A Test of Professionalism

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She looks so beautiful, so captivating, so exquisite.

Her lengthy hair is strewn all about the pillow, stringy and disheveled. Her eyes are glassy, as if seeing yet unseeing. Her efforts have left a thick sheen of sweat upon her bare body, and the light from the nearby fireplace plays quite nicely upon the salty wetness, giving her body an unnatural yet mesmerizing glow.

The digital camcorder continues to roll as I take another photo with the digital still camera.

She struggles again, not quite so violently this time. The thick leather cuffs at her ankles and wrists are padlocked, the key to each hanging from a lengthy string tied to each bedpost. A heavy chain provides her perhaps two inches of slack for each limb, but that has been enough to wear her out several times already and cause her to momentarily cease her efforts to escape. Her body writhes once more upon the bed, her breathing audible above the sound of the rattling chains. The bed protests as well, its sounds soft yet melodic to my ears.

I move between the fireplace and the foot of the bed, taking great care to remain outside the view of the digital camcorder. The view is nearly breathtaking, and it takes me a moment to will the digital still camera back up to my eye. As I slowly squat to an elevation just slightly above the plane of the young woman before me, the symmetry is natural and wonderful, the well-toned legs angled in toward the dripping junction. Looking further up the prime example of feminine beauty, the appealing curves of the breasts rise and fall with great regularity, even as they quiver from her slight horizontal movements upon the bed.

Just as she arches her back, thrusting her rock-hard nipples ever higher in the warm cozy air, causing her feminine folds to open a little more and pour forth her growing arousal and intoxicating scent, I take the next picture as I smile to myself in awe and admiration of her. I want so badly to touch her, to kiss her, to taste her, to meld myself with her, but the job comes first.

I have worked with nearly two dozen young women in the past year since I began my small business, yet never have I been so tempted to shrink myself to the size of a vibrator and crawl up inside one of my models.

If only I could be a leather cuff, perpetually kissing a wrist or an ankle. If only I could be the bedspread, feeling her weight pressing down upon me as I absorb her intense sweat and secretions.

Zooming in ever closer to the junction of torso and legs, I take several more pictures. The closer the zoomed image, the more imposing the pair of cords emerging from her body. (If only I could be a vibrating egg, buzzing merrily deep inside her, being the cause of her near-perpetual struggles and her occasional soft moans.) The control boxes are tucked into thin black satin ribbons, one snugly tuzla escort secured to each flexing thigh.

I rise fully once more, taking yet another picture of this very-aroused example of flawless beauty. I move around behind the digital camcorder, purposefully attempting to remain as quiet as a church mouse, until I am almost beside the bed; with a quick glance back at the television serving as a live monitor for the video feed, I see that I am not yet in the range of the camcorder’s view. Turning back to this awe-inspiring model, I squat again so that the camera is on the same plane as her arched back. The right nipple is so very prominent from this angle, yet I intentionally wait several long seconds, watching as she twists in her bonds, studying how her body reacts to the double assault from deep within her. Once I see the erratic pattern of her movements, I ready myself, and take another picture of her with her back arched to its fullest, the nipple at its highest elevation of the evening. Several more pictures follow; in some, her head is turned away from the camera, but in one, she is looking directly at the camera, her pink-painted lips parted as she pants, her eyes clouded over with need, and more than a few stringy strands of hair affixed to her sweat-covered face.

“More…” she pleads softly. “I need more…”

Those first words spoken in perhaps an hour thrill me, fill my soul, and I must fight to maintain my professional demeanor. I only hope that her words were able to be captured by the digital camcorder.

My mind races. I consider adding a little pain to her experience, potentially using the clothespins lined across a nearby shelf to turn her into a porcupine. I consider increasing the power of the vibrating eggs inside her to see just how she reacts. I also consider opening a window, allowing the winter air to cool us both and ideally make her nipples appear even harder than they already do.

“What do you need?” I finally ask, my voice soft and soothing.

“I need to cum!”

I stand fully erect, the camera in my hands drinking in the chest and head of my appealing model. She looks directly at the unblinking eye, softly pleading: “Please… Please…” Her expression is a mixture of desire and need and lust and utter frustration, even as she continued to pull at her bonds, the chains rattling and the bed squeaking softly in protest of her movements.

I take multiple pictures in rapid succession, capturing as many nuances of that expression as I possibly can. In a way, her expression makes her look like an unashamed slut, yet it also makes her look like a loving woman using all her charms to arouse and please visually.

After a moment of consideration, I step into the view of the digital camcorder and mount the bed, causing it to squeal even louder. She closes her eyes and turns tuzla escort bayan her head to the left, her body falling slack with exhaustion even as her chest continued to heave. It is such a beautiful vision of feminine submission that I take more pictures of her, even as I move into position, my legs straddling her pelvis. Have your way with me, her position screams. Take me. Use me. Toy with me. Hurt me.

And again, I suddenly envision her body covered with clothespins. In my mind’s eye, I can see her screaming and flailing and crying as a bullwhip is used to snap each clothespin from her skin, leaving noticeable bruises upon her unblemished body. Despite her pain, the tears make her even sexier, even more vulnerable.

But instead of hurting her, I toy with her. Holding the small camera steady with one hand, I reach out toward her chest with the other hand, taking a picture of the hand hovering just above her right breast. Once my hand touches her, I squeeze the breast from the side, enjoying the heat radiating from her; she moans noticeably, arching her back again to press more of her feminine swell into my hand, and I take several more pictures as my thumb moves toward and across her hardened nipple, causing her to gasp loudly from the touch upon her sensitive bud. And through it all, the position of her head does not change, continuing the vision of feminine submission.

It is so, so difficult to not set the camera aside and place a hand upon each breast. But I know that if I do, I will not be able to stop myself from satisfying my own growing lust, and I will risk never having this exquisite young woman return for future sessions.

She turns her head to me, opening her eyes, attempting to truly see me through the haze of deep arousal. “More power, please…”

I first pinch her right nipple, causing her to gasp loudly with her eyes closed again as she squirms underneath me; I take another picture. Then the hand is retracted, and snakes down her wet body to her left thigh. I quickly find the sliding power mechanism, and increase the rapidity of the vibrations in her rear passage. “Yes…”

Carefully and rather reluctantly, I dismount first her, then the bed, stepping around to the foot of the bed. This perfect model squirms again, her sighs of contentment and moans of desire growing ever louder. I take a few more pictures, then reach up to her right knee, sliding my hand up the thigh to the other control box. This time, however, I purposely change to maximum power, causing the vibrating egg inside her feminine passage to roar with such ferocity that I can finally hear it.

Then I step back, out of the view of the digital camcorder, and watch with such awe as the vibrating eggs assert their will upon the body before me. Practically working on professional autopilot, I take as many pictures as I can escort tuzla while still admiring the wanton sexuality being displayed before me.

After such a long build-up, her orgasm is swift and long and loud as she switches from being a moaner to being a screamer. Her climax is so powerful that tears emerge from behind her closed eyelids, mixing with the sweat upon her face. The area of the bedspread directly at the base of her torso is soaked with her liquid lust. Her aroma hangs thickly in the air and is nearly tangible in my lungs with each breath.

Have your way with me. Take me. Use me. Toy with me. Hurt me.

I reason that this would be the perfect time to have my way with this wanton model. In this state, as she recovers from such a powerful wave of sexual satisfaction, I could quickly and easily take my position between her thighs, applying my tongue to her prominent clitoris, and she would not care. Yet, my professionalism somehow prevails, and I simply continue to take pictures as a second orgasm is thrust upon her body from deep within her.

When the camera beeps softly to indicate that the memory card is completely filled, I reluctantly move silently over to the table and set the camera down. I sit in the adjacent chair, and simply watch and listen and smell as she rides the orgasmic waves, my professionalism somehow able to prevent me from pleasuring myself, until, at last, she pleads with a quiet, raw voice to end the pleasurable onslaught.

It is with great reluctance that I return to the bed, switching off the vibrating eggs. Making my way around the bed, I use each key to unlock and remove each padlock, but I only unbuckle the leather cuff at her left wrist. Then, I leave her, knowing that if I remain with her any longer, my professionalism will corrode.

It is over an hour later when this beautiful young model finally enters the living room, fresh from a long shower, dressed differently in the alternate clothes she had brought with her. After her lengthy ordeal upon the bed, despite the long time she had spent refreshing and recovering in the shower, she still glowed from her experience. She smiled sweetly, yet that simple facial gesture seemed to be more than professional. I offered her a variety of drinks, but she only took a bottle of water and turned to leave.

“If I stay here any longer,” she said honestly, “I doubt I’ll be able to remain professional.”

I simply nodded my agreement and understanding, and went into my den to retrieve the envelope with her paycheck for the modeling session. At the door, she did give me a quick chaste kiss to the cheek, then quietly left my home-studio.

Nearly two hours later, as I was about to go to bed (in my personal bedroom, not the studio-bedroom), she called. “You gave me several hundred more than our agreement,” she noted matter-of-factly, “and I just wanted to say thank you, and it wasn’t necessary. I definitely will be back.”

My professionalism will certainly be tested again. It is just a matter of time until the next test begins.

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