erotic adult stories

"Shutter" A photo shoot gets hot when his wife decides to fuck the photographer

I am regarding your photo; the one where you lie on the floor;
the
ribbon of your thin red thong emphasizing the contour of
your sweet white cheeks.
It grazes your crack. I imagine my tongue running slowly
against its
contour. The waist is equally provocative; a crimson silk
chain
encircling your waist. It makes your ass seem like a package,
a treat, a sexual prize. It's delicious. The muscles
of your hard, thin back,
crisscrossed by the lattice-like strands of bra. I imagine
running my hands along that lovely back, gliding my fingers
down toward your waist. My heart pulsates just to see the
V-shape contour that ends at your waist. I imagine my lips
planting kisses around its circumference as my hand lingers
above your left cheek. I don't mean for it to touch,
but the quivering makes my fingers make brief erratic contact.
It is then that I know I cannot keep this sensual vision to
myself.
So I call. There's a number of art photographers in
the area. I
speak to several. I ask them their rates, their methods.
I intuit if they have the ability to render a series of photos
that could capture the many facets of your sensual nature.
It's not fun--this investigation. Tedious I think
perhaps it's impossible. Until I notice an entry in
the photography section, just a short name and number.
No ad. Photography by Paul. Interestingly a woman answers.
She tells me she is the studio manager. If I'd like to
see samples of their work, refer to their website. I do,
and I behold the most evocative poses, secure women who
combine class and lasciviousness. One could carry on a
long discourse with them...that is, if one could possibly
not be utterly distracted. This portfolio seems to fit
the picture, a silly pun, but true. Among them your image
would be a natural. You might-in fact-in your mysterious
way-outshine them all.
I close my eyes and the image of you in sexual pose makes me
awestruck. The Vermillion lingerie is the color of blood-hot
blood that can ignite passion to a degree I can't even
render in my imagination. So I call back and make the appointment.
Its dinner and I tell you what I've done. You are flattered
but a bit hesitant. You ask many questions. I try to keep
it simple. A professional portfolio of you in your wildest,
sex-exuding poses. You ponder. I tell you it's for
personal use. You consider. You smile. You say yes. Why
not? No one will know. I say I shall make the arrangements.
You review at your collection of lingerie. You take a deep
breath and select the same red two piece; the one where your
nipples peek out; the one where the red triangle patch covers
the sensual flesh beneath when you slide it up your thighs
and fit it to cover the sweet spot of your pussy. Saturday.
Just a few days. They pass unremarkably. They arrive...I
open the door. A tall handsome man--mid forties, dark hair,
jeans stuffed into cowboy boots, a silver amulet around
his neck, skin, cinnamon colored, carrying his gear. His
partner, an ample woman,
also dark, but with pale skin. Classical looks: out of some
volume
off Thracian art, great hips, great tits, my gaze runs up
and down her
clinging skirt. I can sense the outline of her full cheeks
behind, practically
taste them. I say hello, wait for an introduction. She speaks
first.
Her
voice is modern and confident, a take charge woman. A mix
of grace and
casualness. How does she manage that, I think.


"We're here for the shoot. Can we come in?"


I look at them individually. First her, then him. It seems
almost
the
natural order. Both are possessed of professional demeanors;
but hers
expresses itself outward toward the subject. His, a bit
diffident as
though waiting for a cue. They seem friendly, relatively
at ease for
meeting a stranger in a strange home. But they've taken
many photos
before
I assume, in many places, of subjects I can only imagine.
I let them
into
the living room. They put down their equipment. I offer
them juice.
They
accept. They compliment the decor. I tell them it's
your doing. They
are
impressed. They would like to meet you they say as though
they were
here
for simply a chat. But we all know there shall be more. I call
you.
I
know you are preparing.


Are you ready, baby? They're here.


"They can come up, " you say. I didn't really
expect you to be so
prompt.
The man seems a bit puzzled. "Upstairs, dummy, "
his partner says. I
notice this seems to be a theme. The famed photographer
may be the
master
of his camera, but it seems this woman has some mastery over
him. You
hear
our steps. They are a bit slow. We're carrying the gear.
We enter
the
room, bare except for the computer and you. You are wearing
a
bathrobe.
They smile. You smile. You shake hands. "Lovely, "
the woman says,
although it's not clear to what she is referring. They
scan the room
They
confer.
"This will do just fine, " the woman says. She
turns to the
photographer.
"Agree?"
"Absolutely, " the man says. It's odd
that a man with such a strong
physical presence should be in such abeyance. But that's
none of our
affair.
"I think from the sample shot we saw we can take off
on that theme.
Are
you wearing the same outfit?" The woman asks as you
regards your
bathrobe.
You nod "yes." "good, she says. She is
methodical. She seems to
already have a blueprint in her mind.
"Paul, " she says to her partner. "Set
up." We'll use the Hasselblad.
Just
the flash. It's too hot for lights." He obeys
and unzips his
equipment
bag. He selects a lens and the camera body. He puts them together.

He
checks the flash. You watch him curiously but are snapped
out of your
regard by a touch on your shoulder. It is the woman's
hand. "You can
take
this off if you like. She rolls a piece of the robe in her fingers,
as
though she were shopping." Get comfortable before
we begin." You nod,
untie your bathrobe. She glides it off your shoulders and
wraps it
over
her forearm. For a moment you feel exposed in your red revealing

lingerie.
"Lovely, " the woman says. "Wow, nice, "
I say. The photographer
looks up
from his preparations. He looks in approval, a quick look,
then
returns to
his gear. "Sit and make yourself comfortable, "
the woman says.
"Relax.
You look gorgeous." "Thank you, you say."
Her chatter helps. The
woman
looks about, notices the bedroom across
the hall. The door is open. She gets up, retrieves a pillow
from the
bed,
places it on the floor. "Here, just lie down and relax.
Think of it
this
way. We are here to be of service. You have the power."
You giggle
and
accept her invitation to lie down. You close your eyes.
The woman
bends
down, wipes a cool moist towel across your forehead. It
feels
refreshing.
"There, we don't want the shine to come out in
the photos." She sits
to
one side; I sit on the other. I stroke your hair. With your
eyes
closed
you relax. In fact you yawn. So much technical preparation.
A bit
tedious. Let's get on with it, you think. As I stroke
your hair you
relax.
You could sleep perhaps. But you're up for the shoot,
you decide.
You've
made up your mind. So you wait as the moments pass with expectancy

from
you while for the woman, it is just another day. "Ready"
the
photographer
says. It's probably the first thing he's said
independently, without
waiting for a sign, without waiting his turn
to speak. He might just be the "work is work"
type. The woman
nods.
"Finally." She taps you. You open your eyes
and she looks
all-business.
But then again, there's a certain extra...something
syrupy in her
gaze.
"Okay. Let's start. A few like the one with you
facing the floor." You
raise yourself, turn over on your belly. Put your head in
your
overlapping
hands. Your cheeks are exposed. You can imagine our view.
The view
the
three of us have. You know we're looking at your ass.
Maybe we are
getting a bit intrigued. You feel nice. Desirable. This
may not be
so
difficult after all. A few clicks, a few whirls of the motor.
The
film
advances. A flash at times, none at others. Checking the
lighting
you
imagine. The sun streams in. There's plenty of light.
Of course,
this
means you are exposed. But you feel open. Your letting that
side of
you be
revealed. You enjoy the attention. Why not? It's a
nice view, you
imagine. "OK, " the woman says. "Let's
try some
poses on your knees. Look right at the camera. Relax. Imagine

you're
seducing the camera. You are on your knees now. Your bra
reveals the
pink
nipples peeking out. I bend down, kiss you on the neck. You
giggle,
then
try to compose yourself. You are being watched by the three
of us.
Two
directly, one through a viewfinder. Your breasts feel
as they are
being
caressed by all of us. It's erotic. Your nipples grow
hard,
elongate.
bulge through the slits of your bra. You begin to breathe
just a bit
more
deeply. "OK, " the woman says. Relax. Brush
your nipples with your
hand.
Let your fingers admire your breasts. Think of your fingers
as being
aroused by your tits..I mean your breasts." She smiles.
You start.
You
brush your left nipple with your hand, then your right.
At first it's
quick
caresses, then you slow down as though your fingers want
to savor how
delicious you are. "Nice" the woman says. Now
you are relishing
yourself.
Your hands arc and wind about the contours
of your breasts. You enjoy their fullness. This IS nice.
You
watch me
for an instant. You see I am enjoying this. "Unharness
the bra, " she
says. You do so so quickly it is as though you were anticipating
it,
as
though you were yearning to expose your breasts, as though
you wanted
the
appreciation of our gazes that would be like long, languid
strokes.
Topless, you look into the camera and smile. You are caressing
your
full,
nude breasts now without bidding. They feel wonderful.
You suspect
we are
vicariously enjoying you enjoying yourself. But the photographer

clicks
away. He's doing his job. Maybe he's jaded. You
don't care really.
But
you'd like some confirmation he thinks you have that
something that
would
inspire him to spend a long time regarding the contact sheet,
finding
the
shots that had that little something extra. Maybe it would
awaken his
stupor. You'd feel good if it did. "Nice, "
the woman says. "Very
sensual
and sexy." Can you do the same with your
thighs? Your hands move without effort to your inner thighs.
You
caress
them with long firm strokes that stop just short of the crease
between
your
thighs and your pubic area. The photographer zooms in.
You imagine
your
thighs are in the viewfinder now. You want to show the camera
how
sexy
they are. You massage them and run your fingers up and down
your
thighs.
More clicks, more whirring of the motor. "You like
that?" the woman
says.
Only she is talking to me. She smiles. She sees how much I'm

enjoying
this. "Of course, " I say. "Good, youre
the customer, " she winks.
"The
customer is always right." She approaches me. She
gets a bit too
close.
You wonder what she is up too. But you're still "in
session." Maybe
you
are getting her excited. That would be a bit flattering.
But what are
the
consequences? Can't very well intrude, you think.
That would be a
bit
hypocritical at this point. She turns to you. You are getting

excited.
"Wait a minute, " she says. "A prop."
You look at her, wonder what she means. "Be right back, "
she says.
You
hear her go down the steps. The camera clicks away. You'd
love to
just be
nude now, you are thinking. Throw all caution to the wind.
The woman
returns with something resembling a tent and a large, but
thin mirror,
light enough to carry in one hand. She leans it against a
wall. As she
puts
the contraption together you realize it's a swing
with a black cloth
seat.
She pulls out the legs, which form triangles on either side.
A clever
contraption. A portable swing. "Just bought this
yesterday, " she
says. It
was so hilarious. The sex shop was having an Easter sale.
Well, why
not." She laughs. Easter time, you think. Today. What's
today. Wait. End
of
March. It's March 30th. Alan's birthday. Strange.
I should be the one
providing the gifts. You think again. Oh, that thing I mentioned.

For his
birthday. A woman. I completely forgot. Well, this is an
irony. I
could
fulfill my promise without even
expending time to do so. "Sit in the swing, sweetie, "
she says.
Now,
wearing simply your thong, you get up. Things are getting
easier.
You're
feeling more comfortable. You sit in the swing and in either
hand
hold
onto the rope that attaches to the cross bar above you. "Now, "
the
woman
says. "A little shove." And she lightly pushes
the seat. Her hand
between
your legs. And you make slow arcs in the air. The breeze feels

sensual
against your nipples. You didn't know they could get
even more
aroused.
The photographer snaps the photos some from several feet
away. Some
up
close, the camera lens a couple of feet from you. "Good, "
the woman
says.
Now just sit in the swing. Enjoy yourself, as though you
were in a
private
retreat. Imagine the breeze and sun. You close your eyes
and what
tension
you may have had evaporates. "Now, touch yourself
and imagine the
sweet
ambrosia that craves to surface and render you irresistible,
as powerful
as
the sirens that lured Odysseus's men.
But rather than a song, it shall be the powerful attraction
of your
sex.
You bring your hand to your crotch, then slowly massage
it. You are
already wet. You close your eyes and your heart beats rapidly
as your
own
fingers glide instinctively to the folds of your pussy
like plants to
light. Your excitement grows. Your breathing quickens.
You're just
a bit
dizzy. "Now. Slowly....Slip them off." You
look at her, at me, at
the
camera's eye. You get out of the swing. You peel off
your panties
and
suddenly quick clicks of the camera are set off like hundreds
of tiny
cupid
arrows with velvet tips. You take a breath. It's very
intense. You
stop
for a moment. But you know you will want to continue. The

photographer
speaks. Again, it's odd. He hardly seems to have a language.
"Guess
that's it." He mistakes your rest for the end
of the session. He
begins to
disassemble his gear.
"You idiot." the woman says. Her anger appears
out of nowhere like a
snake
that has been sunning itself for hours then suddenly strikes.
"We're
not
finished! The man looks stunned. He tentatively tries
to answer.
"But...I
thought...." "You fool, " she rifles
back. You are always ruining it.
After all the time I've spent in teaching you my craft.
My art." She
turns
to you...you're startled, of course. She tries to
cover. "I'm so
sorry.
It's nothing. He's just such a...fool!"
The man tries to respond but
she
gives him a stern look and he stops before he can utter a word.
"To
think
I thought he was a real man. Look at him." The mood is
lost now.
You're
unsure what to do. You grab your bathrobe and put it on. But
you are
not
as timid as he. "Frankly, I don't think that's
the right way to treat
someone. Bully. How can you be so cruel?" "How
can I?" she seems
surprised someone would challenge her. Maybe no one has
been around
to
try. "Cruel? I am not the one who is
cruel. Imagine giving yourself to someone and to be frustrated
at
every
turn. He was to be my partner, but I guess he can't handle
a strong
woman.
That's the trouble with these men nowadays."
She suddenly seems
vulnerable, she looks at the floor. She mumbles..."That's
the
trouble..I
just want a man who can handle me. Is that wrong?" So
strange now to
find
yourself in a lovers' dilemma. They need a marriage
counselor, not a
photo
business. She looks up, tries to apologize with her eyes.
"I'm sorry
for..." But she interrupts. "I don't need
to be pitied." "What do you
need? you ask. "I believe I've told you already."
You look at the
photographer. He is avoiding the confrontation. He examines
his
photography equipment. Of course, it's just a diversion.
"I didn't
pay
your fee so you could have a breakdown, " I finally
say. "I paid so I
could
have a portfolio that would do justice to..." Before
I finish, she
puts her
finger on my mouth, as though signaling a little boy to
hush. I grab her forearm and pull it down. Again she is
challenged.
I'm angry at her attitude; she's ruining things,
and I'm angry that
she's
abusing her partner. Although you are still topless, you
feel at
ease,
natural. You are more concerned about them than about your
exposure.
In
fact it's a bit titillating, knowing that you are still
a powerful
presence
albeit at the moment not directly appreciated.
"Come with me. I say. We have to talk." I say.
Her stern look
doesn't
intimidate me. I pull her out of the room, close the room
we've been
in
half-way, and walk across to the bedroom. He here has talking.
She
tries
to raise her voice. You hear me try to calm her. You watch
the
photographer now. It is only you and him in the bare room.
You like
that
it is empty. It makes you feel more present, more in focus,
more the
attraction.
"Is she always this way?" you finally ask him.
At first he doesn't
speak.
But you see he wants to. He stops his work, takes a deep breath,
and
looks
up at you. You notice he wants to talk but can't help
but scan your
body.
You can nearly feel his dark eyes graze your along your belly,

breasts,
neck until he stares into your eyes.
"Not at first, not six months ago. But after a month
or so,
everything I
did seemed wrong, not good enough. She told me what promise
I had,
how she
was dropping all her clients--she's a photographer's
rep, you know.
Dropping it all because I was to be the next big item in the
fashion
world."
"Fame doesn't mean your the best, you know."
"To her it does. To her fame is everything. It was going
to be DC,
then
New York, then London, Paris, wherever. I guess you can
see I haven't
got
far."
"Maybe you should just split up, then."
He hears your advice. He's thought the same to himself.
But only
thought.
"I suppose. She'll bring me to the point of running
away, but then
she'll
encourage me. Like a cat and mouse game. She seems to enjoy
it."
"Any you? You can't possibly enjoy it."
"Well, I've slept on a sofa for five months. That
can tell you
something."
Then he drops his eyes. He may even be more upset than he shows.
You
approach him. He looks at you, and you notice how handsome
and sweet
he is.
A man that intelligent not to see the stupidity of the situation.

Strange."
"It does, " you say. And for some reason you
have an urge to stroke
his
hair. He doesn't respond. You run your fingers through
his hair. You
are
being sensual, but you are also sympathetic. You don't
like to see
this
suffering. He looks up. He smiles for the first time. You
smile
back.
"Thank you, " he says. You can tell he is enticed.
"Your welcome, " you say. Half in jest. Funny
to be so formal.
You take a step closer, to see him better, to make sure he's
ok. He
looks
at you. He raises his arm slowly, touches the edge of your
jaw, then
your
cheek. He runs his finger down to your breast like he's
tracing it
with a
pencil. Your nipples begin to grow hard. You feel a fluttering
in your
stomach. And heat, flashing between your thighs. Your
sense of
abandonment increases, as though a harness has been removed.
You take
bend
down, put your arms around his neck, and press his head into
your
breasts.
Suddenly he turns ravenous. He begins to lick them, suck
them, caress
them,
as though he had been waiting for years for such an opportunity.
You
gasp.
For a moment grow dizzy, then regain your sense of where
you are. You
unbutton his shirt so fast you nearly tear the buttons.
It slips to
the
floor. You press your hands against his chest. Your amazed
how
well-built
he is. Powerful but lean pectorals, sculpted biceps, long
fingers.
You run
your hands down his arms. He pulls you
to your feet, begins to kiss your arms, your neck, then he
plants
his
full lips on yours. Your heart is pulsating. You can feel
his hard
cock
beneath his pants. It reaches to your belly. You're
gasping now, as
though the depths of your sexuality have arisen on a mission
to fill
his
long abstinence.
"My god, " he says. "You are so fabulous,
so sexy, your skin, it's
like
silk" You put our forefinger over his mouth. Now that
he is speaking,
you
realize there's no need for words. He covers your ass
with his right
palm,
his fingers exploring beneath your panties, relishing
your round,
sweet
butt. With the other hand he slides aside the small triangular
patch
of
panty, finds your pussy and runs his fingers through its
folds,
appreciating every inch, finds your clit and rubs it. Now
you're
raving
wild. You bend down, unbutton his jeans and pull them off.
He is
wearing
boxers, but even they cannot hide the bulge of his engorged
cock. You
run
your fingers up his shorts, and find his thick shaft, his
full balls.
"Mmmmm......you say. His eyes are glazed, his breath
is heaving, you
run
one hand up to his hard chest and touch it. It's muscular
and hard
and
makes you amazed to think it's not been appreciated
for so long. You
slowly stroke his cock, still hidden within his shorts
when
you hear the bed in the next room. You lean over, and are just
able
to
make out my back and ass. You see that I have the woman--the
one who
was
acting so overbearing--on the bed, face down, her ample
butt raised as
my
cock slides in and out of her asshole. She's moaning.
You notice her
moans
excite me, and I press my hands more firmly on her shoulders
not to be
tossed off until she is tamed. Well, you think, I guess that
fulfills
my
gift obligations. But you don't stay focus for long
on the other
room. You
resume your own mad cravings. Taking a hold of the elastic
of
photographer's shorts in both your hands, you pull
them down in one
thrust.
His cock leaps out. And it is so big. Big and beautiful. With
a
pair
of thick firm and perfectly formed balls. With one hand
holding his
ass,
you slowly stroke his cock, to appreciate it and to get a
better sense
of
its size. You ponder how it would feel to get all those inches
thrust
into
you. There was a time, you might feel a bit
concerned, but now it seems more like a challenge.
"God, you are hot, " he says. "I want to
fuck you so badly." With
that, you
rise up, tongue kiss him. He's slipped off your panties
now.
"How much?' you ask. He looks a bit perplexed.
"How much do you want
to
fuck me?" You're smiling, as though if he doesn't
provide the right
answer, all bets are off."
"My God, I've never wanted fuck anyone so much
before in all my life." You
smile again and kiss. He is so strong you are able to wrap
your legs
around
his and your arms around his neck. He could fuck you like
this.
"Like this, " he says, obviously considering
the same thing. You get
to
your feet though, and take him quickly by the hand. "No,
come over." You
lead him to the mirror. You get down on all fours. "Like
this,
sweetie." He scans the way you've positioned yourself. Now he's
all red, he is
practically trembling, as though he never imagined fucking
could be so
promising. "Come on, " you say. He bends down,
kisses you on the
mouth,
then slowly moves toward your ass, his tongue and lips finding

delicious
places to kiss on his journey. He grazes your tits till he
is behind
your
ass. You feel his large cock resting on your ass. "Look, "
you say.,
and
nod to the mirror. It leans against the wall and you can see
his
muscular,
dark body pressed against your gentle, fair skin. "It
will be like
another
couple is there. He now has you directly in front of him.
You feel
his
hands on your waist, his thighs hugging yours; it's
hard to tell where
his
sweat and yours begin end. You watch his
ample cock slowly separate your pussy lips. Then you focus
in front
of
you. Lean your upper body on your forearms. Slowly you feel
the shaft
slide deep, deeper into your pussy. You open your mouth
but don't say
anything. You are being fucked so powerfully and deeply,
you're
nearly
breathless. But you feel his ample balls against your thighs
and you
know
the entire pulsating penis has made its way fully into you.
"Fuck me,
now." And he does, long, slow thrusts. You moan and gasp. At times,

focusing
on that exquisite feeling of being fucked down the middle,
other times
watching in wonder in the mirror. "Split me in two,
babe, " you say.
He
fucks you harder. You're in a total sweat now you could
be in a bath
of
warm water. Your pussy is pulsating, you are getting to
edge now, and
you
suspect he is too. You envision the thick ropes of cum that
could
explode
at any moment. You both stop for a rest, preparing for the
final
explosion. You're nearly in a dream now for you seem
to
be even breathing sex.
During this brief interlude, you sense someone by the door.
You turn
and
see me and the woman standing in the door. Should you apologize?

Become
embarrassed. No. None of that. You have gone past the point
of
apology.
You have accepted desires. The woman is holding a thick
soapy
washcloth
and his cleaning my cock, which is to your surprise still
hard.
"Perfect, " she says. You've cured him! I'm glad I didn't
have to go through all
the
trouble." You try to imagine what she means. Your
boyfriend really
knows
how to take care of me. But we decided you've been such
a good
subject, we
shouldn't be greedy. She turns to me, gives me a quick
kiss on the
mouth.
"Thanks sweetie, " she says. "I love
a man who can read a woman's
mind, who
knows the ways she likes to get banged." Then she turns
to you. You
can
barely hear her, even see her in your sexually inebriated
state.
"You're
lucky to have him, " she tells you as she makes one
final pass with her
palm
across my cock. Now, let me
see if you've truly cured my man so I needn't look
for others. We
walk
over. The photographer looks longingly at his woman. She
bends down
beside
you. I switch places with the photographer, each of us looking
at our
partner's delicious cheeks. "Let's give
these woman what they need, " I
say. It's so unmanly to leave a woman half-fucked, "
I say. With that
me
and the other man begin our final descent. Two pairs of hands
holding
onto
two feminine waists; two masculine cocks sliding into
two sweet
feminine
pussys. We both increase our thrusts. You and the other
woman as
though in
perfect synchronization receive the thrusts of our ready
cocks. All
of us explode at once. You feel my thick juice, my vibrating
body just as
the
couple beside us scream in delight.
We rest a few moments. "I hope you took some good poses, "
I say.
"Because
we're done." We're going to shower in the
bedroom; you two can use the
other bathroom. We won't be getting out for a while,
so when you're
done,
dry off, pack up, and if you find any good photos, send them
to us.
We
don't think you'd be so crass as to request a fee.
They look at us
and
smile. We hold hands, go into the bathroom, and turn on the
spigot. As
the
water washes us clean I kiss you. "My darling, "
I say. Years hence,
when
we've slowed down and both of us are calm enough to reflect
on life,
we can
think of this time and say we were so silly. To think we made
such a
big
deal of one small mystery of nature.