Seduction (8 page)

It began as a shiver in my pelvis and flowed along my limbs like a weak electric current, numbing my arms and legs, until it grew into a tingle so intense deep inside me that it became the only sensation I was aware of. The harder David thrust, the more I wanted him to. It was a minute or two before a new rush of pre-orgasmic pleasure indicated that I was about to come again, but this was a different, deeper orgasm than any I’d experienced before. I yielded to the low throb that grew stronger and stronger until I exploded again, feeling a jet of warm liquid emerge from an unknown recess deep inside me. David almost slipped out of me, but my twitching pussy would not release his dick; when he came, he was half-in, half-out of me and I felt two hard jerks before he became absolutely still and cried out in pleasure. My own juices, mixed with his spunk, dribbled out of my cunt, down my thighs, and into his pubic hair, making a little puddle on the jungle floor. He tore his dick out of me, and we both rolled onto our backs. We lay side by side, panting, our breathing slowly synchronizing just as it had done in the yoga class. That seemed like a lifetime ago now.

The smug arrogance had been replaced by a tenderness that melted me as he kissed me, used his underpants to wipe us both clean, and then scampered around the jungle clearing to retrieve our clothing. “I’m afraid some of these buttons will never come back,” he murmured into my neck as he gently helped me on with my bra before bending down to put my boots back on for me. The kiss he planted on my knee made me shiver with desire again. Now that I knew it was possible to come more than once in the same session, I felt that I would always be ready for David.

“So now what?” I said, looking at the sky. “It’ll get dark soon, and we’ve no means of finding our way back.” I was now genuinely worried. We had little water left, and, much as I would have liked to, we couldn’t have survived on sex alone.

“Oh, that?” said David, airily, pushing away a bush to reveal the path that led directly back to our camp. “I always knew exactly where we were. You were never really lost.”

He couldn’t hide his self-satisfied smile for long, and the prickles of irritation began to rise in me again. As I followed him back down to the huts, listening to him brag about the way he’d just made me come twice, I felt more like punching him than kissing him. I gave into it. After all, why try to force myself to like this man when hating him was so much hotter?

THE CAMERA NEVER LIES

Most girls who are into glamour model ing say they’re aspiring catwalk models or they’re really actresses. Not me. I’m proud of my body, and I love to show it off in front of the camera. Modeling is a great way to make a living, and I’m going to milk it for as long as it lasts. I’ve never been short of work, not since I did my first photo shoot. I’m curvier than your average fashion model, and that works for me. It means I get booked for the straightforward topless shots for men’s magazines and also for arty shots, videos, and quirky advertisements whose sponsors want a little sex and personality injected into their product.

The images of me might be titillating, but the atmosphere when I’m naked in front of the camera is never uncomfortable or overtly sexy. After all, it’s work, I’m a professional, and so are the photographers. Besides, most of the guys taking the shots are old enough to be my dad, and they’re always protective rather than sleazy.

These days, I pretty much know all the guys who do the glamour stuff, so when I learned that I’d be working on a job with someone I hadn’t met before, I was excited. Every new photographer brings out a different side of my personality. But I would never have guessed just what Kim would unleash in me.

The photo shoot was for a new magazine that featured sex articles and erotic stories for women. My job was to model underwear for the fashion spread. I thought it sounded kitsch and glamorous, and when I arrived at the studio, a huge white room in a converted warehouse, I was delighted to see a clothes rack hung with fabulous, vintage, burlesque-style underwear. The makeup artist, the stylist, and I squealed with delight over the classic feminine corsets, the 1940s stockings and sexy fishnets. There was even a beautiful bra and high-waisted panty set made from real parachute silk. I picked the ivory fabric up and held it to my cheek, imagining how light and luxurious it would feel against my body.

We were still rifling through the clothes and discussing which styles of hair and makeup to go for when the photographer arrived. A woman not much older than me who introduced herself as Kim, she was tall and androg ynous, with short, light brown hair in an elfin crop. She wore a baggy, masculine pinstripe suit, white Keds, and a tight, white vest. I thought she was one of the coolest-looking people I’d ever seen. Kim was friendly but businesslike and set about creating a mood right away.

“I’ve brought some music with me,” she said, her tiny features composing themselves into a shy smile. “It’ll transport you back in time—I think it’ll really help the atmosphere, and we’ll get some great pictures.” She popped a CD into the stereo, and immediately the gentle strains of a 1940s waltz filled the white-walled room.

Kim busied herself re-creating an old-fashioned boudoir with vintage furniture, which she arranged in the middle of the studio. Meanwhile, the soft music helped me get into character during the transformation process of hair and makeup. We went for a retro look: pale, powdered skin, lots of kohl eyeliner, mascara, and matte red lips. My hair was set on huge rollers, and when it was uncurled, the stylist arranged it so that my dark locks tumbled over my shoulders in soft waves. The decades melted away, and I looked every inch the burlesque-era starlet.

Kim came up behind me and let her hands rest on my shoulders for a fraction of a second.

“Gorgeous,” she said, brushing a stray strand of hair from my collarbone. “You look like a soldier’s sweet-heart. Exactly what I was going for.”

She kept her hands on my bare neck while we discussed what she wanted. “Okay, this is about how sometimes it’s the traditional, almost prissy underwear that makes you feel like the sexiest slut of all,” she explained. “So what we’re going to do is start with you in the white stuff, looking quite prim and virginal. And then, as we move on to the more racy underwear, we’ll muss up your hair and makeup, have you look a bit more wanton and ravaged, so we basically get sexier and more explicit as the story goes on.”

I love to do modeling jobs where I can indulge my theatrical side, so I nodded enthusiastically and told Kim I was looking forward to getting started.

My first costume was a full-length slip with a long, fitted petticoat, a slinky garment that made me yearn for a time when underwear was always subtle and feminine. I thought of the thong and push-up bra I usually wore and resolved to spend my fee from this shoot on something more classically ladylike. My picture was taken with me sitting at an old-fashioned dressing table, combing out my hair with a gorgeous antique silver paddle brush.

“That’s great,” said Kim. “Can you close your eyes and sort of touch the top of your breasts, trail your finger lightly over them? Think about what it would be like having a lover touch you somewhere intimate.” I hardly needed to imagine it—my fingers were inches away from where Kim had rested her own hand moments before—but in case I needed extra guidance, she used gestures to show me what she wanted. She slipped out of her jacket, tilted her head back, and, trailing one hand over a graceful collarbone, let her fingers travel idly down to the gentle curve of her breast. In the thrall of this pantomime, she looked much softer and more girlish than she had when we first met. My subconscious startled me because I immediately began to wonder what it would be like if I were the one touching her, bringing out that softness in her. I’d never been with a woman before, although I’d fantasized about it. But here in this studio, in this fantasy scenario, it felt like anything was possible.

When I assumed the pose Kim wanted for the next set of pictures, it was Kim’s hand I imagined touching my breast. As I let my imagination wander, I felt my nipples harden and poke through the pale pink silk of my slip.

“Is it too cold for you in here?” asked Kim, innocently.

I shook my head.

“No, actually I like that, a nipple hard-on,” she said, training the lens so it focused on my tits. “It suggests an inner fantasy life beneath the cutesy, girl-next-door underwear.” Little did she know that she was the subject of my fantasies!

When we’d finished that session, Kim downloaded the shots she’d taken so far on to her laptop, and we leaned over the computer to look at them. The pictures were gorgeous, a world away from the brash bikini shoots I did for men’s mags. They looked like genuine vintage portraits.

“You have a beautiful body,” said Kim approvingly as she scrolled through image after image of me. “Not many women these days have that curve there.” She pointed to the sweeping S-shape of my waist on the screen, traced her finger along the lines of my hips, my thighs. I imagined that she was touching me, not my likeness, and the thought of her hands on my ass, my legs, triggered a gentle pulse between my legs.

My next costume was the underwear made from parachute silk. The panties were gossamer light against my skin, and the bra was soft, with no underwiring. I liked the way it gently cupped the contours of my body rather than molding my breasts into two separate globes. I reclined on a faux-fur rug, stretching my arms all the way up over my head, making sure I struck a different pose with every click of the camera’s shutter. Kim kept shouting instructions.

“That’s gorgeous, Sara,” she said. “You’re really losing yourself in the fantasy. Now, just hook your thumbs in the top of those panties and pull them down a little bit. Show a little bit of skin just above your pussy.”

The word “pussy” made me blush. Perhaps wearing the delicate underwear from a gentler time was affecting my sensibilities, I told myself with a smile. On her lips, the word was a challenge, a come-on. Was I being ridiculous, letting my fantasy take me over? I didn’t even know if Kim was a lesbian or not. Sure, she was kind of boyish, but that didn’t mean anything, did it? And even if she was, I wasn’t, so why was I thinking about touching her whenever I closed my eyes, yearning to have her climb on this rug and lie next to me?

Kim had me pose on all fours, pouting at the camera, ass sticking up in the air. The strong photographer’s lights shone on my legs and thighs, creating the same pleasant fuzzy, horny sensation you get from lying in the sun.

“Oh, beautiful, beautiful,” said Kim. The more she complimented me, the more sensual I felt. I slithered around on that rug and then knelt with my legs apart, raising my arms above my head.

“Beautiful,” said Kim again and then, “I’m going to set the camera to automatic so that it just fires off loads of shots, so we get you doing some spontaneous movements. Just do more of what you were doing. Show off that stunning figure of yours.” Kim crouched next to the camera while it clicked away.

She really was very beautiful, with feline features that let her carry off that boyish crop. And her body was sexy, too. Her arms were slim but sinewy and muscular. Next to those worked-out arms, the soft swell of her breasts was even more arousing. She wore no bra under her tank top. I wanted to make those nipples hard. I wanted to make her pussy wet.

I decided to tease her a little, see if I could have the same effect on her that she had had on me. I sunk down on my thighs, spreading myself even wider and sticking out my tits so that the milky white skin between my legs was exposed. I closed my eyes, put a finger between my lips, and bit down on it.

When I looked back at Kim, her tits were definitely getting hard, her lips looked bigger and redder, and her eyes were shining. I wondered what she was feeling. What was happening between her legs? Was it anything like the urgent, pulsing beat that throbbed between mine?

After we’d finished that set of pictures, I returned to the changing room and slipped off my silken ivory panties. I pressed them to my nose and breathed in my own scent, the fresh, musky aroma a clear sign of my arousal. Suddenly I wanted to smell that same smell on Kim, to put my face in her panties and between her legs. I’d never felt the urge to do that with another woman before; now it was all I wanted to do.

My final costume was a much sexier baby-blue bustier and-garter set with a billowing pair of French panties. There was nothing innocent about this ensemble. My outfit was topped off by Frederick’s of Hollywood stockings, complete with a black seam up the back, and pale blue, round-toed shoes with chunky heels. I looked like Betty Grable. When I sauntered back across the studio, Kim let out a low whistle.

“Oh, wow! This is it! This is the cover shot,” she said, excitedly, dimming the lights. I reclined on the old-fashioned brass bed, enjoying the cool satin of the bedclothes against my skin. I squeezed my thighs together so that the folds of the panties bunched up and caressed my clitoris.

“Okay, we’re ready,” said Kim, and I was off. I posed and preened, swaying in time to the music and coming alive under Kim’s murmurs of encouragement. As the record ended, Kim, too, fell silent, lost in the performance I was putting on just for her. There were no sounds in the studio other than the click of the camera, the swish of satin on my skin as I moved on the bed, and the inhale and exhale of two women breathing hard.

“Let’s try a couple without the shoes and stockings now,” suggested Kim.

I’d done some burlesque stripping before and knew exactly how to undress a leg in the sexiest and most tantalizing way. I elegantly stuck my foot out in front of me and then kicked my shoe across the room, letting the remaining shoe dangle off my toe so that it flattered my slender ankles before letting it fall to the floor. Next, I stood up and, looking right at the lens, removed first one, then another garter clip, touching myself as I did so. I bent down so that Kim could see down my bra and then ever so slowly that it tickled every inch of the way, I rolled one stocking down my leg before elegantly pulling it off and hanging it over the edge of the bed, where it still retained the shape of my leg. Then I turned my back to the camera so it—and Kim—could see my ass as I bent down and rolled the other stocking, making sure my hands smoothed over my legs and caressed them as I moved along. I parted my legs and, winking at the lens, made a peekaboo face at the camera through my thighs.