Big Hard Girls

by Nikki Crescent

  “If that’s what you want,” I said. My voice managed to crack multiple times.

  She smiled and then spun around quickly. She reached back and spread her ass cheeks wide, exposing that slightly agape hole. I took a deep breath and pressed my tip against it. It started to pucker, as if she was inviting me inside. I took a pre-penetration photo. Then I pushed my tip inside. She was tight—incredibly tight. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t screaming out loud as I stretched her tight hole. I took another shot, and then I sunk in a bit deeper. I could see the veins in my shaft bulging and pulsing. Her asshole continued to pucker. And then I noticed a streak of fluid dribbling down her inner thigh, emanating from her pussy. She was wet and horny. She didn’t just want pictures. She wanted me to fuck her.

  “This camera does video too,” I said awkwardly.

  “Really? Perfect. Maybe you could get a minute of fucking then—I promise I won’t show it to anyone but him,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. I took another deep breath. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I switched my camera to video mode and then I started to thrust in and out. She was so tight and I hadn’t gotten off in days. I was worried that I wouldn’t last long, that I would end up coming in her asshole—though maybe that’s what she wanted. Maybe she wanted a shot of her asshole spitting up a glob of white cum. My body shuddered with warm elation.

  “How does that look?” she asked as she pressed her bum back hard with each penetration. Her big ass squished against my pelvis beautifully.

  “It looks good,” I said. My cock looked huge on camera, which made me feel pretty good. The wide lens helped.

  Larissa moaned. “That feels good—right there,” she said. So I kept fucking her at that same angle, thrusting down harder and harder with each entry. The rim around her tight hole was red and probably a bit sore, but she didn’t seem to care. “Slap my ass,” she said. So I took one hand off of the camera and used it to slap her ass. “Harder—make my ass dark red.” So I slapped her ass harder. “Harder!” she yelled. So I kept slapping her ass. And it got very red. More fluid was running down her inner thigh, making the cheap motel bed sheets wet and messy.

  “I think I’m going to come,” I said.

  “On my face,” she said quickly. “I want it on my face, and I want pictures. I never let my ex come on my face. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No, but you need to turn around now,” I said, clenching my teeth hard. I pulled out. A cute little toot escaped her asshole as she quickly spun around. She tilted her head back and opened her mouth. I did my best to keep the camera straight with one hand while I aimed my cock with the other. And then I watched through my little screen as I drenched Larissa’s face with three days worth of stored up cum.

  “You can e-mail all these pictures and videos to me, right?” she said, while my cock was still unloading its final few blasts.

  “I’ll send you the good stuff,” I said as a warm buzzing shocked through my whole body. I squeezed out the last drop of cum right onto the tip of her nose, and then I slipped my cock back into my boxer shorts. “Hopefully I got what you were looking for.”

  “I can’t wait to see them,” she said as she stood up and started getting dressed, as if she didn’t even notice the cum that was now drying on her face. I watched her curiously for a few minutes before beginning to pack up my own things. I was already hoping that my weekend model, Jenn, would be just as horny and slutty.

  CHAPTER II

  Larissa’s photos didn’t turn out great, but she seemed to like them. The lighting in that motel room was pretty lousy and I must have been off my game because most of the pictures were slightly out of focus, and my compositions were crumby. But it didn’t matter. Larissa just wanted the photos to make her ex-boyfriend jealous, and I’m sure they did the trick. And now, I had a video on my computer of me fucking a pretty model in the asshole. I was sure that video would come in handy on many lonely nights.

  It was the day before my shoot with Jenn and I still had lots to get ready. I had the hotel room booked downtown, in a fancy suite with a beautiful view of the downtown core. I had a couple bottles of wine and a bottle of champagne ready—more than enough to make sure my model was nice and loose. But I didn’t have a plan—and a photographer always needs a plan. I’d made that mistake before, going into a shoot, just planning to ‘wing it’. It never works out. After five poses, I end up out of ideas with a disappointed model staring at me, waiting for direction.

  I decided that my theme with Jenn would be ‘classic elegant’. I didn’t want to do anything too creative—just a simple, elegant shoot with pretty lingerie and an expensive hotel suite backdrop. I spent a few hours creating a ‘look book’ of poses I would get from Jenn, including many photos of facial expressions I would try to coax out of her.

  The lighting in expensive hotel rooms was usually pretty good naturally, but I figured it would be a good idea to pack a few extra lights, just to be safe. Plus, lights always make a shoot seem more professional, even if they aren’t doing much.

  I made sure all of my data cards were cleared and my batteries were charged. I got my lenses all packed up with the rest of my gear, and then I went to sleep, excited to spend the next evening with one of the prettier models that had ever reached out to me—I’d even forgotten that I wasn’t being paid for the shoot.

  I was always nervous on the day of a shoot, even with amateur models who weren’t paying with anything but their time. I always wanted to impress people, even when I was volunteering. I had a pretty decent following online, lots of people who expected high quality pictures from me. I had to deliver, and a lot of the time I felt like I was just getting lucky, and soon my luck would run out. It always seemed like my best photos were the ones that I didn’t mean to take—the ones that I snapped between poses. My best ever photo, in my opinion, was one that I snapped completely by mistake, while my camera was hanging by its strap, while I was getting into a new position.

  What if that luck just ended one day? What if I went into a shoot with a model expecting great shots, and I could get nothing but ho-hum garbage?

  4:00 PM came quickly. I spent most of that day pacing around my apartment, double checking my gear to make sure I had everything packed properly, and then it was suddenly time to go, and I was suddenly worried that I had all the wrong gear packed, and that all of the reference photos in my look book were trash. Maybe the poses were stupid and uninspired. Maybe Jenn would cringe when I asked her to hold her arms above her head, the way the reference model held her arms… Or maybe I was just being paranoid, like usual.

  I got everything into my car, including a small bag of clothes (as I planned on staying the night in the hotel, since I paid a good deal of money for the room). I tried to calm myself down the whole way to the shoot. I got there early, as I always did. I got all of my lights set up in the room, aimed at the bed where I planned to get most of my shots. I got my camera all set up, with my lenses on standby on a nearby dresser. Then I started pacing the room.

  About 30% of the time, models didn’t show up for TFP shoots. So 30% of the time, I just ended up getting drunk by myself in a fancy hotel room. Sometimes I would go down to the hotel bar and try to pick up a chick around midnight. All girls are aspiring models deep down inside. All girls want to have their pictures taken—even the forty-year-old cougars on business trips. But I didn’t want to resort to that. I’d gotten myself excited for Jenn, so I was holding out for Jenn.

  6:00 PM rolled around—our meet up time. But she wasn’t there. I tried not to panic. Models were almost always late—sometimes even a whole hour late. Models are notoriously terrible at keeping a schedule. So I took a few deep breaths and I turned on the TV, so I could get my mind away from my anxiety. And then came the knock at the door.

  I sprung to my feet and I grabbed my camera. I went to the door and I quickly pulled it open. And there was Jenn, standing with a cute smile on her face. She was wearing a big, fluffy coat and s
he had her hair tied up in a tight bun on the top of her head. “James?” she asked.

  “That’s me,” I said, stepping aside.

  She walked into the hotel room slowly and apprehensively. She looked around and slowly nodded her head. “Nice room,” she said.

  “I think it’ll make a good set,” I said. “So go ahead and get into your first outfit and we can get started. I’ve got lots of shots I want to get, and I want to make sure you get what you want as well.”

  “Okay,” she said. And her cheeks were suddenly a shade of pink. I wasn’t thrilled about her nervousness, but she was pretty enough that I didn’t get too worked up over it. That’s what the booze was for—to get her loosened up.

  “Do you prefer red or white wine?” I asked.

  She was slow to respond. “White,” she said. “But maybe just a little bit. I want to keep a clear hear.”

  I forced a smile. A clear head was exactly what I didn’t want her to keep. I needed her to cut loose. I needed her to allow herself to be embarrassed in front of the camera. I wanted her to do things she wouldn’t even do in front of her own boyfriend—and hopefully she didn’t have a boyfriend.

  I watched her as she walked into the room and took a good look around. She slowly unbuttoned her fluffy jacket and then she gently hung it up on the chair by the desk. She was already wearing her first outfit: a black satin dress with a poofy lace skirt that came to life as soon as that fluffy jacket was off of her body. The dress had a sheer top above her breasts and down her arms, and she was wearing a black chocker. She sunk down to her purse and pulled out a pair of black lacy cat ears. I bit my lip and fought back the urge to smile. Girls who wore cat ears almost always put out. Same with girls who wore chokers.

  She slipped out from her little sneakers and then she pulled a little pair of black heels out from her wardrobe bag. “What do you think of these?” she asked. Her face was dark red now.

  “I think those are perfect,” I said. Now I was trying to force away my smile. Jenn was beautiful—almost overwhelmingly beautiful. I loved the way her hair flowed down her shoulders and teased her tits. I loved how thin her waist was, and how wide her hips were, like she was a walking hourglass. She turned profile to me as she checked her makeup in the mirror, showing off her perky tush, which I already wanted to bury my face in. Maybe Jenn would let me film as I fucked her, the way Larissa did. Maybe she had an ex-boyfriend to torment too.

  “How do I look?” she asked with her hands clasped nervously at her waist. And her sexy coy demeanour suddenly inspired me. I could work with her shyness. I could get a whole collection of shots of her beautiful red cheeks, with her shoulders up by her ears. She was constantly reaching down and pulling her skirt down, as if it was riding up, as if she didn’t want me to see the flesh of her tush. It was inevitable that I would, once I started getting low-angle shots (and I planned to get plenty).

  “You look fantastic,” I said. “Shall we get started?”

  She nodded her head and bit her lip. So I raised my camera and snapped my first shot: a simple shot of her standing and looking more vulnerable than any model before her. I liked her vulnerability. I took a few more shots, changing up my angle slightly. She smiled, which was even more proof that she was inexperienced. Models rarely smile. Magazines and advertisers rarely want pictures of beautiful women smiling—but Jenn got a pass, because her smile was adorable, showing off her dimples and her high cheekbones.

  “Turn your back to me,” I said. She turned slowly, tugging down her skirt again, worried I would see that perfect bum of hers. I sunk down to the ground and got a few low angle shots—and in all of them, I could see the fleshy cusp of her ass, and the slight bulge in her black lacy panties. “Look over your shoulder, right at the lens,” I said. And that’s when I saw that her face was dark red.

  I tried to remember if any of the shots her small modelling portfolio looked professionally done, or if they were all simply camera phone shots. I remembered the main photo she included in her e-mail, a shot that seemed to be too high resolution for a camera phone—but it was possible she set a camera up on a tripod in her bedroom and snapped the shot herself. And with all of her other shots—maybe those were taken alone with a tripod as well. Maybe I was the first photographer to shoot her, aside from the photographers her grade school principals hired on photo day.

  “Let’s move over to the bed,” I said. She took a few steps towards the bed, but she didn’t get on. She just stood by it, again with her hands clasped at her waist.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Maybe start on your stomach, feet up in the air—keep them crossed and your toes pointed.” She got into position quite naturally, though now she was afraid to look down the lens. I had to remind her constantly, but she kept looking away like a shy girl looking at her first grade school crush. She also kept reached down to give her skirt a tug, apparently still worried that I would snap an unflattering upskirt shot. “Good, now roll onto your side,” I said. So she rolled onto her side. “Every time you hear the snap of my camera, feel free to strike a different pose—make a different facial expression—just keep giving me different looks.” This was a skill that all professional models could do without hesitation, and lots of amateur ones as well. But Jenn was slow, unsure of what to do. She remained frozen in place until I gave her precise direction. So I decided to take a break. “I need to offload this card. In the meantime, why don’t you have another drink?” I poured her a glass before she could reply—and I made sure the glass was full.

  She took a slow sip, staring down into the glass. I took the card out from my camera and brought it over to my computer. I didn’t actually need to offload it—I could shoot constantly for hours without filling up half of a card—and I had about ten cards there with me. But I needed to give her a reason to drink. I knew human behaviour well enough to know that a nervous person with a drink in their hand and nothing else to do was going to drink. I’d been to enough house parties to know that was a fact.

  And by the time I was finished offloading the seventy or so photos from my card, she was half done that big glass of wine. I could see that her pupils were starting to dilate and her shoulders weren’t quite so close to her ears now. I watched her over the top of my computer screen as she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath of air. “Ready to go again?” I asked.

  She smiled and nodded and climbed back up on the bed. I switched to a longer lens, so I could be further away from her. I once heard that director, Akira Kurosawa, would use super long lenses so that his actors would feel more comfortable, and less like they were being watched and filmed. It seemed to work with models too, and it seemed to work with Jenn. I had my back against the wall and she started to pose again. But even though she was a lot looser, she was still constantly tugging at that skirt, pulling it down so that I wouldn’t see her panties. I was almost tempted to tell her not to worry about it. I’d seen many bums before, and she definitely had nothing to be ashamed of. But I kept my mouth shut and continued to shoot.

  She was getting into it, starting to strike poses without direction. I shot her from many angles. I particularly liked the shots of her up on all fours, and the shots of her pulling the white sheets up to her chest. I liked what I was getting so much that I decided to pull the same trick again. “I need to off-load again,” I said. And then I didn’t even bother asking if she wanted more wine. I just topped up her glass and took an extra long time getting the photos onto my computer. It was actually a good opportunity to look through my shots, to see what was working on a bigger screen.

  I flicked through photos while she nervously sipped away at her wine. I found one shot where she was transitioning from one pose to another. Her skirt was flipped up into the air and I could see that pussy bulge between her legs. But I could see something else: a hint of flesh next to that black strip of panties. Was it her labia? It looked too big to be a labia, and it had a distinct shape to it: long and phallic, as if she ha
d a cock.

  I paused, my mouth parting suddenly. I zoomed in on the shot. I was shooting super high-resolution RAW images, at a high shutter speed. So there was plenty of detail to zoom in on. And hell, it really looked like I was staring at a cock slipping slightly out from a pair of tiny panties. But that couldn’t have been true. She couldn’t have been a trap—could she?

  I looked closer at the picture. Maybe my mind was just playing tricks on me. She was moving in the picture—it was possible the shaft was just a consequence of the motion blur. I looked at a few other shots, including my first few shots, where I could see her panties. I could see that slight bulge, but there was no proof that I was looking at a cock.

  I looked up at Jenn and smiled. “Almost ready to go again?” she asked with her glass of wine in hand.

  “In a minute,” I said. I took a quick look at her chest. The top of her outfit was sheer, but I couldn’t see any cleavage. Maybe she just had small tits. Maybe the dress was cut just too high to properly see cleavage. I couldn’t jump to conclusions just because of one strange picture in a lot of hundreds. “You know what—why don’t we switch outfits. You brought a few different options, right?” I asked.

  She nodded her head and then grabbed her bag. She pulled out another dress with a frilly skirt. “How’s this?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Maybe something more fitted,” I said. “Like a bodysuit, or maybe a two-piece.”

  Her eyes were suddenly glossy. She stared at me for a moment and then she turned her attention back to her bag. She reached in and pulled out a lacy two-piece. The price tag was still attached to the top. “What about this?”

  It wasn’t the most revealing two-piece I’d ever seen. The bottoms extended down the leg an inch, and they were high waisted, and the top was more like a bralette than a bra. But I had a feeling there was nothing more revealing in the bag. “That’ll do,” I said. She took the little outfit to the bathroom to get changed, giving me more time to stare at those pictures, trying to find more evidence.