Here’s a true story from years and years ago.
I don’t like being photographed. I’m not a poser. Point a camera my way and I hide my face behind my drink, turn away, or just plain look embarrassed. But sometimes a situation makes you feel differently about things like that.
I found myself out in a bar alone late one night. I had been drinking after work with colleagues and they had drifted off home one by one. I was the last man standing. I chatted with the staff and some of the regulars. A friendly bunch. A woman I didn’t know joined in. A couple of drinks later, the two of us were deep in conversation away from the group.
She was probably ten years or so older than I was. Tall, wearing very high heels and a pencil skirt. She had a slightly retro vibe about her, which I liked. Beautiful brown eyes and killer red lipstick. We exchanged numbers at the end of the night, as the bar closed and we all thought about heading home.
I received a text message an hour or so later. “I told my husband that I met a guy tonight who I really fancied. He said I could go play so long as he could take photos. Would you be into that?” I was taken aback. My first response was to ask whether that text had actually been meant for me. It had. She was serious. She wanted to book a hotel room, not far from the bar we had been in, at the end of the week. She wanted me to meet her there, just to have sex, on the condition that her husband could take photographs. She very carefully explained that this was just her husband’s particular kink. He loved to photograph her with other men. The pictures were for his own entertainment only, in fact they were incidental. It was the act of being the photographer which turned him on.
I was a bit shocked by the blunt approach, but I said yes. I was apprehensive, but also kind of thrilled by the idea.
The day arrived and I made my way to the hotel, texting ahead to get their room number. I quite enjoyed the feeling of illicit behaviour as I walked straight through the lobby and to the lifts. I was only there for one thing. I wondered if it showed. Did anything give away that I was arriving for sex with an almost-stranger?
I checked myself in the mirror on the way up in the lift. I was nervous, but a little adrenalin can be a good thing. I knocked on the door. The husband opened it. As with his wife, he was ten or so years older than me. Maybe a little more. Slim, wearing a simple black suit jacket and trousers with a white shirt. More office worker than a night out kind of suit. He had an expensive-looking digital SLR hung around his neck and cradled in one hand. He beckoned me inside, and said hi while shutting the door behind me and clicking the lock.
His wife was on the bed. Laid on top of the covers, in a nonchalant pose. She leaned up on one elbow and smiled at me. “I’m glad you came. Are you definitely okay with this? He’s just going to take photos of us. He won’t get involved. He’ll keep his clothes on. Pretend he isn’t even here, if you can.” She was fully made-up, just as she had been in the bar when we met. Dark hair up in retro curls, bright red lipstick. Fantastic cheekbones. Thick black eyelashes. She wore dark stockings, a black suspender belt, and a half-laced black bra. Expensive-looking lingerie. I am sure she could tell that I was impressed.
I was turned on by the situation, but not sure quite where I stood. What should I do next? I shouldn’t have worried, she was going to take control. “Come here. Kiss me.” I leaned in over the bed, she reached up and kissed me, softly. Then again. And again. Small kisses, letting me taste her lipstick, as she tilted her head further to the left and parted her lips, kissing me more deeply and pulling me in with her hand round the back of my neck. I heard the sound of the camera clicking beside us. It must have looked sexy, me fully clothed with a lingerie-clad vamp pulling me down for a kiss.
I stood upright, gently pushing her back down away from me, to lift off my T-shirt. As I dropped it to the floor, she sat on the edge of the bed in front of me and traced a line down my chest with one vivid, red-painted, long, fingernail. She continued down, past my stomach to the top of my jeans, and pulled at my belt. Undoing the buckle, she pulled hard and slipped the belt right out of my jeans, dropping it to clang on the wooden floorboards. I pulled to unbutton my fly, but she pushed my hands away and did it herself. I slid my jeans and shorts down just far enough to begin to expose my cock and again she took over, pulling them quickly down and wrapping her other hand tightly around my hardening shaft. She held me there for a moment, enjoying the feeling of me straining in her clenched fist, and when she released my cock immediately stood full size, rock hard. She leaned forward, opening her lips and sticking her tongue out, as far as she could, to just touch the tip … again I was aware of the camera clicking beside us. Click, click, click … but I was concentrating on her.
We made love, gently, softly, and slowly. This was careful, considered sex. Not a frantic fuck. She licked and sucked my cock slowly and langourously, laying me down on the bed and taking her time. We exchanged places and the camera clicked away in the background while I licked her neatly-trimmed pussy, wrapping my arms around her stockinged thighs and enjoying the way she gently bucked and pushed back against me when I hit the right spots. I stood to get a condom, and her husband appeared beside me, handing one over. I had almost forgotten he was there. I rolled it on and kissed my way up her chest, between her breasts, round to the side of her neck, shuffled slightly into place and slid easily inside her. We fucked slowly, but deeply – me sliding almost all the way out of her with each long stroke, and as far back in as I could go, her legs tensing and releasing around mine. We changed places, her on top, and for that part of the experience, I could see her husband fixated on the viewfinder screen of his camera. He moved around us, from the side of the bed to the end, clicking away, focusing, clicking. He looked lost in concentration, while his wife closed her eyes and rocked back and forth on my cock. We moved around again and she knelt on all fours, glancing back at me and winking before parting her legs and reaching back with one hand to slide fingers over herself, showing me how wet she was. I knelt behind her and pushed myself in. We eventually fucked hard in that position, both of us moaning and panting, faster and faster until I grabbed her by the waist and held her firmly, forcing her to stay still while I came deep inside her.
She fell forwards as I let go and pulled myself out of her, and it was only then that I was reminded of the camera still click-click-clicking beside us.
As we both arranged ourselves on the bed, so as to lay in each other’s arms for a moment of rest, her husband turned away. He sat at the hotel room desk, plugging his camera into a laptop and busying himself with downloading immediately. My stocking-clad lover, her head on my chest, looked up and whispered to me. “You should get dressed and leave us now. He’ll want to fuck me as soon as you’ve gone. Thank you, that was amazing.”
I kissed her forehead and did as I was told. Her husband did not even look up as I left.
I never did see any of the photographs.
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