Let me give your photographic mind something to click at. The sexy artist gave me a half dozen of the photographs he took in black and white. They were beautiful, and he says he’s using them in his show, but in most of them you wouldn’t recognize me. In those where I posed behind the glass, you only see the outline of my body, and in others he’s covered me with digital layers so that I look veiled from head to toe, with only a hint of me beneath. There are two, though, that I really like. They were taken at the end of the session when he just asked me to play, and when I got to feeling, well, a little horny. You know that I’m-naked-and-an-attractive-man-is-circling-around-me feeling? That’s the feeling I mean.
The first photograph: I’m sitting on a wooden chair directly facing the camera. My heels rest against the legs of the chair, but my knees are spread out to right angles and my hands are on my knees, making me look a bit like a gawky schoolgirl. The knees direct you in towards my crotch, not that you needed direction, but with my blonde and dainty hair down there the pussy doesn’t stand out as much as she did in my mind that day. My back is perfectly straight, so I’m not leaning against the chair. My torso looks statuesque, my tits like they’re carved from marble (if I do say so myself). My hair’s swept over my shoulders, the dark red of my lipstick looks like black in the print, and I’m giving the camera the most deadly serious stare I’ve ever seen in my life. It scares me just to look at that face, Mr. X. Is this what my lust looks like when it’s stripped of the romantic decoration I love so much? It’s as if I left behind a layer that day. It’s as if the photographer touched a hidden place inside of me and snapped a picture to prove it could be done. The woman in that picture could feast on lions, Mr. X.
Second photograph: faceless but somehow even sexier. It’s less like a portrait and gives you a better sense of my curves. It was taken much closer in as I was moving around the room and he was snapping away. Moving up from the bottom corners of the frame are my thighs, which are tensed to jump to another spot. Here my pussy is clear. You can even see a little dimple of lips. I’m bent over at the waist, but my belly looks svelte and strong as it twists my chest to the right of the frame, with my breasts hanging down like fruit to be plucked. Everywhere he’s managed to make my skin a blinding white, and the background almost black, so you really see the lines of my body. Final touch: my head was thrown up in that moment, out of the frame, but you see a whip of blonde hair and the line of my cheek, and if you know me, you know it’s me. I love this photograph, and I hope it won’t be cruel to say that I even thought about sending it to you. My husband may even love it more. He can clearly see how fully I gave myself to the session, I’m sure, and he’s savvy enough to know than when a naked woman’s involved, even if you pretend it’s just about art, it’s also about sex. Plus there’s this: he knows it would never be completely innocent with me!
But I think he really loves the idea of me having naked photographs taken. He’s never been jealous, but strangely enough he seems even less jealous now that I’m taking more sexual initiative. I guess the point is that we’re having fun, X, trying not to stupidly complicate our own lives, and I guess the second point is that having fun is more fun when you’re having it naked. I’m not a t-shirt girl, but there’s a line you could print on one and sell a few. And the third point (are you keeping track?) is that when I suggested I leave out one of the pictures for our guests to casually see, I got a burst of approving laughter and a big, deep, wet kiss and a hand slid up my skirt over my (naked!) ass. I let him choose the photo (the second) and sent him off to buy wine. Then I slipped it into a frame and put it at eye-level on a bookcase in our entryway, which you have to pass through to get to every room in the house. Then I stepped back and marveled at my tits for a moment. Home sweet home!
My husband suggested that we invite the neighbors. They moved in about a year ago, and we’ve been meaning to have them for dinner ever since. I’ve always found the husband to be a bit of a hunk, and once on the stairway I caught him turning to watch my ass moving up and away from him as he went off to work at one of his construction sites. Ever since then I’ve wondered about him. The wife is not bad looking either, though she dresses like a 16-year-old in short skirts and halter tops. At least once a week I’ll hear her screaming at him or something he’s obviously done, and once or twice I’ve heard them engaged in a ferocious makeup fuck. One time my husband and I got so excited by their noises that we joined them in a little symphony of fuck. I don’t know if they heard. So they weren’t bad choice at all for your purposes.
They arrived at 8 and I showed them the apartment, which they had never seen before. Our tour took us straight past the bookshelf, which has an impressive selection, but maybe not as impressive as me nude. I lingered there for a moment, happily talking some nonsense, daring them to look longer and harder at the photo, feeling completely in control and not at all self-conscious. Then I turned to lead them into the dining room. The husband turned particularly fast to follow, I noticed, not seeming to know what to do with his eyes. But the wife hesitated for a moment, and I knew it was for the photo, although she didn’t dare say anything yet.
By 8:30 we were well into a second bottle of wine and joking comfortably over dinner. When I have a few drinks, I start talking about sex no matter the company. These two seemed open to it, and so of course I had to tell them about vibrators, and the book I recently read that said they’d been invented in America for women with “nervous conditions”. “That’s when I knew my wife had a nervous condition,” my husband drawled, and we all burst into laughter. “Baby, she can join the club!” the woman cried. She’s been drinking faster than anyone, and as we laughed again I saw that my husband was transfixed by her tanned and jiggling cleavage.
Vibrators of course led to me telling about my recent trip to Europe and my venture into a sex shop (I didn’t say: courtesy of an anonymous friend). “I’m just fascinated by sex shops,” I said. “They’re such a kick.” And then I told them about the basement of the shop, where they had orgies from time to time. “Why aren’t there any big, fabulous orgies around here?” I cried, still playing the innocent schoolgirl but having fun turning up the heat. And the truth is that when I get to sex talking, I hardly know what comes out of my mouth.
I could see that the woman was definitely getting horny. She kept putting her hand to her husband’s knee, and then she would put it to one of those beautiful, full breasts. She started telling us about friends of hers who did it all the time in Paris. At this point it was basically just the two of us talking. Her husband had gone stiff, either mortified by our talk or trying to contain his lust. And my husband just sat there like he does: like some movie director quietly staging the whole thing for his amusement.
Dessert was me. I locked eyes with the husband, whose composure had made him somehow even more attractive to me, and I told him that I thought he’d really enjoy the book I had mentioned, which talks about the history of sex (poor guy!). “Let’s see if I can find it,” I said, hopping out of my chair like a bunny and motioning for him to follow me. He did, over to the bookshelf again. I pretended to search up and down the shelves for a while as he looked at just about everything but me nude. Then I “found” the book and handed it to him with a big smile. “Do you recognize me?” I asked.
“Excuse me?” he murmured as he took the book and his hand brushed against mine. “In the photograph!” I cried, pretending to be insulted. “Don’t you know that you’re supposed to compliment a naked woman?”
“Oh please don’t tell me you’re going to need proof,” I said, pointing a warning finger his way, “because I’ve had enough wine and I’d probably do it.”
He finally let himself smile, and then we both laughed hard. As we did, I put my finger to his chest to “steady” myself, so that the tip of it just touched the coarse hairs in the v of his shirt. It gave me a huge thrill, and I felt like melting for a moment.
Happy, X? So melt me more.
Need to catch up? Read the Sex Experiment from the beginning: Table of Contents