Snippet: Beyond Boudoir

[angela146]

Sometimes I get an idea for a story from a picture.

Here are links to the pictures that inspired today's snippet.

http://www.secretsinlace.com/images/uploads/4679-bk-01-L.jpg
http://www.secretsinlace.com/images/uploads/45579-bk-02-L.jpg

They are from a lingerie catalog called Secrets in Lace. I love their lingerie and I particularly adore this model. She's beautiful but human, and she has my "style" of body.

It takes real courage to wear those panties and let the world see her bottom pooking out like that, but that's what makes it so real. I look like that in high-cut panties (well, if I mentally edit out the extra flab and cellulite).

But back to the story. The pictures reminded me of a boudoir photo shoot I did for Bill a couple of years ago...

Eric, the photographer, hadn't recognized my name. There are a lot of women in the world named Angela, and he didn't know me by my married name. But when walked out of the makeup room, he did a double-take.

"Angie?" he said. "Angie Mendez?"

I smiled. "Yes, Eric," I said, "it's me - but my name is Johnson, now."

He looked a bit crestfallen, but then shook his head to clear his thoughts and prepare for my photo session. "I had no idea it was you," he said. "How long has it been?"

"Eleven years," I replied. "You didn't make it to the reunion last year."

"No," he said, "it's a long trip and I just didn't have the time. I can't believe I'm going to be shooting you."

I licked my lips. "Oh, you might be doing more than that if you play your cards right," I said. The way his eyebrows climbed up to his hairline told me he was interested - as if I hadn't already figured that out.

"No," he looked at his camera, "I don't do that with clients."

"But we're old friends," I teased, as I sat down on the edge of the four-poster bed. My skirt came to the knee, but when I crossed my legs, he got a brief glimpse of black panties with white lace.

His smile curled up on the left side - the same way it had when we were in high-school together. "I suppose I could make an exception for you."

"Good," I said, stretching out on my side.

He began taking photos.

"I assume it's digital, not film."

"Yeah," he replied. "The industry has pretty much switched over."

I flirted with him, as if I were trying to tempt him into the bed. Even fully dressed, I had his attention. He moved from side to side, end to end, taking different angles, different heights.

Sometimes I looked at him, sometimes I looked away. Rolling on the bed, I did some poses on my back, some on my side, and plenty on my tummy - on elbows, on hands, flat, and a few with my legs bent and feet pointing up.

He switched memory cards.

When he was ready for more, I stood up. "Eric," I said, "I'm doing this for my husband. I'm twenty-nine, about to turn thirty. I want him to have a complete set of photos of me as I am now, before my hair turns gray and ... everything else gets old."

He snapped some shots while I was talking.

"How complete?" he asked.

I moved my hands to the back of my dress, turned sideways to him, and began to unbutton the little buttons, starting from the top. "Everything," I said, "every single bit of my body."

"I don't do nudes," he said, as he continued to capture me, "but for you...".

I smiled and looked over my shoulder at him. "I'll make it worth your time and extra effort."

He looked over top of the camera. "Yes, you will," he said.

That made me blush. A frenzy of snaps ensued.

The one-piece dress began to slide off of my shoulders. I held it in place, allowing it to fall just a little at a time. Eric documented its fall in slow motion, and recorded the appearance of my black bra with white lace applique as it was revealed.

The dress stopped at my hips. My legs were parted. I made him wait, turning different poses with my arms, shoulders, hands, head and neck. I bent, twisted, covered with my hands and revealed until, finally, I allowed the dress to fall.

The flashes came rapid-fire. I could feel the light on my skin. I could feel the goosebumps forming. I could feel his eyes on me. I could feel him fucking me in his mind - and in his camera.

The garter-belt and stockings and panties all matched, right down to a small white rose on each ankle.

"The panties are a bit too small," he said, "too high cut. They show more of your cheeks than you..."

"I know," I said. "Bill likes to spank me in these. There's enough bottom exposed that he doesn't have to lower them."

"Are you naughty very often?"

"Oh yes," I said, "quite often."

The renewed blush covered me like a sunburn, competing with my not-so-tanned skin. It was late March, so there were no tan lines. At best I was Latte-colored. The deeper brown would come in June and July, but against my winter-tone, the blush won out.

Back to the bed I went, poses going every which way, this time more lurid. I perched, knelt, bent, laid back, arched thrust, crouched, sprawled... and spread. The heat of the flash warmed my inner thighs and the parts of me inside my panties. Of course, that wasn't possible. He never got anywhere near close enough for that, but my body-heat made it feel that way.

"I've dreamt of this," he said.

I looked at him and pursed my lips. "Of having me in your studio or having me in your bed?" I asked.

He paused just long enough to wink. With that, I slide my hands inside my panties and entertained my own thoughts of what that might be like.

The camera whirred loud and long. Along the way, he re-loaded memory cards, changed lenses, switched cameras, changed lights, all in fluid motion as part of his matador dance.

When I had given him every conceivable pose on the bed in my underwear, I slid. The studio set had a vanity and a fill-length mirror. Pretending to adjust my makeup, I posed in front of both, standing and sitting, turning, twisting, bending, admiring myself, critiquing my body, adjusting my stockings, pointing my toe - my heels were still on - as I adjusted everything.

Then, without warning, I reached back and unhooked.

He scurried, but I gave him time, holding the bra in place, slowly lowering the straps, eventually dangling it then dropping it.

My breasts were bare. He took his first look at them through his camera. He had seen me in a swimsuit, but never like this. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said, covering my breasts with my hands and turning toward him, "you said you don't do nudes."

"For you, Angela," he grinned, "I do nudes."

"OK," I said, and let my hands shake as they withdrew and slid behind my back, "Here they are."

More later...

(I'll ask my husband to punish me for teasing you).

 

[rgraham666]

That was very nice, quite a lovely tease.

I loved the pictures. So nice to se a woman that's built like a woman in that sort of catalog. Too young anorexics are rather boring.

 

[Zeb_Carter]

Great tease Angela.

I agree with Rob, skinny, skin and bones women are boring. I like padding on the bones, toned muscle and padding. I like real women not perfect, without a flaw, way to thin models of today. I especially liked the the forties or fifties style make up they wore.

 

[voluptuary_manque]

You don't suppose that we might just be seeing the end of anorexic models, perhaps, with all the upset over those two who died in Spain?

 

[TxRad]

I'm glad to know that I'm not the only one who gets plot bunnies from pictures. People with flaws are the mainstay of writing. Perfect people are just that perfect. The model in those pictures has lived and warmed someone's bed. That alone says a lot.

Great tease by the way. Tell hubby I said, not to be gentle, it was that good.

 

[voluptuary_manque]

The model looks even better in this outfit.

http://i269.photobucket.com/albums/jj48/cyberfool99/45771-bk-P.jpg

 

[angela146]

The model looks even better in this outfit.

Actually, those are two different models. Here they are side by side.
http://www.secretsinlace.com/images/uploads/46579-bk-01-P.jpghttp://www.secretsinlace.com/images/uploads/47559_black-P.jpg

 

[angela146]

That was very nice, quite a lovely tease.

I loved the pictures. So nice to see a woman that's built like a woman in that sort of catalog. Too-young anorexics are rather boring.

Thank you!

Great tease Angela.

Thank you!

I agree with Rob, skinny, skin and bones women are boring. I like padding on the bones, toned muscle and padding. I like real women not perfect, without a flaw, way to thin models of today. I especially liked the the forties or fifties style make up they wore.

Yes, the whole concept of their lingerie is retro. But it has a modern spin. The materials today are much better than sixty years ago and the shaping is more twenty-first century. However, they do have bullet bras if you prefer the more authentic pointy boobies.

You don't suppose that we might just be seeing the end of anorexic models, perhaps, with all the upset over those two who died in Spain?

I kinda doubt it. Until more heterosexual men start designing women's clothes, the models are going to continue to look like boys. (OK, I'm going to ask for an extra spanking. That was very bad of me ).

I'm glad to know that I'm not the only one who gets plot bunnies from pictures. People with flaws are the mainstay of writing. Perfect people are just that perfect. The model in those pictures has lived and warmed someone's bed. That alone says a lot.

Great tease by the way. Tell hubby I said, not to be gentle, it was that good.

Hugs! I'm in the mood for a good cry. I'll send him a link to this thread so he sees your suggestion.

Thank you all!

This is why I write...

 

[voluptuary_manque]

Until more heterosexual men start designing women's clothes, the models are going to continue to look like boys. (OK, I'm going to ask for an extra spanking.

Thank you all!

This is why I write...

You're going to have to give him a better reason than that, Angela. Most of us out here are firmly convinced that your implication is absolutely correct. Most fashion designers really do seem to prefer 12-year-old boys to women . . .

 

[angela146]

[our story continues]

I don't know why I was so scared when I uncovered my breasts. I've stripped in front of men before - including men other than my husband.

Part of it was the camera, of course. I felt so much more exposed, knowing that a permanent record was being made. But there was more to it than that.

Usually, it's just my body - but for my photo session, I was wearing full-body makeup. Stina, the makeup specialist, had spent two full hours doing every part of my body - and that was *after* the trimming and touch-up of the hairs, here and there - and the hairstyling for the stuff on my head.

So, instead of my normally-imperfect body, Eric was seeing me without blemish. My little scars and marks and moles were all hidden. My skin-tone was evened-out. Even the texture was softer.

He was seeing me as I imagine myself to be. He was seeing the *real* me - the body that Bill sees when he lusts after me and when he fantasizes about me - not the "physical" me. I'd never shown this side of myself to anyone other than my husband.

And Eric was prying into my most personal self - because I'd hired him to do it.

"That's perfect, Angie," he said, "let your feelings show. Tell me what it feels like."

I held back a tear. "It feels like your molesting me."

"Yes," he breathed, still moving around me like a predator sizing me up for the kill. "I enjoy my work." His eyes looked up into mine. I started to cry.

The camera flashed.

I broke. My hand went to my face.

He didn't stop. He kept on going. "Open up more, Angie. Let me see you... Spread your legs for me."

My knees and thighs wobbled. He captured that too. With my hands behind my waist, I moved my feet apart, turning my body in profile to him so he wouldn't see me at first.

But he held the camera to the side and captured me anyway.

The only way I could do it was to open up completely. I tilted my head back, arched my shoulders and raised my leg to balance, bending my knee to show him everything - at least everything that could be seen around the edges of my garter-belt, stockings and panties.

I felt a puff of air on my muff. The panties were gaping slightly. The warmth of the flash found the gap. I was compromised. It went on like this for minutes. Standing, bending, perching, sitting, hands on hips, hands behind, hands in front, hands holding my hair.

And he wanted to see my back, too, not just my bottom and legs and crotch from the rear, he wanted to see my back. I had never seen my back.

"Makeup," he said.

I looked at him.

"Your makeup needs work," he pointed out a few smudges in the smudge-proof finish on my skin.

I felt unworthy.

"We'll need to do this a couple of times." He seemed to sense my mood. "Body heat and the gymnastics you've been doing take their toll." He smiled at me.

"Thank you, Angie," he said and kissed the air between us. "I've always wanted you in my studio."

He motioned me toward the makeup room and left the room in the opposite direction. Two boxers going to opposite corners between rounds.

I don't remember what Stina did. I was too wrapped up in my thoughts. When I returned to the room, he was ready.

"Panties first," he said.

I was being commanded to strip - as if I were a sex slave. I glared at him.

The camera flashed.

He had me under his spell. I relinquished myself to him. I let him order me - command me. I did his bidding.

Garters and stockings with no panties - panties and stockings with no garters - panties alone - and the process of getting from one state to the other.

He made me do it over and over again, wifey - whorish - demure - elegant - hurriedly - in disgust - tired - seductive.

When I was naked, he did it... I mean...

"Spread your legs as far as they go," I did. "Touch your hands to your ankles." I did.

The camera flashed from behind. My top half was upside down and my bottom half was spread open. He seemed to be very good at doing raw nudes - for someone who didn't do nudes.

After that, I wasn't a virgin anymore. The camera had had me.

There were shots on the bed - at the vanity - at a dresser - taking underwear out and examining it - putting on and taking off.

There was a bathtub and towels - a fireplace - a bearskin rug - a fainting couch. I was ordered to strip and dress and strip again for each of them.

Nightgowns - robes - penoirs - boas - a corset - jewelry.

Eventually, after two more makeup fixes and - forever - he said, "Enough."

I couldn't imagine anything else that I could do. My body was shaking from an orgasm. My fingers were wet and smelled of pussy. Had I done it in front of him?

The camera flashed, despite his "enough". Maybe it was to catch me off guard.

I sighed, gathered myself and walked over to him. I needed to kiss him.

I needed to fuck him.

"NO!" He held out his hand. "NOT YET!"

I was puzzled.

"I have to hunger for you when I choose the pictures and retouch them and print them and frame them and - merge them," he said.

Teasing himself. I understood. I do that to myself when I want to make it good for Bill.

He left the room, taking his memory cards with him. I almost stopped him, not wanting those pictures to leave my sight.

But I trusted him.

And there I was, alone in a studio with a bed, a fireplace, a vanity, a fainting couch and - I sprawled out on the rug and humped my hand, frigging myself to a scream.

The camera flashed - then again.

I choked. I spread. I fucked myself with my hands, all for the camera, flashing incessantly.

"Sneaky bastard!" I shouted to him, rolling over to ass-rape him with my eyes.

It was Stina. She had this look on her face of - conspiracy. Opening the camera, she took out the memory card and handed it to me, silently, then left the room.

[more later]

 

[scheherazade_79]

I know it's a straight story... but between the words and the pictures you got me groaning before I've even had breakfast, Angela

 

[angela146]

I know it's a straight story... but between the words and the pictures you got me groaning before I've even had breakfast, Angela

Thank you

So far, there isn't anything particularly hetero in the story. You could replace "Eric" with "Erica", change him to her and the story would still work.

But, for me, the feel would be very different. I would pose differently, play off of her in different ways. And, it would have be a lesbian or bi woman. I would need to see some desire in her eyes.

With a straight woman, I would be self-conscious, wondering if she thought I was being too slutty. But with a straight main or gay woman, I wouldn't fear judgement so much. As long as I could draw see that she was attracted to me, I would feel like she was "in the game" with me.

I know this doesn't make a lot of sense. Photographers who do this kind of work aren't judgemental of their clients, but this isn't a rational thing. It's incredibly difficult for me to get naked in front of a camera, and my anxiety over having a woman see me do it would compound the fear.

 

[angela146]

My immediately-previous post about being nervous with a straight-woman photographer reminds me of something that happened last fall. I've decided to embelish it and add it to the story at the beginning, with the main story becoming a flashback from this introduction.

[This is three years later than the original post]

It was Halloween. All but two of our party-guests had left. Bill brought the mulled cider into the great-room, pouring a cup each for Connie, Jan and me. Of all of our friends, Connie and Jan are probably the most hetero. Both are unattached, but neither had had any luck hooking up with a guy for the evening.

Well, it wasn't a matter of luck. As Connie put it, "All the available guys we know are single for a reason."

Jan laughed and almost spilled her cider. It was warm and laced with cinnamon liqueur. I think each of us was working on at least her third or fourth cup, so our hands were starting to get a little clumsy. That probably also contributed to the mood, and Jan's next comment.

She looked at Bill and said, "I think he's the only one who made eyes at me this evening that I'd even consider sleeping with."

"Jan!" Connie mockingly slapped her wrist. "You're not supposed to tell his wife! Now she'll be watching out for you and you'll never get a chance with him!"

We all laughed at that. Then Bill shook his head and admitted, "Actually, you'd a nice place to live, but I wouldn't want to visit there."

Jan blinked a couple of times, trying to process the meaning of what he had said. "Isn't that supposed to be the other way around?"

Bill sat back and sipped his cider. "No, I mean it. I don't think I could have an affair with you. Now, if you were my mistress - that I could do."

She looked over at me, her eyes wider than the apples that went into our beverage. "I think that was a complement," I told her.

Connie prodded Bill with, "No, I think he means she's an acquired taste - someone he wouldn't like at first but after a couple of dozen times he could get used to."

Jan took one of the throw pillows and made to use it on her, but I reminded her of the cider and our new furniture and she put it down. But still, she turned to Bill for a ruling.

"Nice try," he said to Connie. "Actually, Jan's like London or Paris. You can't just spend a day there. There's so much you would want to do and see that you'd either have to live there or go back to visit again and again."

Jan fought with herself, trying to decide whether to respond honestly or not. "Go ahead and say it," I encouraged.

She looked down at her cup. "The way most guys look at me, it's more like they're visiting the Grand Tetons. They want to get a good look, but once they've been there, there's no point in going back."

There was a chorus of "Awww"s from us.

She reached over and squeezed Bill's hand, saying, "But, I guess since you have the Grand Tetons in your own back yard, you can maybe see past the obvious."

Almost spilling my own cider, I said, "Hey! I resemble that remark!" It's something that Jan and I have in common. Men tend to fixate on our bust-lines and not see the women behind them.

Connie took in a deep breath. I looked over at her. She had set her cup on the end table and looked like she was going to nod off. Bill and Jan saw me looking at her and realized the same thing. We lowered our voices to let her drift if she wanted to.

That gave Jan the courage to say, "Actually, I'm afraid that's not going to be a problem for much longer. In fact, I'm thinking of getting getting a set of photos done so I can show them to guys and say, 'This is what I looked like before gravity took over.'"

Bill looked over at me, containing a laugh. I stared at him, trying to put the fear of God into him. The message got through - but he seemed to fear neither God nor Angels at that moment.

"Actually," he began.

"No, please don't!" I begged.

It was too late. Jan's apple-eyes reappeared. She looked at me and said, "Really! Can I see the pictures?" Before I could voice my objections, she added, "You know I'm not into women, right? I just want to see so I can decide if it's something I could do."

Bill put his hand on her shoulder. "I did promise Angie that no one else would see them, but..."

"Oh, pretty please?" She looked like a kid wanting to see the giraffes at the zoo. But I didn't want anyone seeing my exhibit.

Much to my chagrin, Bill stood up and reached his hand to help her off of the couch. Looking over at me, Jan saw my horror and tried to placate me. "Oh, it's alright. You have great body. I'm sure there's nothing to be ashamed of!"

Knowing that Bill was going to show them to her - either with my consent or under threat of later punishment - I acquiesced. "Alright."

Bill led her to the base of the stairs. I followed at a slower pace. Once at the top of the stairs, I caught up to them. I wanted to prepare her for what she was going to see.

"Jan," I said, "it's not my body that I'm worried about."

She looked back toward me. "What do you mean?"

"It's the, um," I paused, trying to figure out what to say, "graphic nature of some of them..."

She waved her hand at me. "Oh, then don't show me those."

I put my head in my hand. "That's not an option, I'm afraid."

Bill urged her along down the hall to a painting we have hanging there - one that Jan had seen before and admired. It was a landscape of one of my hometowns and wasn't the slightest bit suggestive of anything naughty.

He said to her, "You're going to have to promise us not to tell anyone about this."

She was too excited to refuse. "I promise," she said.

"Alright," Bill said, holding out his hand, "give me your glasses."

She looked at his hand for a moment then it dawned on her. "Oh, you've got a secret entrance to the Bat Cave? Sure, here you go!" She took off her glasses and handed them to Bill, who handed them to me.

It was an effective way of ensuring she wouldn't see the hidden door. "You're going to have to guide me," she said. "I literally can't see either one of you or even the wall in front of me."

We knew that, which is why Bill had her facing the painting in the first place. The door is actually in the opposite wall. I slid my hand to the catch and it slid silently inward.

Bill, ever the romantic, picked her up - causing Jan to squeal momentarily - and carried her into our private library. Picking her up disoriented her enough that she wouldn't realize in which direction she was being taken.

Once he had her back on her feet, with the light on and the door closed, I returned her glasses and cringed, dreading the next few moments.

It took her a moment to put them on and re-adjust her eyes.

She gasped. My fear was heightened, assuming she was shocked by the canvas before her, but the moment of fear ended when she found her voice. "My God! Yes! That's... Oh my! Please tell me that the studio is nearby and still in business!"

Looking at me, and probably seeing five kinds of apprehension, she reached out and hugged me, the way a grandmother would hug a crying child. "It's fine, Angie," she whispered, "I'm really not a prude!"

She released me and held my shoulders at arms length. "Trust me, I could name at least a half-dozen men who've seen me in that pose - and they weren't looking at a photograph."

Turning back to the picture, she put one hand over her mouth and squeezed Bill's arm with the other. That gave me a chance to see the portrait through her eyes.

"It's exactly what you see just before you take her, isn't it?"

Bill, who is much taller than Jan, moved behind her, leaning forward to put his head next to hers, steadying himself with his arms around her chest.

"Um hm," he said, "On her back, laid out for me, one knee bent, her thighs parted, nipples hard, one arm on the bed above her, the other reaching to draw me in... and the covers pulled back so I can see all of her."

"It's almost as if you can fuck the painting." Jan looked at Bill to see his face. After a instant, he looked at her looking at him, but his expression didn't change. Her hand lowered to reveal a broad smile. Her eyebrows flashed as saw him look at her with the face of desire normally reserved for me.

His eyes traveled down her, not pausing at her breasts, but taking in her body as a whole.

As his expression molded to reveal his inner conflict, she returned her eyes to my exposed figure, tilting her head, trying to position herself as a lover would. "How did he get that perspective?" she asked. "Did he use a ladder?"

I sat down in one of the over-sized reading chairs. "Actually, that's a painting from a composite of several photographs."

She stepped closer, adjusting her glasses to see the detail. "Oh, now I see it. You would never know from a distance."

"Yes," I said. The artist is very talented.

A pregnant pause hung in the room for a moment, before Jan turned to me and asked, "Does he get into his work?"

"Oh, he definitely enjoys it," I said.

Looking at Bill, hoping for an answer to her real question, she prompted, "You didn't go along - to make sure he didn't enjoy it too much?"

Bill looked at her but spoke to me. "Why don't you tell her about it?"

Jan lit up even more than she already was. "Yes! Tell me what it was like! I want to know what to expect!"

Already ensconced in my chair, I watched as Bill sat down on the couch and Jan stretched out next to him with her head in his lap, looking toward me with an eyebrow seeking approval. When I nodded, she made herself comfortable and Bill draped an arm over her, finding safe harbor near her belly button.

Bill, meanwhile, made his own facial gesture to me, instructing me to tell the whole story and warning me of certain consequences if I refused or withheld any part of it.

I thought for a moment of Connie, wondering if I could make an excuse of going to check on her - as a way of delaying, and maybe preventing, my having to tell the tale. But Bill read my mind. He nudged Jan who released his legs and yielded her glasses as he mentioned our forgotten fourth.

"Go ahead and get started. I'll be right back," he told me as he safely exited the room. Thus, I was faced with a blind but enraptured audience, curled up on the couch with a pillow where my husband's lap had been. My ready-to-be-fucked portrait looked at me, urging me to bare my soul to Jan as thoroughly as the portrait had bared my body to her.

"Well," I began, "I got special treatment from the photographer. He's someone I knew in high-school - a guy who had gawked at my cleavage more than most. When I saw an ad for his studio - and noticed that he did boudoir photos, I figured he would be just the man for the job."

[my original post in this thread would follow]