Jace gave in. "Fine," he said, "But you better not make it smaller!"
Jace pulled down his boxer-briefs. Tom had seen his dick before, but that was when they were kids and teenagers, and although Jace had always been bigger than him, he'd always imagined him as seven inches or so. The fleshy sausage that Jace revealed, swinging slightly as he hopped on the floor whilst undressing his underwear, must have been six inches long completely flaccid, and thicker around than he could get around with his hand. A set of large balls, each about the size of a chicken egg,sat behind the big dick in their shaved sack. Damn, he thought, no wonder the girls keep coming back to that dick. They're coming back for the dick! He suddenly felt self-conscious - his own length hard looked to be the same as Jace's flaccid. Then he remembered he was looking at his best bud's penis, and looked away.
Jace straightened, a challenging glare at Guillaume, who seemed to write down something on the sketches, before getting to work on Jace's crotch. Tom decided he would go and find himself some food in the kitchen.
Jace didn't like this at all. He knew very well his penis was very big, but exposing himself in THIS place, where there was absofuckinglutely nothing he could get off on except for his own reflection, sucked dick. Not his dick unfortunately. To get his mind off his nudity, he began thinking about the painting again. “Hey, how about…?”
Guillaume shushed him. “Silence! I am drawing.”
The experience was already bringing back memories of why he had hated modeling in the first place. At least a photographer could snap you while you were moving. When Guillaume saw a pose he liked, Jace had to freeze in position and hold it, no matter how awkward, as long as it took Guillaume to sketch it. “The old French fag is probably just dragging this out because he loves staring at me,” Jace thought. “I bet he’ll jack off to his drawings all night.”
Tom, coming out from the kitchen, watched the sweat rolling down Jace's face and body the longer he held each pose. He didn't bother to help him - he had gotten into this all by himself. Instead, he got himself a bottle of water and sat back on his stool. He wasn’t doing anything but staring at his phone, but it was hot in there, and he was getting bored.
After half an hour, Guillaume seemed satisfied that, between the Polaroids and his sketches, he had enough to proceed. Jace slumped to the floor. Holding those poses felt like a full workout, and he was sick of showing himself to this creep. He walked hastily to his clothes, his dick swinging back and forth and slapping his thighs, quickly putting on his boxer-briefs and began to dress. Tom only now, with much envy, observed the large bulge in the white cloth.
“I had an idea. How about me and my Lamborghini?” Jace asked Guillaume from the floor. “And maybe just two chicks, like sitting on the hood?”
Guillaume shook his head. “Non, non, non! Excuse my poor English, M’sieur Jace, but you have the tastes of the simpleton.”
Jace sat up, cross-legged, and stared angrily at Guillaume. “How come everything I say is stupid, huh? That painting of Saaaage, you had two chicks dry-humping his legs. Why was that okay and I’m the simpleton?”
“That was how I saw M’sieur Sage in my mind. I paint him in his ideal form.”
Annoyed, Jace stood up, pulling his cargos up his lightly hairy legs. “Fine, then, paint me in my ideal form. But I better be a shitload more ideal than fuckin’ Sage. C’mon, Tom, let’s get outta here.”
Tom walked over to Guillaume, worried. “About how much is a painting like this going to cost him?”
Jace yelled back from the doorway. “I don’t care how much it is. Fuck it. Just make me look cool, Guillaume. No, scratch that, make me look..."