Butterflies stirred deep in Aretha’s belly. She packed her leather bag, pulled the zip closed, then changed her mind—turfing everything out and starting again. She had several outfits in there (raunchy ones), accessories for her hair and body, as well as lashings of make-up. Was she forgetting anything? Would it make sense to pack naughty toys like feathers or whips?
It was a boudoir shoot she was heading to, after all. She wasn’t sure if the photographs required playfulness, but she did want her poses to look wild and sexy. This was probably a one-time thing and Aretha wanted to show off her body, her taut stomach and her lush curves to perfection.
Aretha was in the best shape of her life. She’d always been fairly athletic but recently had been going to the gym four times a week and playing tennis every Sunday. Her arms were perfectly toned and even her abs were peeking through.
Tennis was a great workout though, especially because her instructor, Dean, was as sexy as they came. He had a shaved head, ridiculous muscles and a tattoo that snaked up his neck from his collar. She could never quite tell what it was, but her masturbation sex fantasy videos regularly focused on working out what the intricate pattern was.
Dean got her hot and bothered, both on the court and off. He occasionally mentioned going out on dates, but never a regular girlfriend and his sexual availability was a constant tease. She knew her tennis form was coming along, and when he would stand close behind her as he corrected her serve she would relish the heat of his hard body, making her quiver slightly.
Whenever Dean stood that close, Aretha would be able to smell his light cologne, and behind that, the smell of something muskier and manlier. Once, she thought he’d actually had a semi, but he’d quickly turned around to collect up the loose tennis balls and she couldn’t swear to it…
When she thought back on that day, idly, while taking a bubble-bath or curled up late at night in bed, she’d imagine how things might have gone differently. She could have leaned into his body, to be sure he was aroused and then perhaps nudged into his erection with her pert bottom. She could have rubbed up against him with intention, and then touched his lips with her fingertips.
They could have slipped into the kit-shed by the tennis courts and perhaps shed some of their clothes too. She imagined Dean running his thick, calloused hands over her tight sports bra, coaxing her nipples to standing attention. She’d have let her own hands wander, over his broad chest and down his crisp white shorts. She would pay good money (more money) to see him with his shirt off. She wanted more of his delectable, tanned skin and a full view of that alluring tattoo.
Sometimes Aretha stalked Dean’s Instagram but all those images were heavily stylised and tennis-oriented, promoting his coaching business. She wondered if he had another social media account where he posted suggestive, tasteful nudes, his muscles on display and his secrets revealed.
Aretha would touch herself while she imagined Dean’s nakedness, the cut of his pecs and the delightful path of hair down his navel. She would take her favourite vibrator while she thought about his touch, and lightly nudge it against her clit, slowly building her excitement. Aretha could vividly imagine his fingers cupping her large breasts and his shaft nudging at her from behind, trying to explore up her skirt like a naughty peeping-tom.
The musky smell of Dean would haunt Aretha’s dreams. It was titillating, but also a bit stressful having such lewd fantasies of a man she saw every single week. Last Sunday she’d even flushed when he’d shaken her hand at the end of the session, smiling wickedly at her and saying “Good match!”
His touch was electric and her body leapt in nerves and excitement each time she felt it. It was another reason she thought the boudoir shoot would be good for her; she wanted more confidence in herself—to be reminded that she was attractive and worthy of seduction.
The shoot had been her best friend, Niamh’s idea. They’d done a silly makeover shoot together years ago, whilst at uni, and those photos always gave them a good giggle when they dug them out after a few drinks. After Aretha’s recent break-up (with a louse of a guy who never complimented her) she’d begun a revenge-body regime. Niamh had said to her, casually that she should immortalise the current figure she was sporting.
“Not to say you won’t always look amazing,” Niamh had said, “But you might want to keep a record of how sensational you look right now. Especially because you never see yourself the way others do. A good photographer can do that—show you how you look to the world—and take pics that blow your mind!”
Aretha had eventually agreed and after some drunken research, they booked her in with a discreet studio in the heart of Carnaby Street. Their reviews online were great and many of the women who had booked boudoir shoots mentioned being surprised at how sexy and fun the whole thing had been. It seemed like a perfect way to honour her slinky body and the start of a new, more sex-positive future.
Aretha wanted to be at her very best prior to the shoot so they made a plan for some pampering. She’d had a hot-stone massage the day before, a mani-pedi in a glorious crimson colour and Niamh did her hair for her too, in gorgeous waves that framed her delicate face.
The photographer’s details had been sent to her in advance, with examples from his portfolio (a classy touch, Aretha thought). The pictures were glossy and soft-focused, like something from a high-end fashion magazine. The women in them had looked like professional models, all pouty-lipped and sharply cheek-boned. But they’d had curves too, Aretha was glad to see. Even with all the extra exercise, she was doing, she still had her C cups, and they looked amazing, especially when contrasted against her lithe stomach and slim legs.
Aretha arrived at the studio on the day of the shoot, taking deep breaths and a little high on the edible she’d sneaked in after her light lunch. She thought that it would smooth the nerves and help her simply enjoy the experience. She wanted to have fun and inhibit her body loosely while showing off her killer curves in the photos.
The receptionist at the studio had a pierced eyebrow and fiery red hair but a calm, reassuring demeanour that belied her looks. She showed Aretha to the green room and told her to take her time.
“Pick an outfit that is comfortable for you to start in—maybe a gown or a babydoll nightie. Then just ring the bell when you’re ready and I’ll take you through to the studio.” She’d smiled brightly at Aretha and winked. “You’ll have a blast, trust me.”
There was pretty velvet wallpaper behind the mirror in the room and a large plush sofa. Aretha admired the decor whilst helping herself to some of the chocolate truffles she spied in a cut-glass bowl. She looked at herself in the large, well-lit mirror and pulled out her make-up case for last-minute additions. Her peachy foundation and blush were still perfect from when she’d applied them earlier. She added some scarlet lipstick and a little eye-shadow, with her favourite fluttery eyelashes that made her feel like Marilyn Monroe.
Aretha picked her first outfit as suggested, an elegant floral kimono which just skimmed her bottom but could be untied to show more of her smooth skin. Underneath she was wearing a silky camisole with moulded cups that made her feel kittenish and playful.
She took a deep breath, cracked open her handbag and checked her phone one last time. A message from Niamh. Knock em dead you sexy thang!
Aretha smiled at her reflection, glad to have Niamh as her personal cheerleader. She was ready. She rang the bell by the door and the receptionist was there in moments.
“Follow me,” she said with a smile, and she led Aretha through the corridor into a well-lit studio. There were candles burning in the corner by a claw-foot bathtub and the room smelled fantastic; like vanilla and freesias. There was music playing in the background that she didn’t quite recognise but the rhythm was hypnotic and she wondered if it was the effect of the edible.
“This is Franco,” said the receptionist, in her cheery tone. “I’ll leave you in his capable hands.”
He appeared just like he did in the promo-pack they’d sent her. Franco had mischievous green eyes, dark curly hair and big hands that were holding a complicated-looking camera. He grinned at her and shook Aretha’s hand. “Thanks for coming in. You look stunning.”
Aretha found herself warming up to him immediately. He had a sunny, positive vibe and a bounciness that was puppy-like.
“Come over to this armchair,” Franco said to her. “We’ll start with some relaxed poses.”
Aretha followed him over and sat, awkward for a moment, but then he handed her a flute of champagne and it was like she slipped into character. She could do this, she could act like a sexy vixen, if she went with the flow. Aretha sipped at the glass, enjoying the bubbles as they hit her tongue and let her head fall lightly onto the back of the chair.
“Ah, that’s great. Just relax. The line of your neck is stunning.” Franco said, his voice low and soothing.
He snapped a few shots and then suggested she raise her legs onto the pale-pink footstool. Aretha did as she was asked and then, getting bolder after a few more camera clicks, lifted one foot high into the air, pointing her toes elegantly. Her old ballet-training kicked in and she ran through some stretches while Franco snapped away, praising her and making her preen internally like a peacock.
After a few minutes, Franco leant back on his heels and told her to go and change. Aretha slipped back to the green room and nabbed another chocolate truffle, letting it melt on her tongue. It tasted sublime. She was high on adrenaline too, feeling sexy and goddess-like. Aretha put on an aquamarine corset and placed an opal necklace around her neck, as well as little anklets on her feet. It was a dramatic look, but she loved the colours and they were striking against her dark hair and creamy skin.
This time around Franco said she should pose in the bathtub. Around the ceramic, he’d placed some scarlet petals (which matched her lipstick exactly) and then he photographed her from above. He’d had to straddle the tub and they broke into laughter at the physical awkwardness.
There was a levity to the shoot that she hadn’t expected. Franco was brilliant at his job, she could tell. Covertly, she admired the crease-lines around his green eyes; he smiled a lot and was adorably attentive, offering her cushions to make her more comfortable in the tub, wanting to put her at ease.
After some initial shots, Franco suggested something new. “How about we mist you with a little water to make the pictures more interesting?”
He grabbed a spray bottle from his props, and gently pumped it on her long legs, starting at her ankles and rising slowly up her thighs, checking often by glancing up at her face to see if she was OK. When he moved to her neck and décolletage, Aretha squealed at the slight chill of the water and her nipples perked up too. She wasn’t sure if they were visible under the tight corset but the thrill of it sent an erotic right to her core.
The alcohol had made her loosen up even more and she found she was losing herself in the shoot, touching her thighs and squirming with secret pleasure, while constrained in the tight tub. She noticed Franco’s ears were getting a little pink at the tips and it excited her.
The minutes were slipping by quickly and it was time to change again. Her final outfit was quirkier. She put on a tight red blouse with braces, and dark little short-shorts with fishnets underneath. Vintage but with a hint of modern. Aretha smoothed her pinstriped bottom and with a deep breath, returned to the studio.
Franco looked up at her in this last outfit and took a definite double-take. “Oh,” he breathed, temporarily speechless. “I love that!” he said after a moment or two. “It’s going to pop on camera.”
He took her hand and led her over to the angora rug in the corner. There was a fireplace in the background and the whole scene looked beautifully intimate. Aretha lolled on the fluffy rug, rearranging some cushions and Franco came closer.
He nudged her gently with his knee so that she was pushed against the wall. He was filming from so close up, she could breathe him in. He was dressed in a linen shirt and she found herself mesmerised by the long fibres on it. The edible was making her bolder—and the champagne was thrumming in her veins too. She was delightfully woozy and closed her eyes for a second, enjoying the sensations of the rug under her and the scent of this delicious man.
“Yes, that’s good. Stroke your neck, while your eyes are closed,” Franco murmured softly.
Aretha gave in to his instructions. She touched her throat, her clavicle, and her shoulders; the silky skin hummed under her fingertips. She pulled down the elastic braces to make room and the red shirt slipped open on her breasts a little more. Her bra underneath was made of glossy lace and the material was tight against her curves. Maybe she could loosen it a little.
Without opening her eyes, Aretha snaked her hand behind her back and pulled the clasp loose. Ah, that was better. She thought that the room was getting warmer, but maybe it was the proximity to the fire. She could hear the crackle of the flames over the music and it was deeply satisfying, somehow primal, being that close to the heat and sound.
Aretha went back to stroking her chest, slowly easing her fingertips around the top of her clothing. She undid the second button on her satin blouse as if mesmerised. And then her breasts simply popped out, in all their glory.
She looked up finally and saw that Franco’s eyes, so close to her body already, were fully dilated, and his camera forgotten, loose in his hands. She could hear his breathing too, it had deepened and become animalistic. She leaned forward and pushed onto her knees, taking her face closer to his.
Franco looked at her, a question of need in his eyes. He was very still, as if waiting for her to make a move. If she wanted to. Aretha desired him and it was deliciously naughty. She took the camera that was dangling from his hands and delicately placed it to the side.
Aretha touched his arm—his skin was hot—and stroked it all the way up. The dark hairs were standing on edge. It was only when she reached up to his throat that Franco let himself react. With a growl he kissed her, a little roughly, as if his self-control had evaporated like mist. They collapsed in a soft heap on the rug.
Aretha giggled and tried to rearrange their bodies. She climbed on top of Franco, sat in his lap and then kissed him again. Her large breasts swelled even more as she pushed on him, wanting his body’s judders against her.
She could feel the bulge in his jeans push against the fishnet of her tights, which bit into her thighs deliciously. They kissed in this cross-legged position for a while, her breasts peeking out like daisies and nestling into Franco’s neck. He dipped down and sucked her nipples, their dusky nubs flushing even darker as they were attended to.
“So pretty, your body is perfect…” Franco whispered almost incoherently, his mouth full with her.
Enough of the clothing, Aretha thought. She pulled open Franco’s linen shirt and pushed him down onto the hardwood floor. It was a delight to lick his chest and he squirmed in response to her mouth, his nipples the same shade of pink that his ears had been earlier.
He groaned as she unzipped him and took her time, crawling further down his body, licking slowly and deliberately. His erection was thick and bounced at her kisses and the touch of her probing tongue. Aretha spent slow minutes, kissing and teasing him, flicking over his hot shaft until he was trembling all over.
Then Aretha began a strip-tease, finally opening all the buttons of her blouse, discarding the bra that was already undone. She shimmied out of her shorts and then ordered Franco to pull down her fishnets. He was eager to help, almost tearing them in his haste. His gaze on her was adoring and Aretha delighted in his obvious excitement and constant compliments.
“You drive me crazy,” he breathed. “I’ve never been this turned on.”
When she was nearly naked, Franco pulled her back down and took a turn with his tongue, lingering on her nipples again and then tracing a line down her flat stomach, making her wiggle.
He kissed over her lacy knickers until Aretha was almost begging him to get rid of them. He inched the lace down, right to where her bikini line was, freshly waxed and as sharply defined as a runway. But still, Franco teased her, breathing on her clit and blowing little puffs of air before finally giving her the sucking that she desired. He was talented at more than photography and soon Aretha was gasping and writhing, losing her mind at the sensations. She was close to orgasm but then she pulled him up before she could climax. She wanted them to come together.
There was a sheen on both their faces. The fire was making them too hot now, and they moved back to the armchair Aretha had first sat in. He pushed her gently down and then lifted her leg back to the pose she had affected earlier.
“It was so fucking hot when you did this before,” he said. “I could smell you then. Like mangos, like the sweetest nectar…”
Franco was standing against her now, at the perfect angle. Her legs were both in the air and he pushed into her then, nudging at her entrance with his large shaft until she took her hands and guided him in.
He was enormous but slowly, slowly he inched into her body. Aretha was so wet, that the glide was smooth, like the velvet she’d touched earlier. She craved more of the same. Soft, sweet and sensuous sex, she wanted to savour the moment and she whispered it to him.
“Go as slow as you can. This feels amazing. I want it to last forever.”
Franco tried to keep his rhythm at a languorous pace but he finally sped up as her moans became louder and it was clear Aretha was rising to her peak. Their bodies looked insanely good together and he held her long legs lifted up whilst thrusting deeply into her.
Aretha had tried valiantly to slow her roll but by then she was lost. The final few movements of his body were sensationally slick, he was slipping in and out like butter.
Their bodies moved together in exquisite rhythm; like a tennis rally with a showy finale, they came together in an orgasm of epic proportions. The surge of Franco’s final thrust had triggered a tidal wave of ecstasy deep inside her that seemed endless.
Aretha’s entire body went limp; fully spent, she smiled beatifically at him and spoke in a throaty voice. “That final shot was perfect.”
Ends
Read all about the wonderful author: Cleo McCool
