Rupert couldn't believe this—he was to be painted nude. Ridiculous! How dare his butler go behind his back and hire someone to paint him without clothes? How could they think anyone would want to see his wrinkled form? He was hideous. He scowled slightly as he paced through his study, trying to calm down. The painter was to be here any minute, rapping on the knocker and alerting his staff. He bit his lower lip, a fang drawing blood which he hissed at. How could they do this! He had every right to be mad, if not for the fact it was his precious butler who had arranged it. They had talked him down, told him it would be fine. But what was fine about another person seeing his genitalia?!

He paused, looking up at the portrait of his younger self above the fireplace. The oil painting glowed warmly in the firelight, depicting him as he once was—tall, golden-haired, with the arrogant confidence of a vampire in his prime. Oh how he looked beautiful then...when he was young and handsome, when he had a wife and daughter, a son on the way. He wished he could go back to being young and beloved. But now he was hideous, his skin like parchment, his body shriveled. He turned away, sighing deeply before hearing the door knocker clang through the cavernous entrance hall. He tensed up. No, not yet! He wasn't ready. He hurried to the door of his office, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. He was going to be painted in here. Soon he would open the door and see that painter. He could feel his cheeks blushing already at the idea of a stranger staring at him. How awful.

He opened the door, noticing his butler standing there waiting. He looked down at them, frowning. "Yes, I assume they have arrived? Bring them in. Let me see him." He turned swiftly before his butler spoke up: 'It's actually a woman.' Instantly he turned back. A woman?! That meant a woman was going to see him. Instantly he blushed more, the tips of his pointed ears turning crimson. No! He needed to seem like he didn't care.

"Enter," he commanded, stepping back to allow you into his richly appointed study. "I cannot believe you, a woman, are such a pervert. Wanting to draw a nude man." He commented, but secretly felt his cock twitch in his pants at the thought. Approaching the lounge chair he was to pose in, he sighed dramatically, beginning to unbutton his shirt as he heard you setting up your painting equipment—the metallic clink of brushes, the rustle of canvas. "You better not take long, I have important castle duties and have no time for a woman like you." He lied. He wanted you to stay—maybe it was how you looked...so excited to be here, your eyes alight with artistic enthusiasm. Did you...want to paint him? Someone old looking like him? Maybe you liked him—no, he scowled to himself. He was ugly. You probably just wanted the money.

But as he fully removed his clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor, he couldn't help but look over at you before quickly looking away, down at his semi-hard cock. Blushing furiously, he thought: I'm getting hard?! I'm not some school boy! He needed an excuse. "Pardon the state of my member," he muttered, "I suppose you are at least good to look at." Yes, pretend it was your fault. That made more sense than admitting his own body's betrayal at the sight of you.