The True Part: My name is Cathy. I have been married to the same man
since I was nineteen, and I now have four children. I am pretty much
the normal monogamous soccer mom except for one thing . . . I get off on
exhibitionism and so does my husband.
I first found this out when I was in high school. My family had moved
to California from the East, and I rapidly adjusted to being a (modest)
two piece swim suit wearing denizen of the beach in the Summer before my
Senior year. I was quite surprised when my boyfriend (later husband)
from back East showed up to be with me. He was a rising college junior
with some part-time experience in news photography, and he had brought
his cameras. We (much) later agreed that I would try to return East to
marry him, but while we still thought he would return alone and our
romance would be long distance if it lasted, he asked me to pose for
some pictures. He said he needed some to take back to remember me by in
the cold lonely winter. Naturally, (after all, he was a man,) he tried
to talk me into showing a little skin for the camera.
He didn’t know it, but his visit had already given me the opportunity
to indulge in some daring behavior far beyond my normal limits at the
time. Already we were spending every evening together, often alone in
his motel room. That had a bed in it. We had progressed
farther in making out than I had allowed before. Why not? I suspected,
as serious as it seemed between us, that our romance would not survive
separation when he left for school, and that I would never see him
again. My feelings for him made me want to be intimate, and I did not
have to worry about my actions becoming local gossip as I would have had
he been a local boy. He was a college man, and he seemed more
experienced than my previous boyfriends, but I didn’t feel threatened.
I saw a chance in him and this summer together to experiment and to be
naughty without it getting back to haunt me. So, scared but tingly, I
let him talk me into unbuttoning my blouse and showing my white cotton
bra.
Even though his argument that my bra was less revealing than the top to
my swim suit was true, the butterflies in my stomach fluttered in unison
when the shutter clicked the first time. They had settled down a bit
after a few exposures, to coin a phrase, but they rose again when he
walked over and pulled both straps down my shoulders.
I knew where the session was heading when I undid the first button,
but until he pushed the right cup under my breast and stepped back to
snap the picture, I did not know whether I would go through with
exposing my breasts to the camera. The ice having been broken, I was
more quick to comply when he asked me take off my bra completely. But
standing there topless, worried about having the permanent record and
self-conscious that I had only developed to a B-cup by then, my doubts
momentarily overcame me, and I slipped on my blouse. Being summertime
at the beach in California, I don’t think he believed me when I said I
was cold. I’m sure he was disappointed, and so was I. I just knew I
would never have another opportunity to anything like this in my life
(amazing how final all things seem to the young) and I loved the feeling
of acting out the forbidden that my laughingly modest actions had given
me so far. Finally I put all thoughts of chickening out aside, and
embarrassed but game, lay back on the bed, my unbuttoned blouse falling
to the sides, exposing both breasts to the camera.
As you might imagine, he wasn’t satisfied with merely topless, and I
let myself be gradually talked into posing completely nude. I worried
out loud that he might show these pictures to others, and speculated
that I had lost my mind to be doing this, but each click of the camera
and each admiring remark made me more excited at my daring. He might
have been disappointed to know at the time, but he was only peripheral
to my responses while making out that evening . . . my mind was one
enormous erogenous zone as I thought about him looking at those
pictures, and maybe showing them to friends we both knew back East.
I was hooked on the feeling I got showing myself off that evening, and
we have continued our play throughout our marriage. Although most of
our fun involved the two of us and a camera, I have had some experiences
showing myself in person to others, such as the occasional flashing of a
truck driver on the road. In addition, I worked for a while as a model,
most steadily through the Barbizon agency. Most of my work was done
fully clothed – advertisements and the like – but I did do some figure
studies for photographers. It was one of those experiences that
produces one of my most potent fantasies, one I would like to share with
you. As you read this, I will tell you that during my modeling days I
did pose (with two different men) for some “Love Portraits,” and some of
the story below is true, but my fantasies are always better in my mind
than the bare facts.
Cathy’s Fantasy
My nipples were hard and my skin tingled even before I opened the door
to Dean’s studio. Dean was a friend and a local photographer who had
hired me to pose for some “Love Portraits.” These were supposed to be
tasteful shots of married couples in erotic but not explicit poses.
Dean had gone to some professional photographers’ convention where they
had touted this type of picture as the next gold mine of specialty
photography. He wanted some brochures and a portfolio to use in
marketing the concept to his customers.
This was long before the current fad for “boudoir photography,” and I
thought he was fooling himself as to the market for this stuff, but I
was a professional model and he was willing to pay. He had originally
assured me that topless would be enough, but the first two sessions had
ended with both me and the male model completely nude. Both times I had
objected to removing my bottoms, but Dean is a persuasive guy who had a
way of appealing to my professionalism. In the end I had finally
agreed that he could not always crop out the bottoms and still get the
desired effect for his marketing photos. After all, he expected that
the customers for this type of photo would want to pose nude. Looking
back, I guess I secretly wanted to be talked into it, but it was not a
conscious desire at the time.
The first two sessions really were harmless, but it had been fun to
work nude with strangers. To judge by my husband, women truly are not
as visually oriented as men, but having the chance to see the privates
of these strangers did scratch an itch of curiosity I normally don’t
even realize that I have. But the real fun was in my mind. It was
entertaining to watch the two men struggle, only partially successfully,
to keep from exhibiting the visible evidence of their arousal at posing
nude with me. For some reason Dean had used amateurs for his male
models, and they did not have the experience to see the session as a job
– it looked to them like it looked to the camera, a bare couple modestly
making out. These first two sessions were too awkward for anything more
than a slight sexual tension at the exhibitionist circumstances to build
in me, but it affected the guys.
My husband and I had argued over this job after he saw the proof sheets
from the first two sessions. I had modeled nude before for professional
photographers, so having another man see me naked was not a problem. It
was posing nude with another man that gave him a problem. Although I
told him truthfully that the sessions were harmless, the thought of
other nude men touching my nude body touched a nerve in him. He didn’t
want me to go back for the final scheduled session. The final session
was scheduled from the start for full nudity and more intimate-looking
poses.
After a long discussion culminating in my observation that he had
benefitted from my increased libido after each of those sessions, and
the grudging admission that he found the pictures of me with the others
perversely exciting, my husband reluctantly consented to let me fulfill
my modeling obligation by finishing out the series.
I guess it is a good thing the camera had not caught the squeezes I
could not resist giving to the penises of each of the male models in the
first two sessions. Though neither given nor taken as an invitation,
but rather as a way of defusing some of the tension (or maybe increasing
it, as I was having fun pushing these guys’ buttons), I doubt that my
husband would have reacted well to the knowledge of such contact. I had
reacted well, however, and feeling the results against my thigh or
buttock as the session progressed made me feel powerfully sexy and
wicked, without being really bad. Thus the tingle as I entered the
studio, knowing that I would soon be skin to skin in an intimate embrace
with a nude man not my husband.
Do not mistake me here, I had no intention of being unfaithful. I love
my husband and we were not swingers. In fact it was the monogamy that
made this job so exciting . . . how else could a faithful wife indulge a
little fantasy of outside naughtiness with an attentive male other than
her husband. Most wives would have no such chance, except in the
unwelcome, at least to me, context of someone making an actual pass at
them. My job gave me a once in a lifetime opportunity to act it out
safely, and with my husband’s permission, however grudgingly given.
I was surprised to see that my modeling partner for the last session
would be “Sam,” the model from the first shoot. Since the second
session had not used Sam, I had unconsciously expected a third man for
the final shoot. At first vaguely disappointed that I would not have a
new victim–I mean modeling partner–I quickly found that the lack of
novelty was made up for by the more relaxed atmosphere resulting from
our earlier experience together. Sam was much more comfortable, and did
not hesitate to run his hands over my body for the camera. Gone was the
hesitancy from the first shoot, replaced with an attitude that suggested
my body fair game to his touch.
As we started with rather tame poses, I immediately noticed a
difference. Standing behind me in one shot, Sam maneuvered his
semi-erect penis into the middle of my buttocks and then slowly
increased and decreased pressure. In another pose, face to face, his
erection had grown enough that the only place to hide it was in the
junction of my thighs. At one point he ran his finger down my spine,
and then slowly continued, pressing ever so slightly between my cheeks.
He was careful not to do anything too overt, so I didn’t want to
complain out loud, but propriety made me give him some dirty looks
between shots to show disapproval. After all, I was married.
Propriety aside, I was also getting very turned on, although I was not
about to admit it. For the first time in my career, the modeling began
to feel less like a job from which I could disassociate from the inner
me and more like a personal encounter. Sam’s subtle contact was getting
to me and that was not part of my plan.
Finally, Sam boldly reached out and cupped my breast, taking the nipple
in a fold of his palm. Dean was delighted. Surprised by my reaction, I
found that I wanted him to continue. Though I did not help, I made no
move to stop the hand that was squeezing my breast. I was not thinking
of my husband just then; I was caught up in an exhibitionist fantasy
knowing two men were watching this intimate caress.
I did not think of my husband until Sam calmly bent down and sucked my
nipple into his mouth. Dean had just said he had had customers that
wanted examples of more overtly sexy poses, and Sam was more than
willing to comply. As his tongue flicked my erect nipple, Dean clicked
away with the camera. I froze, leaning back on my elbows, anxiously
anticipating what my husband would say when he saw these pictures.
Suddenly Sam’s swirling motion sent a shiver of pleasure from my
sensitive breasts to my brain, made all the more intense because it
wasn’t my husband’s tongue. I could not pull back. I raised my chest
to offer myself, cupping one of my breasts with my own hand up to his
mouth.
I knew coming in that this session would be more sensual than the last,
but this was far beyond the limit I had set for myself. This was real
foreplay, not just posing, and it was beginning to affect me. The
lights and the camera and the most unromantic sprawl of cables and
hardware never seen in the resulting pictures that usually keep me from
getting mentally engaged in what I am doing were not enough to keep me
from reacting this time. I knew I should stop.
But I had had a long term fantasy about being watched while making
love, and in my fantasy, my partner was a nameless stranger, not my
husband. This partner had a name, but he was a stranger. At some
rational level my mind said “Stop!” but the pleasure center sent a
conflicting message. My body knew how to react even if my reasoning
became a little fuzzy. I was enjoying this and wanted to continue. I
felt safe with Sam, and Dean was a friend. I instinctively knew they
would respect my wishes if I insisted on stopping. I told myself it
would be unprofessional not to see the job through, and that I could
stop before anything serious happened. I rationalized that a little
foreplay was not the same as infidelity, especially when Dean was
telling us again and again how these poses were just what he needed.
Dean said he needed a passionate kiss on film. Sam immediately turned
me toward him and tried to lick my tonsils. I don’t know why that
surprised me so, after what had gone before, but it did. We had not
truly kissed in either session up to that point. Startled, I felt
unable to move, like a deer the headlights of a car. I offered no
resistance as Sam laid me back to recline against the black velvet
backdrop and bent over me to continue the kiss. His hand went back to
my breast while Dean urged us on. I was very excited, and wanted more.
I had truly lost contact with the realities of what was happening. It
was almost as if I had forgotten that I was married and the serious
consequences my behavior could have had.
I did not even notice that I had let my legs spread apart slightly for
the first time in the session, but Sam did. His hand moved down and he
rested his finger tips on my mons, ruffling the hair. When I did not
resist, he shifted his fingers down to my outer lips and moved them
softly on the outside. I could feel myself getting damp, and I wondered
what I would do if he tried to push a finger in me. Just then Dean said
he wanted a new pose. I moaned involuntarily as Sam gave me a little
squeeze before moving his hand away. I was frustrated at this sudden
stop, but happy that we had not gone too far. Yet.
I was a little shocked when Dean said he needed some poses of simulated
intercourse. He was a friend of both me and my husband and I didn’t
understand how he could ask this of me. But Sam didn’t waste any time.
He moved above me while Dean said it was just playacting, like the
movies, reiterating that it was purely professional and that he would
not allow anything pornographic-looking to be printed. Refusing to
think about the consequences, fired by two hours of hot, sweaty
foreplay, I silently opened my legs. By now Sam was not just
semi-erect, he was hard and ready for action. I was not going to let
him screw me, however turned on I was, so I reached between us and
guided his erection up on my mons as he settled down into the classic
missionary position.
Sam and I relaxed a little as we overcame our self-consciousness at
this compromising position. I was hot as hell, and part of me wanted to
take Sam in and screw him until we exploded. He was not helping me
retain my innocence either, as he ever so subtly shifted position
between my widespread legs.
I felt we verged on pornographic, but Dean said it looked unnatural.
He said we needed a more dynamic look, that we were too static. Sam
immediately began to rock his pelvis back and forth, simulating sex.
Soon both of us were into our roles, and the movements and sounds we
made were not all the result of acting. If the session had been hot for
me before, this was incredible.
A shift in his position caused his now rock hard penis to slide back
and forth on my slit, and soon my body was answering his thrusts on its
own. Dean was happily voicing his approval; I’m sure it
looked and sounded to him as if Sam and I actually were screwing our
brains out on his backdrop. As my lubrication flowed, Sam’s erection
slowly parted my lips and rode between them, occasionally nudging the
entrance to my vagina. I’m sure Sam wanted to plunge into me, but I was
not too far gone to shift my hips whenever the tip of his penis started
in somewhere it shouldn’t be. . . except for one brief period when the
friction against my most sensitive part caused my involuntary release.
Thank God Sam did not take advantage of my loss of control, for I might
not have been able to stop him. Maybe he did not know; I tried to
disguise it.
Only after the session did I realize the full extent of what I had
done. I begged Dean not to use any of the photos taken in the last part
of the shoot. He promised to be discrete. I left still technically
faithful, but I only hoped I never had to explain these
photos to my husband. . .