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Text:Tom Hathaway - Memoirs of Forbidden Love/A Model Daughter by E.N.

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My dadʼs a painter, and he seduced me in the most artistic way. He painted my portrait, just the face and head, and I liked it. The image he created flattered me by ignoring my flaws and emphasizing my good points. Then he wanted to do a full pose, standing by a window in a long dress with light falling across me, like Vermeer. Then something showing the shoulders with my head turned haughtily to the side, in the style of Manet.

Gradually he worked into more revealing poses — leaning towards him in a décolleté blouse, wrapped in a blanket like a waif, kneeling submissively in a filmy kimono. This made me a bit nervous, but it was also fun, like playing dress up, and I enjoyed the results. The paintings were good and made me attractive. He improved the original quite a bit.

The first time topless I was embarrassed and inhibited. Dad said that spoiled the facial effect and gave me wine to loosen me up. The painting turned out lovely.

Iʼll never forget the first time I posed fully nude for my father. I was so self‐conscious as I took off the robe, but he looked at me like I was the most gorgeous woman in the world (Iʼm not, by far). “I hope I can do your beauty justice,” he said. That gave me the courage to drop the robe and drop all those old fears and inhibitions with it (the wine probably helped too). I felt timid but proud as I turned around under his adoring gaze.

He never had me do lewd poses, just natural figure studies. Sometimes he worked quickly with charcoal on paper, others more slowly with oil on canvas. He made me look not just prettier but freer, the person I had the potential to become. The pictures were a challenge to live up to, not to their appearance so much as the spirit within them.

As dad worked, his looks of appreciation and lust gratified me, especially since I was protected by the safety of distance and the propriety of art. Then he began posing me more actively, moving my body this way and that to get just the angle he wanted. Once he said I needed more facial expression, so he suddenly stroked my cheek and kissed me, then darted back to quickly paint my look of shock. This painting had a particular allure to it, so the kissing became more regular, but always broken by dashes to the canvas, leaving me with tingling lips.

My father started brushing my nipples to erect them, then retreating, leaving me with sensations ringing through me. His leaving created a yearning, and I began wishing heʼd stay.

But he didnʼt, he always returned to the canvas, to images of smoldering sensuality. Dad seemed wrapped up in his art, and I felt neglected, even a bit used. I was lying there panting while he was painting.

I began kissing him back, trying to get him to stay. But he kept preferring to paint a woman enflamed with desire.

Finally I couldnʼt stand the teasing anymore. Next time dad kissed me, I grabbed his artistʼs smock and held him there, making him stay while my tongue delved passionately between his lips. That was enough — I just had to show him that I wanted it. He took mercy on me and took me right there on the model stand.

The way my father made love to me was itself a work of art. I felt totally adored.

After this the paintings grew bolder, more explicit. We became a team, working together as model and artist to produce portraits that captured my internal battle between shyness and lust.

Dad shipped a dozen canvases to his New York dealer, and they sold so well that theyʼre paying for my college now. But my favorite, the one from the first time he took me, I kept. Itʼs hanging above our bed.


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