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Authors: Ashlyn Chase

Green Card

BOOK: Green Card
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A Total-E-Bound Publication



Green Card


©Copyright Ashlyn Chase 2009

Cover Art by Lyn Taylor © December 2009

Edited by Michele Paulin

Total-E-Bound Publishing


This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.


All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.


Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.


The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.


Published in 2009 by Total-E-Bound Publishing 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.



This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated


















Ashlyn Chase









To kindred spirits. The talented, starving artists brave enough to chuck it all for the sake of creativity. Putting food on the table is as necessary for artists as it is for everyone else. If you’ve pirated this book (downloaded it for free from an illegal site) you’ve taken a carton of milk out of my fridge. Think about it.

And for all those who bought and paid for this story, bless you and thank you from the bottom of my heart! This is for you.  




Trademarks Acknowledgement



The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:


Gone with the Wind: Turner Entertainment Co.

Xena: Studios USA Television

Wonder Woman: DC Comics






Chapter One




Mason Germane tipped his head from one side to the other and stared at his life drawing. In his mind, the thin, short-haired, flat-chested model resembled a ten-year-old boy.

Peering over his shoulder, his instructor Ms. Tempest said, “I think you may do better with our next model. Hang on a minute and I’ll tell you why.” She called out, “Break for lunch, everybody.”

The model gathered her robe from the floor, slipped it on and disappeared around the partition behind her.

Lunch? Already?
Mason glanced at his watch. Sure enough. Twelve thirty. He could get lost in his art, mostly when it was going very well or very badly. Before he set down his pencil, Ms. Tempest continued. “I’ve noticed that your style is very sensuous. Katia is curvier. She’s late, but by the time you come back from lunch, I’m sure she’ll be here.”

The other dozen students filed out of the room, and Mason figured he’d pick his instructor’s brain while he had her undivided attention. “Are some bodies better suited to an artist’s style than others?”

“Oh, absolutely. Unless you’ve apprenticed with an old master. They really put their students through hell.” She chuckled. “Andrew Wyeth’s father had him draw nothing but cubes and spheres for months. When he finally got the shading exactly right, he was allowed to move on to drawing a skeleton. Most artists don’t have the time or patience to learn that way anymore so they adapt by finding subjects that suit their style. What do you hope to do with your talent?”

“I have talent?” Mason asked and chuckled.

“Of course, you do. I’ve seen other drawings you’ve done.” She pointed to his easel. “This isn’t your best work.”

“I’m glad we agree. Actually, I’m creating a graphic novel about a kick-ass, female super heroine called The Totalitarian.”

“A comic book?” His teacher smirked then tried to cover it with her hand and a fake cough. “Well, good luck with that.”

Mason was just about to defend his idea when a nude brunette streaked from behind the screen into the studio, clutching her robe in her hand. She leapt into the air and landed on the platform with a thud. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, huffing and puffing.

Mason’s eyes popped. To say this model was curvy was an understatement. She was almost plump. The firm flesh, however, would belie the word ‘fat’. Voluptuous was the word he’d use to describe her hourglass figure.

“You must be Katia,” the teacher said, crossing her arms.

“Yes, I am. And I’m
sorry I’m late.” A slight, hard-to-place accent accompanied her apologetic voice.

“Well, everyone has gone to lunch. I had the other model stay longer so I’ll have to dock your pay and give it to her.”

She dropped her head. Her long, wavy hair fell forward. “I understand.”

As she began to stuff her arm into her robe, Mason spoke up, “No. Wait.” Looking to his instructor, he raised his pencil. “Ms. Tempest, I’d like to try drawing her? Right now. If I pay her, is it all right with you?”

She shrugged. “I guess so. I’m going to lunch so you’ll be on your own.”

“That’s fine.” Looking back to the model who stood half in and half out of her paisley satin robe, he asked, “Would you mind, Katia?”

“No. Not at all. I could really use the money.” She let the robe slip off her arm and smiled. “How do you want me?”

The suggestive phrase had him picturing her draped across his bed in a pose like the famous artist Rubens would have used. Her olive skin glowed, perhaps from perspiring slightly in her rush to get there, but it only made her more attractive. Her nipples grew erect under his scrutiny. Staring at her soft curves and even softer almond-shaped, brown eyes, he’d almost forgotten the question. “Huh?”

“My pose. Standing? Seated?”

In a husky voice that surprised him, he said, “Lie down.”

Her eyes rounded, but after a short hesitation, she did as he asked. Mason stepped around his easel for a better view and looked forward to arranging her body to his liking. Her full breasts spilled over both sides of her chest. Her pussy, covered with a thatch of black curls, stood fully exposed. She seemed vulnerable like this. He liked it. Maybe that’s what he sensed that intrigued him. Vulnerability. But something more lurked beneath the surface.

“Place one hand under your head.” When she did, the breast on that side stretched slightly and the muscles under her arm tightened. Happily, he noticed she shaved her armpits then he chastised himself for thinking about her as anything but an
objet d’art
. Still, she reminded him of a gypsy. He could picture her whirling around a bonfire, wild and proud.

“Now tilt your head up, like you’re confident, almost haughty.” When she did, he said, “Yeah, that’s it. Now bend one knee.”

She began to lift the knee nearest to him.

“Not that one. The other one.” He wanted to see her tuft as he drew the rest of her.

She quickly switched the position of her legs, and her eyes probed his face. “Is this what you want?”

Man, do I ever.
“There. Stay just like that.” Most women he drew quickly turned into a shape with lines and shadows. This one he ached to touch. His mouth watered as he pondered squeezing her ample flesh and tasting her dark rose areolas.

Before the erection growing in his pants embarrassed him, Mason returned to the other side of his easel and ripped off his previous work, letting it fall to the floor. Re-energised, he was ready to sketch again.

His pencil arced across the paper, and he roughed in her form. His burning attraction to her body surprised him, but serenity followed as he realised his instructor was probably right. Voluptuous curves suited his sensuous style, and his excitement was connected to artistic stimulation. He worked quickly and easily, noticing small details, like the light reflecting off her skin and shadows under her breasts. Already, the rendition of Katia beat the heck out of the other model.

 He wondered if Andrew Wyeth had found his ideal model in Helga, the German woman with blonde braids whom he’d painted hundreds of times. Perhaps Katia would prove to be his Helga. Just then, practicality raised its ugly head, and he realised he hadn’t even asked how much she charged.

He finished the sketch quickly then stepped back to admire his work.
In a leather bustier, wide waist belt, and skin-tight leather pants, she could
the Totalitarian.

“What a different result the right model can make,” a female voice behind him said. Fixated, he hadn’t even realised Ms. Tempest had come back into the room.

“I guess you were right. I’d never have expected that a…”
Uh oh.
How could he phrase this in front of Katia? “A few curves could make all the difference.” He saw her smile.

Ms. Tempest leant towards his ear and said in a low voice, “You might ask her to model for you, privately. She doesn’t charge much.”

“That’s the one thing I forgot to ask. How much am I paying her?”

“Ten dollars an hour.”

“That’s it? I spend more than that every weekend on drinks for women who might or might not take their clothes off.” He grinned wickedly.

Ms. Tempest rolled her eyes. Mason glanced at his work again then at Katia. “Do you model for individuals, Katia?”

An impish expression crossed her face. “I will for you. You called me curvy, not fat.”

Mason stopped sketching for a moment. “Fat? Who said you’re fat? You’re a perfect womanly shape.”

She lowered her thick, black eyelashes. “Big bones and muscles in my country are a good thing. Here, I’m too big to fit into a regular model’s clothing.”

“That’s ridiculous. Those emaciated models are way too skinny.”

Ms. Tempest turned away from the model and winked at him. “Why don’t you give Katia a little break? The class will be coming back from lunch in a few minutes.”

“Okay, sure.”

Katia sat up. “Thanks. I need to make a phone call, anyway.” She shoved herself to her feet and slipped into her robe. “Can I use a cell phone here?”

“As long as you’re not posing at the time, be my guest,” Ms. Tempest said.

Katia hurried around to the other side of the partition as the instructor left the room. Mason admired his work and put a few finishing touches on it until hunger pangs signalled that he’d missed lunch. Just as he was about to leave the room, he detected soft crying and sniffling coming from behind the partition.

Uh oh.
Should he give her privacy and fill his stomach or check on her in case something was terribly wrong? He needed to talk to her about scheduling a private session anyway. That would serve as a decent excuse for intruding.

He tried to act casual as he sauntered around the partition. “Katia? Are you still on the phone?”

Seated on the floor, dark waves covering her face, she dropped her gaze to the floor and shook her head.

“Is everything all right?”

After a deep breath, she said, “No. But don’t worry about me.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

BOOK: Green Card
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