Just For The Art

The spicy smell of exotic fruits hung heavily in the classroom as the students dutifully removed their pens and pencils from clear cases and proceeded to sketch the precariously balanced fruits, most of which were cleanly sliced down the center and drooling strangely scented juices.

Tate's pencil moved across the page of his sketchbook smoothly, without hesitation; the other boys' murmurs were just a monotonous drone in his ears, easily blocked out. Like his parents, Tate was a born artist: he could capture the outline of shapes in a few simple strokes, and the other boys in his school would fawn over his works, crowding around his chair when he picked up his paintbrush. Although he outwardly displayed a modest and humble personality, Tate loved the fame his drawings inspired.

Everything had been great until the new art teacher had arrived.

Mr. Cenric was twenty-two, possibly twenty-three; he exuded confidence and self-assuredness, striding around the school like he was the head-teacher and not a newly employed art teacher. At first, Tate had struggled to understand why the other teachers would have hired a man so arrogant, so cocky: Tate had been skeptical about him until the first art lesson of the year, the first time a teacher had ever corrected him in an art lesson.

They'd been studying hands; the soft, wrinkled flesh of the palm and the creases of folded knuckles. Tate had almost finished shading the ridge of a vein when Mr. Cenric had leaned over and, with a deft stroke of faint red graphite, had corrected Tate's anatomy with a condescending smirk and a twirl of a standard-edition coloring pencil. And later lessons had only confirmed it - Mr. Cenric, for all his personality flaws (narcissism personality disorder included, Tate was sure) was an incredible artist with prodigious skill.

Which only made Tate hate the man even more.

"Alright, boys," Mr. Cenric drawled lazily, pacing around the classroom slowly, his long legs giving him the necessary height to peer over the boys' sketches critically. "Time's up. Please place your sketchbooks on a NEAT pile on my desk - I'm watching you, James, I know for a fact it was you who messed it up last time!"

The boys chuckled affectionately, throwing Mr. Cenric glowing looks of praise; they saw him as some sort of unattainable role model, no doubt. These were reserved, socially awkward grammar-school boys with intelligence, not good-looks and charisma. That was Mr. Cenric's area of expertise. There was speculation that Mr. Cenric had several girlfriends - the main topic of conversation at Tate's all-male school - and that the other women didn't even care he was with someone else simultaneously. Tate was ashamed to admit he wouldn't have been surprised if the rumors were true.

"Watch it there, James," Mr. Cenric warned humorously, laughing along with the others as the chestnut-haired young man approached the pile wearing an expression of feigned offence at Mr. Cenric's words.

Tate refused to take the bait of Mr. Cenric's joke. He was determined to hate Mr. Cenric: the man's laid-back attitude about art was one prominent reason Tate disliked the older man. He didn't truly appreciate the curves, the contours, the splatters and the ideas behind the painting, the sculpture, the sketch. He didn't deserve his natural ability. Tate was brought up revering artists, and here was this man, referring to Rembrandt as "that old guy with crazy hair". Totally unacceptable.

"Now, class," Mr. Cenric continued once everyone had neatly layered their ring-bound sketchbooks one on top of another. The boys sat to attention, eager lap-dogs in Mr. Cenric's wake; Tate was tempted to snort derisively. How the man had managed to charm a class of withdrawn, upper-class prudes was beyond him. "The next topic is your final one of Junior year. I hope you'll find it... ah, interesting."

Mr. Cenric's eyes danced with amusement as he flipped open the glowing screen of his laptop, his nimble fingers encountering no trouble while connecting the necessary wires together to project the laptop's slideshow onto the whiteboard screen. There was a moment of fuzz, a blur of light and then a collection of photographs were flickering on the whiteboard screen.

"We'll be focusing on human bodies next, boys," Mr. Cenric informed them all pleasantly, maintaining a calm, unaffected expression while his eyes shone with laughter. The boys in the classroom looked astounded at the projection of naked female bodies on screen: the rosy teat of their nipples, the swell of their breasts, the strange lips of their genitals. Tate glanced shrewdly at the form of Mr. Cenric; the man looked utterly entertained at the reactions of his class, a small smirk playing on his lips. When he caught Tate staring at him calculatedly, he offered the teenager a flamboyant wink, which the boy promptly ignored.

"As you can see, the female body is a fascinating example of curves," Mr. Cenric drawled suggestively, flicking forward to another slide; this showed a girl bound and trussed like a pig for slaughter, entirely naked, her nipples stiff and her expression screwed into one of pained pleasure. Next slide. A suggestive picture of a girl running her tongue along her lower lip, her breasts overflowing from the black leather of her corset, a whip clutched in one hand. Next slide. A girl reaching toward her groin, her eyes glazed with lust. Tate was beginning to get the impression his classmates were feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

"You'll be studying the body mostly through photography." Mr. Cenric continued in a lazy tone as he yawned, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. The next slide displayed the rigid peaks of a girl's collar bones, the shadow in between her breasts. Then there were more female bodies, some dripping with water, some half-covered but most of them completely nude. Tate found himself becoming bored. Porn never got a rise out of him; at least, not porn with girls in. He'd never tried gay porn, almost being too afraid of the results to dare it. His friends, however, were looking a little... warm at the feminine bodies on screen.

Tate watched incredulously as he glanced behind and stared as one boy - Charlie - rubbed at his crotch, not daring to put his hand beneath his waistband, but obviously not getting the relief he was looking for above the stiff fabric of his uniform trousers. There was a distinctive bulge in his groin area and Tate suppressed an eye-roll. Was he really turned on by a few measly images?

But it wasn't just Charlie - as the bell rung five minutes later (and several dozen sexual images later) almost three-quarters of the class rushed out, apparently needing to visit the bathroom before their next lesson.

Tate left more slowly, inhaling the heavy smell of wet clay and acrylic paint; his dislike of Mr. Cenric notwithstanding, Tate still loved the smell of the art room. He was about to duck out of the classroom when Mr. Cenric glanced up from his laptop and called out his name.

"Mr. Cenric?" Tate asked irritably, tapping his shoe impatiently. "You want something, sir?"

"Yes, Tate," Mr. Cenric answered with a self-confident smile. "I know you like art, so I was wondering if you'd like to help me with something after school?"

After school? Tate considered the positives and negatives - art after lessons, but also excessive conversation with Mr. Cenric. Decisions, decisions.

"Okay," Tate replied cautiously. "As long as it's to do with art."

"Of course," Mr. Cenric answered pleasantly, crossing the ankles of his long legs and leaning against his desk, hands slung in his pockets. "It's for this project, actually. Human bodies."

"What do you need me for?" Tate replied, his eyes widening with disbelief. Mr. Cenric was an annoyingly prodigious artist; he didn't need Tate's abilities for anything, that was for sure.

"You'd make a good model," Mr. Cenric replied with a shrug, yawning hugely and covering his mouth with the back of one hand. "Y'know. You have big eyes and quite a delicate bone structure. You're lean, and quite small, too. Besides, I don't think the boys could take a whole lesson of studying female bodies, considering the state they were all in at the end of today's lesson..." Mr. Cenric's lips twitched at the corners at the memories of the boys' uncomfortable expressions.

"A model?" Tate echoed.

"Yes," Mr. Cenric agreed with a small, calculating smile. "Your cheek bones, your neck - they'd be good to draw. Just for the art."

Just for the art. The words rung inside Tate's head, and vaguely he wondered if Mr. Cenric DID understand how vital, how necessary, how beautifully incredible art was. Tate heard himself agreeing to Mr. Cenric's modelling offer before the teenage boy drifted out of the classroom.

Mr. Cenric leaned against his desk again with a snide smirk. It hadn't been difficult to manipulate the boy; his complete love for the arts had overpowered any complaints he had about Mr. Cenric's company. It wouldn't be difficult to manipulate him again - in fact, it would probably be endearingly easy.

The young teacher heaved a dramatic sigh. Teenage boys thought they knew everything - especially teenage boys like Tate Kingston, who surveyed those around him with a barely veiled disdain. He thought he was above all of them; more intelligent, more self-confident, a better person. His teacher would just have to teach the snobbish boy his proper place.

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There isn't much action in this part - most, if not all, will be in the next chapter ;D
Please review if you're looking for to the next chapter, or if you enjoyed this one ;p