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It took me a little while to realize it. It was probably because I was scared of him. After that second time though, I understood if only a little better what turned him on. Tom took pride in me. He took pride in my body. Men, of course, have done crazy things for me and my body, even stupid things. They wanted me, they wanted to do whatever they had to do to get me. Bobby, George, Carlos, whoever I was with loved to take me out, wanted me to wear the short skirts that showed off my ass and thighs, and the pumps that drew my legs into tight, luscious stems. They wanted me to put my belly button on display, the flatness of my stomach, wear mascara to make my green eyes shine. They wanted me to wear the shirts that pushed my tits up and out and in their friends’ faces, even when they said it was too revealing, it was exactly what they wanted. They wanted me; they wanted everyone to know that when they took me home they would fuck me as much as they wanted (they left out of the fantasy the part where it was just the once, and quickly, and I was still waiting to cum).
I started off thinking Tom was the same way. Maybe he was too shy to get a real girl, maybe he didn’t think he could ever get a girl as good looking as me. Was he really so busy that he couldn’t take a girl on a date? I learned quickly that, yes, he was that busy but no, he wasn’t shy. Tom still scared me, somehow, because there was something dangerously reserved about him. He didn’t talk about what he did, he just talked about the matters at hand. Yet it became an anticipatory fear, like an adrenaline rush…
Tom didn’t care who knew he fucked me. He wanted that fact hidden. He did want me to wear more revealing clothing at the gym, but that was to excite him, not the others. Though of course he knew what it did to the others. He wanted me to make sure no one saw me leave with him. When we were alone, he drank every inch of my body in; he touched me everywhere – everywhere – and it was always with the touch of a rough child, of a discoverer, of an explorer. He’d massage and squeeze each muscle, rub me down, hold me, kiss me, smell me – God, he must have spent the first twenty minutes that third time just breathing in the different sweaty cracks of my body. And then he put his lips on me, kissed my hips, kissed my pussy, parted my pubic hair, licked my chin.
He washed my feet, too. I didn’t get it, because he was really into my smells, but then I realized he was doing it for me. He was cleaning me. And when he entered me finally…he held on to me like I was some precious kite about to fly away in the wind.
He made me look at myself in the mirror (usually when he fucked me, but sometimes he’d make me just stand, or do exercises, but he made sure I had my eyes on my own body). He told me to watch the sweat running down my thighs, between my breasts, down my neck, on my forehead. And he watched. He watched me.
Vanity is supposed to be a sin, and with good reason. There’s nothing below the surface of vanity, and whatever looks good will eventually fade away. After the second or third time together I realized that Tom was attracted to what I’d done to myself. Even when I was a sweaty mess, even when I was red in the face, or flushed, or my hair was all over the place. He loved my body in a way that I didn’t understand. He was at once careful and possessive, rough and brutally gentle.
Tom wanted to touch me, feel me, wanted to be inside of me and taste every piece of me, hold me, fondle me. Maybe Tom did feel the same way the others did, maybe it was never anything more than physical. But Tom took physical to a whole other place. That third time, after he’d washed my feet, stroked my muscles, told me to twirl in the mirror, held my breasts, licked my bellybutton and the salt off the back of my neck, and then my throat, and explored my pussy with his fingers, that third time, after all of that, when he finally pushed his penis inside me I came so hard he had to fuck me on my knees.
* * *
Those interludes of ours were such fractional parts of my life that talking about it now it’s hard to imagine that I only saw Tom for barely two hours out of the month. When we’d first agreed upon the deal it was for one hour of sex every two weeks at $500 each, or $250 once a week, but I never really held him to the hour and we never brought up a weekly arrangement again. It was every two weeks, and $500 up front. Sometimes it was more than an hour, but more often it was less.
There was a time I remember well, if only because it did leave me sore for the next week, I think it was the fourth or fifth time we got back from the gym, when Tom really seemed exhausted. He asked for a glass of water when we got in, as he usually did, and I brought it to him, and he downed it, and asked for another, and then downed that. I asked if he was all right, but he clearly wasn’t sick, just tired. He said he hadn’t slept for a few days. I don’t know if he was serious.
He took escort ataşehir me by the hand and led me to the couch and caressed my cheek with his finger. I brushed him away (how do I explain how and when I let him touch me? When I was in the height of arousal I let him kiss me; I’m ashamed to admit it, because that, even given my wavering ambivalence about Bobby, seemed to cross a line. Sometimes I almost loved having his hands on my face, my neck…) and asked him what he wanted me to do.
“I’m not up for lassoing the moon today,” he said. “Do you have a book to read, or would you prefer to watch TV?”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with that but he got me to take my clothes off while I figured it out. After I’d peeled my panties off my pussy lips he attacked them with his mouth, getting me as wet as he possibly could. Then he got undressed himself, ripped out the condom and rolled it down his cock. He got on the couch facing towards the back and had me climb over him and slide him in.
And that was it. We sat there together for a few minutes, with his cock bolt upright in my pussy. I started to ask what he thought he was doing but then he gradually pulled out and slid back in. Slowly. Very slowly.
We went at it like that for nearly the whole hour. Eventually I did reach for the remote and start watching television, my arms draped over his shoulders, his hands planted firmly under my buttocks, the sweat and fluids between us making our stomachs slide against each other.
By the end of another terrible episode of whatever reality show I’d happened upon I told him he better cum before I dried out. He did, after asking, as always, for me to say what he wanted me to say.
I leaned back from watching over his shoulder and tried looking him in the eyes this time. “Tell me you love me,” I said.
He reached up and laid his palm between my neck and chest in the smooth indentation of my clavicle. “I love you,” he said, and thrust up.
I felt him bulge, felt his stomach tighten and his legs strain as they pushed his cock between my lips. I looked at his face, that thankful relief that crossed over his dark features. And then he pulled out and we took our showers and went back to our lives.
Other weeks he was much more energetic. And after two and a half months of our arrangement, I was a little more indulgent, I’ll admit, mostly because it broke up the tedium of the rest of my routine.
I still worked as a secretary and occasional typist in the city, at the same indecent wage and as often as they could give me hours. I still went to the gym with Allison (and now Sara, too, who was back in town) on alternating weekdays, and I saved my money and tried not to splurge on clothes or a new ceramic curling iron (though I desperately wanted/needed one). With Tom’s bankroll I had a real chance of getting my own place, and after two months I had two-thousand tax free dollars in my account (for all of four hours of “work”). I do, but you don’t need to read the Wall Street Journal every morning to know that’s a tidy profit.
So when Tom did have me dress as a dominatrix once, I said sure. But neither of us really got off on it (we tried it both ways). I couldn’t tell you if I was having fun with Tom. He said relatively little outside of our mid-intercourse banter. The funny thing about that is that after three months this whole thing was still mysterious to me. But were we having a good time, outside of the occasional orgasm?
* * *
If I was in school, this would have been near winter break. Bobby told me how excited he was to see me after so long, and honestly I was excited to see him too. He was my boyfriend, after all, and the one I was supposed to be with. I had a very strong feeling that after he got back to town I’d tell Tom that we had to finish our arrangement. True, it’s possible we could have continued our trysts indefinitely (the money would certainly be worth it) but that didn’t feel right to me. Not that I’m one to judge right or wrong at this point, but still.
I was riding on the back of Tom’s motorcycle in early December. We’d had only occasional snow that early in winter but today was one of those weird Midwest screwballs when the weather was boiling. The breeze from the motorcycle felt so good, I wanted to tear my shirt off and let it wash over my bare breasts. I’m sure Tom would have loved that.
Once we got to my house, Tom set his helmet on the table and slipped his gym bag off his arm. He reached into it while I bent down to untie my sneakers. I watched him rifle through it and then pull something black and box-shaped from inside. He dropped the gym bag to the floor and wiped his wet hair out of his eyes.
He slipped my shoes off for me and stood up. I stared at the thing until I was sure of what it was, then I laughed. “Where did you get that?”
He gave a small, crooked smile and shrugged.
I wiped the moisture from around my nose. It had been kadıköy escort a very hot day and both of us were even sweatier than usual. “Seriously,” I said. “Who even sells polaroid cameras anymore?” I suddenly realized what he probably wanted and I shook my head. “Wait, no way.”
“You get to keep the photos,” he said peacefully. He took my hand and started to lead me upstairs. I sighed and went with him. When we got to my room he took his shoes off and set them next to the bed. Then he pulled five crisp hundreds from his wallet and set them on the dresser.
He flipped the camera open and wandered to my nightstand. He walked towards the mirror, and then he turned. I was still standing by my doorway.
“Take your clothes off,” he said.
I gave him a sidelong look while he peered through the camera.
He smiled. “Do it. You can count the money first.”
I pulled my shirt up over my head and threw it down on the floor. I was wearing a black sports bra and the fabric was almost soaked completely through. “Actually,” he said, taking a step back against the mirror, “yeah, count it now.”
I tried to give him the look that I thought this was stupid but he ignored it. “Take your shorts off,” he said. “Do it in the bra and panties.”
I hooked my thumbs into my waistband and wiggled out of my shorts. I bent low to hook them off my ankles and get my socks off too. “Stand up and count it,” he said.
I rose up and stepped to my dresser. The bills slid off the wood and into my hands and I started to count. 1…2… The camera flashed. The thing let out a loud mechanical whirr and the picture popped out of the mouth. I licked my thumb and slipped the third bill down. I counted the fourth. And when I folded the last one the camera flashed again and the first picture fluttered to the ground and the second followed it down.
Tom reached down to the floor and took the two pictures. He laid them on my nightstand and turned around to face me.
Half of him was in the mirror. In the other half I could see myself standing in front of my doorway. Tom held the camera up to his face.
“Guy walks up to a girl,” he said, “they’re in a bar. He goes up to her and he says, ‘Hey, let me drink beer off your tits. I’ll buy you a beer and let me drink it off your tits.'”
I made a face and put my hands on my hips. “What are you doing?”
Tom continued. “The girl’s disgusted. She turns away and he stays on her. He goes, ‘Hey, hey, let me drink beer out your bellybutton. We can go back to my place and I’ll lay you down and do shots out your bellybutton.'”
I shook my head.
“The girl’s totally grossed out, she’s looking to anyone to help her out. She goes, ‘My boyfriend’s in the bathroom. He’s gonna kick your ass.’ The guy doesn’t care, he keeps on her, finally he goes, ‘Hey, hey, baby, let me flip you upside down, I’ll drink beer out your snatch.’ The girl stalks over to the bathroom right as her boyfriend’s coming out. She goes, ‘Hey, John, kick this guy’s ass, he was hitting on me.’ Boyfriend’s furious. He goes, ‘What the fuck? Where is he?’ He starts marching down the bar. His girlfriend goes, ‘He said he wanted to drink beer off my nipples!’ The boyfriend goes, ‘This guy’s dead!’ She goes, ‘Then he said he wanted to drink shots out of my bellybutton!’ The boyfriend goes, ‘I’m gonna kill this guy!’ Then she says, ‘He said he wanted to flip me upside down and drink beer out of my pussy!’ And the boyfriend stops dead in his tracks and says, ‘Hold on, baby. I can’t fuck with a guy who can pound that much beer.'”
Tom poked his face from behind the camera and raised his eyebrows.
I laughed. I wasn’t laughing at the stupid joke, I was laughing at how stupid it was, laughing at Tom. Tom ducked back behind the camera and it suddenly flashed. He’d taken a picture of me laughing.
I’d never heard Tom even try to be funny, and the joke was so stupid. There were more. He told me to take off my bra and my panties. And I did. I stepped out of the panties while he told me another dumb one, something about birds, and then I giggled (I can’t believe it), and he took the picture. Then I got myself out of the bra and he took another one; I might have been smiling. He chased me around the room then. He had all his clothes on and I was naked. I was bouncing all over the place, holding my breasts up; the camera flashed at my ass, at my naked pussy. He told me another dirty joke, this one really filthy about some farmer and his old wife and I told him to stop. It was a combination of the ridiculous; Tom chasing me around my room, over my bed, taking the pictures, trying so hard to get me to laugh and me hating it, running from him, trying to not look like a fool bare ass naked. I avoided myself in the mirror but he kept herding me back to it, getting me to see myself laughing, or blushing.
When it was finally over he told me to stand in front of the mirror and he took one last picture. This time maltepe escort bayan he told me to touch myself, and to watch myself in the mirror while I touched myself. I was pretty worked up by this time; I guessed he wanted to have sex after this but I really didn’t know what was going on in his head, so I was in this weird half-aroused half-rambunctious mindset. So I fingered myself. I stood in front of the mirror and I closed my eyes initially but he told me to keep them open. So I looked at myself while I did it. Tom was kneeling with me at about the level of my stomach and I had been sticking my fingers up my pussy for a good minute before he took the picture. It didn’t feel dirty it felt…new.
He told me I could stop if I wanted to. I stopped and watched him pick up all the photos. They were all developed by this point, all of me in different stages of laughter or blurry motion. There were less than I thought, but probably between ten and fifteen.
From these Tom chose four. He took the one of me counting the money, me standing there in my bra and panties, in front of my doorway, with my hair over my eyes and my lips set; he took the one right after he told the first joke: my opened mouth and wide eyes, almost aghast that he’d told that stupid story, just about to laugh; he took one of me trying to keep my tits from bouncing while he chased me over the bed; and he took the last one of me fingering myself. I hate to say this, but even I thought I looked pretty damn hot in that last one. I don’t remember looking at him when he took that picture but it looked like I wanted to fuck the shit out of the camera.
The other polaroids he scattered over my nightstand table. He asked me for some tape and I pulled a roll from one of the drawers. He taped the four he’d chosen to the edge of the nightstand so that they were about level with his belt. Then he set the camera on the nightstand and reached down to take off his socks. After he’d balled them and tossed them in the corner he looked at me in the mirror. He pulled his shirt over his head.
“Take my pants off.”
I was behind him. Naked, I approached his back and, without going around him, unbuckled his belt and undid his button. The button was tight so I had to get close to him. My nipples grazed his back, and my stomach too. I pressed my body against his as I pulled down his zipper and pushed his pants down his hips. That’s right, Tom didn’t wear underwear.
I pulled down his pants and he stepped out of them. His long dick sprang out, bobbing in front of the nightstand. It was red, as usual, and hard, very hard. It pointed straight at the third photo, the one of me covering my tits. Tom looked from me, in the mirror, down to the photos, then at the four lined up on the nightstand.
“Jerk me off,” he said.
I felt my eyes go wide. He’d never asked me to do that before. I didn’t quite understand but I brushed up against him and slid my left hand down his hip. I ran my right hand down his stomach and softly slid my fingers into his pubic hair…and over the top of his shaft. He let out a long sigh.
He gave me one last knowing look in the mirror and then trained his eyes on my pictures. He pressed my left hand against his hip and then he gripped the edge of the nightstand. I reached out further and gripped his manhood with my right hand. I squeezed. He pushed his hips forward.
“Jerk me off on your picture,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say so I actually didn’t say anything. I just grabbed him. I ran my fist back and forth over his dick. I squeezed the shaft and started to jerk my hand back and forth. His penis was already sticky, I thought. The skin was hot, his flesh thick and hard, and while I leaned forward to run my palm up and down the full length of it the base and his hair kept rubbing against my wrist. I looked up at his face and he was focused on my pictures.
I looked at those pictures, all the while conscious that I was aiming his dick (which was already clear with precum) at my face. I stared at myself. There I was, completely naked. I gazed over the other photographs, the ones on my nightstand. Me running, me laughing, me shaking my head. I looked at my shoulders, the way they shined from the sunlight or the camera flash. I looked at my chest, the way the softness of my breasts sloped beneath my neck, the way my breasts stuck out from my sides when I was turned around. I looked at my dark pubic hair, at the muscles in my legs. And I stroked Tom. He made little sound, just a deep (very deep) breathing, and his dick moved back and forth in my hand.
I squeezed right at the base of his head and he gave a nice, appreciative groan. I pressed my boobs right up against him and pushed my left hand down his thigh and underneath him to cup his balls. God, they felt tight.
Had he fantasized about this? He had me behind him; he could fuck me if he wanted. He had fucked me. He’d fucked me a handful of times. He paid me. He paid me to fuck him. And he was making me do this, making me masturbate him, making me make him cum, cum all over my photographs.
Photographs I’d let him take. Photographs of me naked and laughing. Photographs of me being silly with him. Photographs of me, beautiful me.
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