Nami Nude Figure Novels & Stories

Into fertile wombs. Natalie quivered beside me as her mother swung from the pole. She had her back to the pole and spread her legs wide, the denim hugging her plump pussy lips. She had no panties on. She was clearly shaved. "Shit," I groaned. Her mom slid down it until she lay on the ground. She humped the air at us as she ripped off her pasties. Fat, dark-pink nipples sprang out. They were huge, topping those big, quivering boobs. She rose up, the men throwing dollars at her feet.

Monica remembered that this should be the name of this girl. Nanami is a petite teen girl with average height and build, standing at 158cm. She is beautiful and has a D cup. She has a fair and light complexion, long, straight, brown hair that is usually tied up into a ponytail, and she has goldish-brown eyes. Looking at Nanami, Monica felt confused, wondering whether this heroine had a cataract or something. In truth, except for "Yasashi" (kind), he didn't see Sorata's charm points, or rather, there was nothing besides this "Yasashi".

And stopped. It was pencil -- soft graphite, crosshatched and detailed like something out of an art gallery. The figure was unmistakable: a girl, nude, kneeling on a hard surface. Her wrists were bound behind her back with rope, palms up, arms straight. Her head was tilted down, her chin lifted by a hand that wasn't fully drawn -- just fingers gripping her jaw. There was tension in her body. Shame. Her knees were red. Her hair matted to her cheek. She was crying.

Meanwhile, Niamh stood surrounded at the center of it all. A photographer crouched down, constantly adjusting angles while snapping shots of her. Niamh wore a heavy racing suit, but she had stripped off the top half to tie it around her waist, revealing her curves under a tight-fitting athletic jacket. She sported a Ferrari-logo baseball cap and dramatic smokey eye makeup. Walking up to the International Racing Championship's promotional backdrop, she ran a hand through her hair, struck a pose, and let the flashing lights bathe her in a dazzling glow.

" wow mam you look like a goddess" on of the stylist said " Am I the only female model here?"Nicki asked " No mam that rude mam Samira is also here, thank goodness I wasn't sent to make up for her" the second stylist said. " Let's hurry up we don't have time and am seriously farmished" Nicki touched her stomach. The shoot began and even if it was the first time for Nicki she really made good poses. " Dream it's time for you and Nicki to do the ad of yummy ice cream and you're to feed her with the ice cream and so will she"the director said.

I turn my head sharply to peer out the French doors. Well, Nico is no longer among the missing, because there he is, laying back on a lounger. I can see him through the greenery in the landscaped planter. He's in his bathing suit and shirtless. Those pecs and abs that tantalize me almost constantly now are on full display. But what's worse is that Nico's bare chest is being enjoyed by an up-close audience of one . . . a beautiful woman who, from what I can see from this vantage point, is wearing a barely-there bathing suit herself.

If she were fortunate, she may even be able to get in a few orgasms on a Sunday morning before he had to leave for the airport. When she heard the bathroom flush, she moved onto her stomach to see him return to bed. She enthusiastically ogled the items since the front view was equally as lovely as the back view. Nathan was a stunning individual. Tall, with broad shoulders, well-defined biceps and pecks, the required six-pack, and those stunning obliques that protruded like an arrow from his stomach to the hidden treasure below his waist. And that hung thick and long from a clump of dark blonde bush between his thighs. She would be content to ogle him all day.

“But I can help.” “Why would you help me?” “Because I need something.” He points to the stool. “I’m publishing a paper on anatomical accuracy in figure drawing. I need a model, someone intelligent enough to understand the work, who can hold still for hours and that I can trust to be discreet.” Understanding hits cold and sharp. “You want me to… pose nude?” “Yes.” “Absolutely not.” “Four sessions 1,000 euros each.” He names the figure like he’s talking about something casual. “Cash enough to cover your rent and materials until you can reapply.”

' The chat scrolled with anonymous bids, pervs like me drooling digits for closer angles. The stream buffered, then sharpened...a sleek Manhattan apartment, floor-to-ceiling views of the Empire State, but the real view was her. Mid-twenties, yoga-toned, naked from the waist down on a yoga mat, blonde hair in a messy bun. She panted into the camera, phone propped on a tripod. "Okay, guys, contractions are five minutes apart. Bid high if you want me to angle the mirror." Her voice was casual, entrepreneurial, like selling nudes on OnlyFans, but this was next level.

The nouns floating weightlessly in the space, sharp and heavy as a scalpel. Aurora’s brows furrowed. "Mate with my mate? I have no mate," she declared stiffly as she got to her feet. Her gaze was steady, yet her heart drummed in her chest. "You’re mistaken, witch. If you’re talking about Sage, he’s not my mate. He’s just—"