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By *est-couple OP Man
over a year ago
Southwick (near Trowbridge) |
This story follows on from ‘How he seduced me’, which I finished writing on 21 September 2016 (click the green arrow next to our profile name to read this another stories).
Well, following my seduction by Bill, the two of us learned many lessons in love in our university rooms. Being a pair of horny teenagers, we were at each other’s bodies more or less at any time we weren’t studying. We fucked every night in our student rooms, and sometimes during the afternoon or mornings as well. We managed a few open-air larks on campus, and he had me in one of the study cubicles in the University Library, my arse precariously balanced upon the narrow desk. We were almost caught at it on the stairs in the library, but the librarian in question was thankfully distracted by the wet panties which I dropped as we ran quickly down to another floor. He probably wanked himself to oblivion over their smell and texture at home that night!
As you probably gathered from the tale of my lost virginity in ‘How he seduced me’, Bill loved to see me in stockings, and I loved wearing them: first in the bedroom only and later, sometimes, when walking out in the city (though always under a skirt or dress that would conceal just how sexy my underwear was!) Our mutual interest in nylon – the colour of sexy legwear, the warmth or coolness it trapped on the skin, how it felt on the legs of the girl who wore it, or in the hands of the man who fucked her – enhanced our sex life and in part came from those porn magazines which I had first read in Bill’s bedroom at home. Our student rooms were, by this time, full not just of Bill’s magazines but of others we had bought – innocent ones in the newsagent: Mayfair, Escort, Razzle, and Fiesta; slightly more racy ones from the Private Shop in St Augustine’s Street – Park Lane, Playbirds, Cockade, and Whitehouse. We loved the pictures and the sexy stories, but had to be careful not to let our fellow students see them – the 1980s were the hey-day of serious student activism, and pornography was as taboo as banking with Barclays. We often enjoyed looking at the Reader’s Wives feature in the more softcore magazines – Escort ran one, as did Fiesta, and it came as no surprise when Bill one day returned from Argos with a Polaroid camera, and suggested that we took some shots for our own family album.
Remember that this was the only way you could safely take nude photos before the digital age. Most chemists would not accept pictures like that, even topless ones from Spanish holidays, and home developing in anything other than black and white was difficult and expensive. Thea early colour Polaroids, though, were to be found in every liberated couple’s bedside table, along with the cream Ann Summers vibrator (‘not to be used on inflamed skin’, for some reason) and the KY Jelly. We were no exception.
We had great fun, needless to say, and went to town to create little stories for our Polaroid photo-romances. Because there was no self-timer, these were really solo adventures, where one of us stripped and posed and masturbated (in different pictures, my once-virgin cunt was photographed being penetrated by a vibrator, a banana, a cucumber and a bottle of Hirondelle!). I held myself wide open for his probing lens; Bill shot a hot stream of sperm across his body as I clicked the shutter. He had me wear the stockings and lacy lingerie that turned him on most of all; I had him wear a white posing pouch, and the two of us fucked like rabbits as soon as the camera was put down. We were lovers in our own private erotic world.
All that changed when Bill made the fateful suggestion that we could send a couple of nude pictures to Escort: ‘Reader’s Wives’ would pay £20 for every one published, a fortnight’s rent in those days and, anyway, who would recognise either of us, given that he was going to send a picture of himself, cock hanging rather than standing, to ‘One for the Ladies’.
Would I, should I pose nude for the readers of a sexy magazine?
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