no sexual experience whatsoever other than studying the illustrated Shunga. The books of sexual conquest with their exaggeratedly huge penises, vaginas like giant exotic flowers, pools of fluid, and cunts violated by gigantic octopus tentacles. I had never even been kissed and had rejected the girls in the dorm who incessantly attempted to touch and kiss me. I had never been seen though I secretly longed for it and toyed with my pussy secretly in the darkness night after night. Being seen, exposing myself to a man, touched in my most secret, personal places was terrifying and intensely exciting. And sex, that was even more exciting. To be desired, conquered, entered, and occupied by a cock, to be filled with semen, unimaginably frighteningly wonderful. I longed to be free and sexual, all of it. His open and complete acceptance and appreciation of me and my body without criticism had transformed me, and his sketches of me were astounding. I blush to say I even looked beautiful on his paper. I allowed myself to wonder if this might be the gateway to freeing myself from the self-imposed prison of lack of confidence and sexual hesitance? What would come of this?
