Cath had come again and was utterly exhausted when Grant pulled out from underneath her, Winslow turned her on her back, thrust inside the channel Grant had vacated, and pumped her with an increasingly filling cock to a third explosion. All the time he was holding Cath's eyes in thrall by his, willing—successfully—her to want exactly what he was doing to her.
After he was done with her, Winslow pulled Cath fully up onto the couch, her body spread all a kilter on her back in full satiation and exhaustion—and began clicking off photo shots.
Her eyes closed and she drifted off into a totally spent sleep, only vaguely wondering when the painting of her body part would come in. For all she knew or cared, that had already happened. If not, was there to be another round of sex after the painting? Feeling the shame, but dismissing it, she found she hoped there was another round to come.
* * * *
It had been two weeks since she'd last seen Grant—at the photo shoot in Hunter Winslow's studio. Somehow, as she had feared, after having been so fully taken by Winslow, she couldn't feel the same way about Grant again, not the least because he had sent her home in a taxi and stayed on at the studio with the photo artist, no doubt to share in the pleasure of the development of the photos of her. But eventually she became antsy for attention, and when Grant called, she agreed to go out with him. It was only after she'd rung off from that conversation that she realized that Grant hadn't been pestering her for dates and attention either. This was quite unlike him. Before the studio photo shoot, he'd called her at least once a day.
Perhaps, she thought, the little orgy they'd fallen into had given both of them pause for thought.
When she did see Grant again then, she knew it would be the last time.
They had gone on a boat cruise from the tip of Manhattan. Being somewhat new to the city, Cath had never seen the city scape from the water, so Grant took her on the Midtown cruise. Then it was back to his apartment, where they both were to shower and change, make a little love, eat dinner, and then make some more love. It had been the routine they'd fallen into prior to the Hunter Winslow photo shoot.
But this time the date ended during Grant's shower. While he was checking on the makings for their dinner, Cath toured his apartment and found a room she'd never seen before—his very private study. Prominently displayed on his wall was the postcoital photograph of Cath at Hunter Winslow's studio just two weeks earlier. Her body wasn't the least bit camouflaged in this photograph.
When the shock of seeing herself vulnerable and nude and spread like that—even though knowing that photographs had been taken—wore off, Cath moved in closer to the photo. It was titled "Cath Afterward #2."
So this was why the title of the photo she'd seen in the gallery was marked number three—because two copies without the camouflage painting existed beforehand. She had no idea how Grant had gotten hold of this copy, which exposed her in very recognizable form for all of the world to see—unless, of course, if Hunter Winslow had given it to Grant.
"It's lovely, isn't it?"
Cath turned toward Grant. He was nude, ready to go into the shower. He was half hard, and his voice was thick with lust. "Every time I see that, I want to take you again."
"This isn't the photo I agreed to, Grant. What happened to the body paint camouflage? You said no one would even know it was me."
"Oh, there's such a photo. That's probably already hanging in the gallery. As he told you at the end of our session, Hunter photoshops the colors in on that one—the number three version."
"Hanging in the gallery? You said it would be hanging here, just for you to see."
"I was talking about this version, not the camouflage one."
"And how did you get this version? He didn't say anything about producing any copies that hadn't been photoshopped. Who has number one? And is it the same as this—as explicit as this? Baldly me? Showing everything, including how I looked naked after . . . after . . . being taken like that. By both of you."
Grant just gave her a lopsided grin—and Cath realized she didn't have to be told who had the number one photo—or how explicitly it was of her after sex.
"Just seeing it and you together has me horny," Grant said.
Cath didn't have to be told that either. He was at full staff now.
"Come, shower with me." He was holding a hand out to her.
"A few minutes. Give me a few minutes. Go ahead a start without me."
When Cath heard the shower running, she reached up and took the photograph off the wall and walked out of the apartment. It was merely symbolic, she knew. It was a photograph. Grant would just get a replacement if he wanted one. And the thought of that made her see the inside of Grant's den again in her mind. She hadn't focused on what she'd seen before. The very first thing she'd seen when she went into the room was the photograph of herself, and she'd walked directly to that. Now that she was removed from the room, though, she realized that that wasn't the only photograph she'd seen on his den walls. There were others, several others. All of people in the same pose as she had been in—and not just women; men as well.
Cath puzzled over all of this for two days, expecting Grant to call her at any moment and to precipitate some sort of confrontation. She had no idea what she'd say—or even why. And this not knowing had her jittery and staying close to the telephone.
She ran their last conversation over and over in her mind, dissecting what had been said—and what hadn't been said—trying to make sense out of it. And while she was doing so, she remembered that he'd said the camouflaged version of her photograph should already be on display in the gallery.
At first she declared she would never go looking for it. But increasingly she realized that she must. She must know just how camouflaged it was. She couldn't bear the thought that she'd be with a client someday and he would give her a curious look and say something like, "You are familiar to me. Have we met or have I . . .?" In her mind, she saw him turning red at that point and mumbling something in embarrassment, just then realizing where he had seen her—in a postcoital nude photograph on an art gallery wall.
She put on a brunette wig she'd gotten for a costume party, dressed in frumpy clothes, dug out dark sunglasses, and took a taxi to the art gallery.
She easily found the photograph. She remembered the colors that had been swirled on the lounge and floor—burgundy and silver and a cobalt blue. Sure enough, it was titled "Cath Afterward #3." He didn't even have the decency to give her a fake name. She stood in front of the photograph at a distance and was relieved to see that, as with the Rachel photo, she had to look hard to see the female figure in it. Up close, though, she certainly could see the nude figure, and she could see that it was of her and that it was obviously taken after exhausting, but exhilarating sex. She struggled in her mind. How much was she able to identify this—and her—because she already knew who the subject was and what the circumstances were of the photo shoot?
She had herself half convinced that, other than the name, no one but Grant, Hunter Winslow, and she herself would know who that was.
Was it the only photograph of her on display, though? Knowing what the earlier numbered photos showed, how did she know one of those wasn't on the wall here too?
Cath started walking down the line of art works. She wasn't standing away from them now. She was walking very close to them—and she could clearly see the figures and distinguish them from each other. Her eyes had been trained to pull the sex-satiated nude from the background.
Still, it was a shock when she came to a male nude. Even before she looked at the title, she knew it would say "Grant Afterward #3." She had known every bulge and crease of Grant's nude body. There was no question that this was Grant. Or that the photograph had been taken postcoitally after a full, exhausting sex session.
But with who—and under what circumstance? Winslow certainly hadn't taken any nude shots of Grant laid out on the studio couch while she had been there. Was that why Grant had stayed there that night? Was h
e still able to look that taken and satisfied for photos shot after Cath had left that night? Or had he had more sex after she left. He hadn't looked this well fucked when he called a taxi for her that day.
She didn't have long to contemplate this, however, as shock was replaced by greater shock when she heard Grant's voice. Here and now, in the art gallery.
She felt she was disguised enough that he wouldn't recognize her, but still, although she drew near to him, she positioned herself behind a column.
He wasn't alone. He had a beautiful redhead clinging to his arm—dressed in a mere slip of a cocktail dress that was clinging even closer to the curvy contours of her body.
"I wanted you to see these before we went out to Fire Island," Cath heard him say.
"Why?" She had an irritating prissy little girl's voice. Cath wouldn't find anything about her that was hard to disdain or hate.
"Don't they make you feel sexy? I want you to feel sexy as we make love on the beach."
"The pictures make me feel sexy? Not really. You know what you have that makes me feel sexy, Grant, baby."
"Approach them closer. Focus your eyes on any edging you see. Let me know what you see."
"Holy moley, sweetie, that's a woman. And boy has she been fucked."
"Bingo. That's the expression I want to see in your face after I've fucked you on the beach, Trudy."
Cath blanched at the answering giggle. She couldn't listen to any more. He was going to take the redhead out to Fire Island, just as he'd taken her. And he was going to fuck her in the nude on the beach. That seemed just fine with this bubblehead. How many other women had he successfully played this line to, Cath wondered. Probably all of those he had photographs on his den wall for. The photos were his trophies. That's all Cath had been to him. A trophy he worked hard to collect. She was happy now that she had made it a bit difficult for him. This redhead obviously was going to lift her skirts for him at the first whistle. The way she clinged to him, they'd probably come directly here form his bed.
Photographs. Cath wondered if there were more of her in his possession. And if so, were they in that beach house out on Fire Island? She had the burning need to know, and although she fought the urge, the next day she was driving out across Long Island and onto Fire Island to check it out. She still had a key to the beach house that she hadn't given back in their sudden parting.
She parked down the street from the house and approached from the side, through the yard of a large house that obviously had been boarded up for the season, and then for only a short distance along the shrubbery fringe of the drive out onto the spit to where the driveways of the two houses forked. She came around the side of the small beach house and looked out onto the sand.
The redhead was up on all fours on the spread beach towels, and Grant was crouched over her hips, fucking her like a dog. They were both nude. Cath slipped into the house and searched it top to bottom, breathing a sigh of relief when she found no evidence of any photographs of nudes, let alone of her.
She walked over to the sliding glass door to take one last, lingering look at Grant fucking the redhead. There was a slight twinge of regret that it wasn't her. But each time she tried to conjure up Grant making love to her, the visage of Hunter Winslow, with his cold, black eyes; sensuous sneer; and hard-muscled, Satyr's thin body swam up from the depths to blot Grant out.
The towels were there, but Grant and the redhead weren't. And as far as Cath could see out into the bay, they weren't in the water either. Boldly, she slid open the glass door and walked out onto the deck. She didn't really give a shit if Grant saw her or not. All of the embarrassment should be on his side, and she'd half enjoy telling the redhead that she was just the latest in a long line of conquests and victims.
She still didn't see anyone in the direction of the beach, but she did hear voices off to her right. She turned her face to see the two nudes, Grant and the redhead, join a third nude, a man, on the deck of the main house. She had no trouble identifying the second man as Hunter Winslow.
Of course, she thought. These are Winslow's houses. When Grant had brought her to the beach house and insisted on going out onto the beach in the nude, it was just to put her on display for Winslow—an audition for her to be one of the subjects of his "Afterward" photo series.
Just as the redhead was in an unknowing audition even now. Or maybe not as unknowing as Cath had been. Maybe Grant had no occasion to call this Trudy bimbo a prude.
It indeed was evident the redhead was auditioning. The three were already in a tableau that Cath knew well herself—Grant on his back on a chaise lounge, the redhead facing him and riding his cock, and Hunter Winslow behind her and between Grant's spread legs, already working his way into her ass.
Cath stood, transfixed. And she remained there in the shadows of the eaves of the beach house, watching what was going on on the deck of the other house, long enough to see the three disengage. And, in a not wholly unexpected variation on Cath's own experience, she watched the redhead sit off to the side as Hunter Winslow grabbed and spread Grant's legs and Grant arched his back, grabbed at the edges of the lounge with his fists, and yowled to the skies as Hunter thrust his cock into Grant's ass channel and started pumping him hard.
* * * *
Cath was walking out of her shower and toweling herself off when she heard the buzzer from the street door to her small apartment house.
"Yes, who is it?"
"It's Hunter Winslow. Buzz me in. I'm coming up."
"What do you want?"
"You know what I want. You want it too. I could tell that."
Cath's trembling fingers hovered over the connection to the door release.
"Buzz me in. Now."
Her fingers pushed the release. She sighed, wondering if he'd be surprised that she received him in the nude.
Oh, well. Why hide anything? No camouflage needed now. She was a long way from Annapolis now.
The End.
Rimjob for Lexi
I've been dating Lexi for a few months now. She is a beautiful woman, medium height, amazing curves, long brunette hair and deep, round brown eyes. Believe me, I know how lucky I am to be with her. She is incredibly fun and easy to talk to, and we've already had most of the conversations about our past sexual history and partners. She knows that I've been with a few other girls, and had some pretty kinky experiences. She also knows that I'm an ass man, though I'm not sure she knows the full extent of that fetish, how I am constantly thinking about eating ass, and fantasies stemming from that urge. I've wanted desperately to perform analingus on Lexi, she has an incredible butt, but I wasn't sure how it would affect our relationship in general - it's hard to get as kinky as you'd like with someone you have to look in the eye the next day. And I had no idea if it's something she would even take pleasure in, after all, not everyone has an easy time getting off with a tongue up their ass...
I had thought quite a bit about this particular issue, the idea of being with someone in a relationship without being able to fully express yourself sexually. It's hard, even with a fetish as relatively tame as mine, to comfortably address the issue. In several past relationships, I never approached the topic, and guess what? I still had sexually fulfilling relationships, but I always felt we were missing something. So after thinking about what to reveal and not reveal to Lexi, now that we were clearly a couple (though still in the early stages), I decided I needed to tell her. Not only did I need to tell her, but I needed her to understand that even if she was willing to do it, it would only be fun if we were both actually interested in doing it, so we both had to be honest up front. The only thing left was to figure out a way to bring it up in the first place, and see where things went from there.
So, this is as accurate a description I can reproduce of the thought processes and actions that led to giving this incredible woman a rimjob.
The conversation came up on an evening, much like any other evening, when we were discussing what to eat for dinner.
"
So what do you have planned for me tonight?" Lexi asked me with a wink.
Shit. I forgot I had told her five days ago I was going to cook her dinner tonight - how does she remember this stuff? "Oh, ha, I was just thinking about grilling something."
Lexi was doubtful. "Yeah? What did you pick up?"
"Umm, well, I thought you had something in your freezer so I didn't buy anything..."
"I knew it, you totally forgot. Damn, Jack, what's a girl gotta do to get something to eat around here?"
"Fine, you're right, I owe you a dinner. Sorry. I'll scrap something together here, or we can just order out."
"Nevermind. I've got something ready anyway, since I knew you'd forget."
"I said I'm sorry! I'll make it up, I promise."
I had made up my mind to try to talk about rimming tonight, but it was already not looking great for me. Nevertheless, I made a lame attempt, and I was surprised to find that it made me strangely nervous and excited, "Tell you what, I'll kiss your ass for the rest of the night if you forgive me."
"I already said forget it, I have something ready. No ass kissing necessary." Lexi smiled warmly at me and started pulling things from the fridge.
Ugh, I know it was a bad attempt, but I was hoping for a little sexually charged banter to ease us both into this conversation. I waited for another opening.
"Is there something I can do to help, at least?"
"You can start shredding the lettuce. We'll get a salad going..." She grabbed a bowl from the cabinet.
There it was - like a cheeseball I went for it. "Awesome! I love tossing salad!" I said with a laugh.
"Okay."
"No, seriously, I love tossing salad..."
"Yeah, I heard you the first time."
Maybe I misjudged and now was not the right time to bring this up, she wasn't quite on the same wavelength. "Just saying. Something I like to do, and I haven't since we started dating." There. That's as far as I would take this conversation if she didn't catch on.
Lexi furrowed her brow. "Okay, now I'm sure you're trying to tell me something."
Mega Huge Collection of Rougher Daddies Page 28
