I’ve always been curious—do nude art models ever have physical reactions when they’re up on stage? My wife gave me a very clear answer: Yes, they do, but they have special techniques to deal with it. My name’s Mark Harris. I might not be much to look at, but I managed to marry a stunning model! The first time I saw my wife, Lauren Mitchell, she was up on stage as a car model. What caught my attention immediately were those long legs. My eyes followed the black stockings up to where her short skirt barely covered her curves, and I couldn’t help but swallow hard. Above that was her tiny waist, and her spaghetti strap top that barely held it all together… Then she bent down, covering her chest with her hand and giving me the sweetest smile. At that moment, I was done for. Through sheer persistence, I managed to win her over after three long months. Now, with a wife this gorgeous, there’s no way I was going to let her keep modeling. I convinced her to find another job. She knew I got jealous easily, so after we got married, she quickly quit. But just three days after she left her job, I got a few photos in my email. “See how wild your wife is!” I opened them, and the lighting was sultry. The woman in the photos was covered in body paint, her figure accentuated by every curve as she moved on stage. But something was off. Her eyes were hazy, she was squeezing her legs together, and her hands were wandering over sensitive areas of her body. It didn’t look like modeling—it looked like something else entirely. The pictures kept coming, like a flipbook. Then, a man appeared out of nowhere and slapped her hard on the backside, leaving a clear handprint. At that point, I felt a surge of blood rush to my head. Was that… my wife?! There was no mistaking her body, especially the birthmark on her hip. I knew it was her! My entire body was trembling as I gritted my teeth. My hands clenched so hard, veins bulged across my knuckles, and I nearly crushed my phone. What the hell was going on? Who sent these photos? Were they trying to blackmail me or just mess with me? I shot a message back, asking for an explanation. I got a quick response: “Art models always release tension before going on stage to prevent any physical reactions. Your wife was especially wild today! What, were you two having issues last night?” An art model? I wanted to snap back angrily—Lauren wasn’t like that. She was a regular model, and she had already quit! But as I furiously typed out my response, I suddenly remembered last night. Yeah, Lauren had called me, saying she’d shower and wait for me in bed. But the project I was working on ran into problems, and I didn’t get home until late. When I finally arrived, she was still being playful, but I was too exhausted for anything. And now, there was another email. “Your wife’s got another performance tomorrow. Make sure you’re up for it tonight!” After that, no matter how much I responded, there was silence from the other side. With my mind spinning, I left work early the next day to confront her. I had already downloaded the photos, ready to ask her straight up. “Babe, come rub my legs, I’m dead tired…” Lauren walked in, kicked off her heels, and threw herself onto the couch, stretching her legs over mine. I stared at her legs, wrapped in black stockings, but my mind was filled with images from those photos. I shoved her legs off in frustration. She pouted, looking innocent and hurt. “What’s wrong? Didn’t I quit my job like you asked? I’ve been out all day interviewing at different places, my legs are killing me!” I glared at her. “You really went to interviews?” Lauren stretched lazily, revealing a smooth, flat stomach. “Why would I lie to you? Now come on, rub my legs. I’m exhausted and just want to sleep early tonight…” She even yawned as she spoke. She looked so worn out that I began to doubt myself. Maybe I had it all wrong? I took a deep breath and reached under her shirt, only for her to swat my hand away. “Stop it. I’m really tired! Whatever you want, wait until tomorrow.” She was probably too exhausted, and after just a few minutes of rubbing her legs, she was already snoring lightly. Gritting my teeth, I slid my hand down her leg and carefully lifted her skirt…
I lifted the skirt and checked carefully. No handprint. I let out a long sigh of relief. Whoever sent those photos was clearly just trying to mess with me. I compared the photos again, but they were too blurry. The woman in the pictures was covered in paint, and you couldn’t really make out her face. I carried Lauren to bed, then sat on the couch, smoking cigarette after cigarette. First of all, I couldn’t let a few blurry photos make me question my wife. I worked hard to win such a beautiful woman, and if we lost trust in each other, our relationship would never be the same again. Second, even if the model in the photos was Lauren, it had to be from before she met me. Since we’ve been together, she’s been nothing but loyal. She quit her job, no questions asked. Yeah, the whole thing left me uneasy, but who doesn’t have a past? As long as she stayed committed to our life together, I was willing to accept everything about her. I took a deep breath and stubbed out my cigarette. When the person behind the emails finally showed their hand and demanded money, I’d call the cops and shut them down. Just then, another email came in. “So, was your wife a little extra eager tonight?” Furious, I shot back a reply: “Stop screwing with me! How much do you want?” The response didn’t come for a while. When it did, it read: “Plenty of kind souls out there, helping your wife relieve some stress—and gifting you a nice hat in the process! Here’s the address for tomorrow’s show. You’ll love the spectacle!” Then, nothing. The lack of follow-up was maddening. If they had asked for money, it would have been easier to deal with. But this? It felt like they were purposely stringing me along. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. The next morning, when Lauren was about to leave, still a bit groggy, I asked casually, “Where’s today’s interview?” “Liberty Plaza Tower!” She said, putting on lipstick and slipping into her high heels before walking out the door. I froze. That was the address from the email! I jumped out of bed, barely remembering to grab my hat, sunglasses, and mask as I rushed out the door to follow her. But by the time I made it out of our apartment complex, she was already gone. I hailed a cab and headed straight to Liberty Plaza Tower, hoping to catch up with her. When I got there, I saw a long line of men waiting outside, but no sign of my wife. I handed the security officer a cigarette. “What’s this company hiring for? Why so many guys? And where’s the line for women?” The security guard gave me a sideways glance. “They’re all men. You must be new here. If you’re looking for women, you better line up and pay the fee—$1,888.” My mind went blank for a second. “Pay for what, exactly?” The guard frowned. “You’re here for an interview? Sorry, you’re not what we’re looking for. Move along.” Another guard started heading my way, as if preparing to deal with trouble. I felt my blood freeze, my brain barely processing the information. But I quickly forced a smile. “Relax, man. I’m here for the private art exhibit. Got a little too excited, I guess.” Hearing the words “private art exhibit,” and after slipping the guards a few bills, their attitudes softened. “First time, huh? Don’t know the drill yet? Pay up, and you’re in.” After transferring the money via my phone, my mind was a blur as I followed the line into the building. We were led down a series of winding hallways until we finally entered a large hall. The place was packed—rows of seats, at least a hundred men already there. Suddenly, the lights dimmed. There was a murmur of excitement, and a group of women, each wearing Japanese fox masks, strutted onto the stage. They were barely covered in see-through fabric, and as they moved, the thin fabric began to slip away. I immediately recognized that body. Every inch of Lauren’s skin was familiar to me—there was no mistaking it. My wife was up there as one of the art models!
“Shit!” I jumped out of my seat, fists clenched. I wanted to charge up to the stage, rip off her mask, and confront her on the spot. Why did she lie to me? But as soon as I stood up, the security officers in the room locked their eyes on me, gripping their batons, ready to intervene. The guy next to me, a heavyset man, grabbed my arm. “Hey, buddy, calm down. You’ll get a chance to go up there. If you rush the stage now, they’ll kick you out!” I forced myself to take a deep breath and sit back down. I needed proof—real, undeniable evidence—before confronting Lauren. As I settled back into my seat, the guards relaxed, and I took a moment to scan the room. Everyone around me was dressed like I was—hats, sunglasses, masks—doing everything they could to stay anonymous. It hit me how many men were here for the same thing. The guy next to me chuckled and whispered, “First time at one of these, huh? Don’t be shy. I was just as nervous the first time I saw a show like this. Trust me, you don’t want to mess around here. You could disappear, and no one would ever know.” He then pulled out his phone, snickering as he recorded the performance. “Check out number two. Damn, that body is killer! And look at number five’s legs—man, those things go on for miles! Oh, and number eight… yeah, she’s something else.” I snatched the phone from his hand. “You’re talking about number eight? That’s my wife.” The guy’s face went pale. “Whoa, man, chill! You serious? I didn’t know—” I cut him off. “What do you mean, ‘get on stage’? What are you talking about?” He shot me a nervous look, then shrugged. “They always pick a few guys from the audience to go up there. You know, to help ‘paint’ the models. They call it ‘artistic collaboration.’ You’ll get to spread some paint around and have a little fun. It’s a big part of the show.” Disgusted, I glared at him. “This isn’t art. This is garbage!” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever you say, man. But if you’re up there, you better not fight me for number eight.” I could barely contain my anger. It took every ounce of restraint not to punch him right then and there. But I knew if I acted rashly, I’d be thrown out before I could prove anything. When the host started calling for volunteers from the audience, I shot up immediately, ignoring the heavyset guy’s curses behind me. I marched straight to the stage and, without hesitation, pointed to number eight—Lauren. This was my chance. The host smiled. “Ah, looks like someone’s a true art enthusiast! Remember, folks, we’re here to appreciate the beauty of the human form. Keep it tasteful—don’t touch the models’ more… sensitive areas.”
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