And he had just nodded, unable to speak, his eyes still glued to her pussy, his big desperate cock fighting like a wild animal to be let out of his jeans and give her the fucking she so craved. And, yes, she finally admitted to herself, she would have gladly have let him have her there and then, right there on his clean and shiny floor tiles that reeked of Mister Sheen and old fashioned lavender wax polish. But Roger had been a perfect gentleman and the moment had quickly passed, and she had gone home ragged with frustration and dropped her trousers and panties in the front hall and masturbated ferociously there and then, cumming quickly and violently, her orgasm tearing through her body like an earthquake, her cunt pulsing like a mad thing, her clit up so hard it was almost painful to touch.
And she had, she admitted to herself, relived that moment again and again over the years that followed. Sometimes even in bed with Simon when she wanted that extra little piece of satisfaction that his normally more than adequate cock couldn’t deliver; more frequently when she was just bored and alone, sometimes even pulling her jeans down in the kitchen and standing in her big sensible panties and pressing her hot randy cunt desperately against the washing machine and reliving her few seconds of supreme dominance one more time...
Oh well, Sally thought, dropping the video tape smartly into the kitchen pedal bin with a satisfying crunch, what’s done is truly done and she had no intention of undoing it at this late stage in the proceedings. After all, no-one could cast the first stone at her without admitting that they, too, had purchased The Golden Age of Beauty themselves, and, even if they did, what of it? Let them publish and be damned, she thought, whoever they may be, I’m big enough to take them on, and, exhilarated by that all-too-familiar rush of power, she ripped off her apron and marched up the stairs to Simon’s study.
The vicar’s sermon was going to have to wait for an hour in the light of some more pressing business with his wife...
Nude Shots
Clarissa looked at the grimy office block in front of her and then back down at the torn scrap of newspaper in her hand and shivered.
“It’s not too late,” she told herself, “it’s not too late. You can just turn right around and head back home again. You don’t have to go through with this.”
She gave a little snort. Not go through with this? That was a joke. Her mortgage was six months behind and her car was going to die on her any day now, not to mention the frightening credit card bill that was due to land on her mat at the end of the month. Oh no, there was no question of going back home, she thought, she had to go through with this.
She read the text of the unassuming little advert one more time. “Mature women wanted for nude photography. Any size, any age. Fees vary, but $500 minimum paid in cash to accepted models.” Five hundred wasn’t going to get her out of debt but it would sure help to keep the wolves from the door for a month or two, and, after all, she was only going to show her naked body to a complete stranger. How bad could that be?
Oh, pretty bad, her inner voice taunted. “Alright for you to say,” Clarissa muttered and crossed the street to the entrance hall.
***
She found the number she needed and pressed the bell, and a crackly voice answered immediately over the intercom. “Yes?”
“Clarissa Browne, for the, er, photography,” she said, blushing, not knowing quite how to announce herself. Clarissa Browne, desperate mother of two and part-time pornographic model? Disgusting Clarissa Browne here to bare her big fat ass for cash?
The voice seemed to chuckle. “Come on up,” it said as a buzzer sounded.
***
The studio was bare and very cold. There was a fairly abstract set constructed in the centre of the large floor, with a red velvet sofa and lots of cushions, and, in one corner behind the lights, a desk with a flashy Apple computer and several cameras. But there was no changing room, and a rickety screen balanced precariously behind the desk seemed to be all the privacy she would be afforded.
A barefoot young man in scruffy jeans and an old Guns & Roses tee-shirt had ushered her in. “Hi, I’m Greg,” was all he’d said up till now, which wasn’t helping her to feel comfortable or confident.
“So, how does this work?” Clarissa asked. “You want to photograph me for men’s magazines or what?”
The young man smiled. “That’s a slightly out of date concept of nude photography,” he said quietly in a quaint English accent, making her feel very, very old indeed, “if you chose to sign a contract with me your images would be released to my website, whereby you’d earn fifty percent of the total revenue your photographs generate. I liked the snap shot that you sent me, and you look like a reliable cash cow, so I’d be prepared to advance you five hundred dollars to start with, but you wouldn’t see any more until your revenue stream exceeded the thousand dollar mark.”
Clarissa gulped. It had never occurred to her that this humiliation might earn her more than the promised handful of cee-notes. You’re getting seduced, her inner voice warned. “Oh, shut the fuck up,” Clarissa answered back, and then said aloud, “okay, let’s do this.”
The young man smiled again. “Let me guess, you’ve never done this before.”
Clarissa shook her head.
“It’ll be fine,” he said cryptically, “you’ll have a blast!”
***
She had undressed quickly behind the flimsy screen and was sitting on the red velvet couch, naked save for an old dressing gown that smelt of other women’s perfume while Greg adjusted lamps and waved his light meter in the air. “This photoset will be a striptease,” he’d explained, “but we shoot it in reverse so there’s no bra marks or panty lines. So just sit around and get comfortable and we’ll start in about fifteen minutes, then we’ll start dressing you once we’ve finished with all the nude shots.”
“Fuck,” Clarissa thought to herself, “it’s like eating your last meal on Death Row, fifteen minutes to sit around and fret before the entire world sees every zit on my ass... and worse.”
“Alright,” Greg announced eventually, “I think I’m ready to do some test shots if you’d like to disrobe...”
“Disrobe?” she thought, “that’s a polite word for it.” Fuck, and this little English kid was so matter-of-fact too, like he was helping with the set-up of his mom’s bake stall or something.
She looked at him dumbly. “Here?” she said in a small voice.
The young man smiled kindly. “When you’re ready,” was all he said.
Clarissa stood up and took a deep breath and unfastened the cord on her robe and felt the cold air on her skin as the gown parted. She was a tall woman of forty-three with thick naturally chestnut hair that hadn’t started to grey yet, full-size hips and large breasts with small pink aureoles and big rubbery nipples.
“You’ve got a bush, that’s nice, I like a bit of bush,” Greg’s faintly quaint voice said from somewhere in the big room over the pounding sound in her ears. “Can you lose the robe completely? Oh yes, now that is nice!”
“I don’t believe I’m doing this,” Clarissa thought in desperation, standing bare-assed naked under the lights, “I can’t go through with this, I just can’t, I’m going to run away...”
“Clarissa, can you turn around so that I can see your ass?” Greg’s voice suddenly called and she found herself complying.
“Now I’m showing him my ass,” she thought, “I’ve just bared my pussy to this kid and now I turn round and show him my ass when he asks. What the fuck?”
“That’s beautiful,” he said from behind her, “fuck, you are sex on a stick, girl.”
She heard the sound of his camera shutter and his low mutter of appreciation. At least the kid liked his work.
“Can you bend over for me, Sweetheart?” he called, “that’s it, but a little further, no not like that, like you’ve been a bad girl and you’re about to
be spanked.”
“Like I’m about to be spanked? Is this kid for real?” she thought, but she felt something a little like a thrill of excitement as she bent over and raised her big full butt up for his camera’s inspection.
“Oh yes, that’s the shot I need,” he purred as his shutter went off again and again, “lovely, now part your legs just slightly and show me a just a little hint of pussy. That’s it, not too much now, not yet, make them wait, oh yes, that’s beautiful, that is. Okay, now lie on the couch for me...”
“Oh, here we go, the casting couch,” Clarissa thought, suddenly clenching up as she lay down amongst the cushions and the plush red velvet, keeping her legs tightly shut as the camera went off and Greg came into view behind his lens.
“That’s it, lovely, stick your tits out for me, great, now put your arm behind your head for me. Oh, your armpits are shaved, pity, never mind, you can grow them in for next time. Okay, now relax, you’re looking tense there, I don’t want you tense. Let your legs part a little, I’m not seeing any pussy here, oh come on, Clarissa, you were fine on the ass shots, what’s the problem, Darling?”
Clarissa sighed. “I can’t do this,” she said in a small voice, reaching for the robe and covering herself up.
Greg laid his camera down. “Of course you can,” he said gently, “you were starting to enjoy it before you lay down. What changed?’
Clarissa thought about it. “I can see you,” she finally said.
“And why is that bad? Do I repel you?”
She laughed in spite of herself. “No,” she said, shaking her head, “it’s just that when I see you I see the whole thing for the farce it really is. I’m old enough to be your mother and I’m sitting here showing you my ass. And why would anyone pay to look at a woman like me naked anyway?”
“Oh, lots of men will pay to look at you naked, believe me,” he said, then added quietly, “I certainly would.”
Clarissa raised her eyebrows quizzically. “No you wouldn’t,” she said gently, “you just see me as, what did you call it, a reliable cash cow.”
“That’s the business side of me talking, but the reason I have a successful business is because I listen to my cock, and my cock says it would pay again and again and again for a peep at your charms.”
Clarissa laughed again. It sounded strange to hear his cute Hugh Grant voice saying words like that and talking about his cock. But she wasn’t fooled. The kid had booked the studio time, he was protecting his investment. Handling her.
“Nice try, kid,” she said, getting up to go, her robe falling open momentarily and treating him to a flash of her dense curly bush.
“No, wait,” he said, “let me prove it to you.”
“How?” she asked, hands on her massive hips, challenging him.
Greg didn’t reply but pulled off his tee-shirt and jeans and stood before her in just a tiny pair of unexpectedly snowy-white briefs, the outline of his big stiff cock clearly visible.
“Now do you believe me?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers and holding her gaze.
She shook her head again. “No. Show me more.”
He smiled and peeled the pants off, his cock springing out from its cage and bouncing like an eager dog. He was, when he was dressed, a small built, boyish male; but naked he became a wiry athlete, his white sun-starved body a bed of rippling muscles like a fly-weight boxer’s, his chest and legs fairly smooth but his pubic area covered in thick, blonde-brown hair that off-set his big, bulging cock.
Unlike the American men she was used to he wasn’t circumcised and his foreskin was trying valiantly to cover the big purple head of his dick, but not succeeding and his almost bare cock-head gleamed slick and proud. His balls were long and heavy, the sacks stretched, as it were, from the weight, and his shaft was long and knobbly, like a gnarled old tree branch in an old fairy tale illustration.
“Now can I photograph you?” he asked.
A flush of white-hot arousal had flushed through her nether regions as she’d looked at him and she knew that she wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t leave. She smiled and let the robe slide off her shoulders. “If you stay like that,” she breathed, melting into the sea of velvet and parting her big white thighs for him.
***
“So, you stare at women’s cunts all day. Is that a fitting job for a fine young Englishman such as yourself?” she asked, watching his big cock intently as he focused his probing camera on her spread pussy.
“What can I say,” he grinned, “I love my work.”
“Oh, you certainly do that,” she said, looking at his dick again, wishing that she could lick the tiny bud of pre-cum that was forming on the cute little hole of the now fully exposed purple-brown head.
He grinned again and gave his member a quick squeeze. “Just think,” he said, “when you’re on line there’ll be hundreds of men looking at you and doing this every minute of every day.”
Clarissa whistled, unashamedly and openly aroused now. “That’s a lot of stiff cock for one little pussy,” she said.
“Ah, but what a pussy,” he said, moving closer with his long camera lens.
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said gruffly, but felt a warm wave of heat pass over her as she ran a cautious finger through her bush and round the entrance to her already very moist slit.
When she was a teenager she and her best friend, Betsy Somerville, had compared cunts one day and she had been shocked at how different they had been. Betsy’s pussy had been small and tight, her slit closed and secret behind her short light-brown fur, while her own rubyfruit had been big and open, the pink inner petals of her labia hanging down like a sticky tropical flower.
“I love your cunt, I love the way it all spills out,” Betsy had giggled, reaching a tentative hand out to touch, “it’s all so pink and open and inviting. Cute.”
Clarissa had blushed. “It’s not too forward, is it, showing so much? Would I give boys the wrong idea?”
Betsy giggled again. “If a boy could see what I’m seeing now he’d most definitely get the wrong idea. Which would be exactly what you’d want him to get. Not like mine, Miss Clam-Shell-Cunt, nineteen eighty nine.”
“Is it really as tight as it looks,” Clarissa had asked, finally daring to touch.
“Slide your finger in and find out,” Betsy had replied, not giggling any more.
***
“You ever done it with another guy?” Clarissa asked suddenly as she lay with her legs wide apart, her big full cunt hot and excited, her clit like a slippery almond under her busy index finger.
Greg laughed. “I’m an English public school boy, of course I have. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I was just thinking about me and my friend Betsy and the things we used to get up to. It was making me quite hot.”
“Mmm, I can see that,” he murmured, camera clicking, his big phallic lens zooming in on her arousal, “just go on thinking those thoughts.”
Clarissa laughed. “No, I think I want to hear about your adventures in Dickland instead,” she said, masturbating hard, “and all the gory details too.”
Greg paused in his snapping and tugged his very tight foreskin all the way up and then slowly back down again, making his huge cock ooze clear liquid. “Okay,” he said, “but what do I get in return?”
Clarissa thought about it. “If you get me very hot I’ll finger fuck myself up the ass for your camera....”
The boy groaned. “What do you want to know?” was all he managed to say.
***
“My father was a successful blood stock agent and I grew up in a big country house just outside Epsom,” Greg began, his camera still clicking as he circled Clarissa, capturing her nakedness from the most intimate angles imaginable. “But when I went to university I rebelled and wanted my own place. My parents wouldn’t hea
r of it, of course, they were scared I’d become a drug addict or something, but as a compromise they bought me an old caravan and parked it in the coppice at the bottom of the garden.”
“A caravan?” Clarissa said, still watching his cock as she touched herself.
“Sorry, a trailer,” Greg replied. “Anyway, I moved out there and was very happy, bringing some girls home at the weekends and keeping my dick in shape with porn on the fallow nights...”
“You like porn, don’t you?” Clarissa teased, arching her back for him and letting him see right up her cunt.
“You could say it was my vocation,” he replied, “fuck, but that’s a beautiful pussy you’ve got there. Anyway, porn is important to this story, because, sometimes, I was sure that my stash had been moved when I went to, you know, seek relief, and I couldn’t understand it since nobody ever went out to the caravan except me, and it remained a mystery until I came home early one afternoon when I was supposed to be studying and found Mike the gardener sitting on my bed with my stash and an enormous hardon.”
“Finally, it gets interesting,” Clarissa breathed, her fingers disappearing deep into her sopping wet slit.
Greg ignored her. “Mike was a very fit young guy of about twenty-two or three, with long dark hair tied back in a pony-tail and an outdoor complexion. He’d had a lot of trouble finding work in the area and had been insanely grateful to my dad for taking him on, and I realised that I had him precisely at my mercy.
To cut a long story short, I told him that I’d tell my parents and get him fired if he didn’t let me have some fun with him, and he looked at me quite aghast.
“But I’m not gay,” he’d protested, but I wasn’t falling for that one.
“Neither am I,” I’d said quietly, “but that doesn’t stop me indulging in some cock play now and again. And don’t play the straight card with me, Sonny Jim, your dick’s up like a broom pole and showing no sign of going down. So, move over.”
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