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After my husband, John’s three-week, business trip to the Far East and Australia we had rowed. It was his third multi-week business trip of the year and it was still only May.
“Why the fuck can’t Colin go, why always you,” I had screamed at him.
It was worse than other rows and inevitably revolved around sex. I had started to feel that he used rowing to avoid sex placating me with ‘it’ll get back to normal soon.’ What a fucking farce!
“So when will we get back to normal?” I asked one night when I had got into bed naked and pressed myself against him only for him to say he was too tired and that it would be better soon.
‘Soon, when’s that, when is fucking soon?”
“It’ll work out, don’t worry.”
But I did worry and we carried the discussion on the next evening over dinner.
“Let’s go and see someone,” I suggested.
We talked about that and at first, I thought he was agreeing to see a therapist but with his clever, businessman, negotiating it was pushed well into the future.
It wasn’t that we had little sex, just that he rarely initiated it any more. Something had to be done.
Both in our mid-forties, we were coming up for our silver wedding anniversary so in some way we’d had a good innings but in other ways it seemed such a shame to ruin what we had built. We had a solid financial base and secure future, a nice house near London, a holiday home in Majorca, lovely cars, two great kids, generally a fine family life, a wonderful group of friends and a great social life. Alright, there had been ups and downs over the years and both of us had strayed a little, but had returned to the fold.
Although deep down I felt that it might well be a hopeless cause, I was determined to do all that I could to save my marriage and saving meant bringing back the sexual magic of yesteryear. I had tried talking to John, but he always brushed me off, saying he was not well, was tired, had an early start the next day or was jet lagged. I agreed that each of these were, at times, valid reasons for not wanting to make love to his wife. He was a busy and highly successful executive, worked murderous hours when in the UK and he travelled extensively mainly to his firm’s offices in New York and LA. But that line of reasoning was no good to me. I needed sex, I needed to be made love to, I needed to be loved and pampered. I needed our marriage to be how it used to be and with regret I had concluded if it couldn’t then it would be over. Hard maybe, somewhat callous possibly but, nevertheless honest and realistic as I knew that I could not go through the rest of my life in a marriage without sex.
Recently, particularly since both children had ‘flown the coop’, I was so lonely and so sex starved. I was continuously frustrated and knew that if something did not change soon, I would fall prey and give into one of the several sexual predators circling around me. Yes, I felt that if John would not keep up his end of the marital sexual bargain, then the obligation for me to keep mine and remain faithful to him was becoming invalid. I knew that unless something changed in our sexual relationship then I would be forced to go elsewhere to get what I so desperately wanted my husband to provide.
I had read about boudoir photography some time ago in Elle, Cosmo or somewhere. The article that was supported by other pieces in newspapers and on the net, said that people were attending boudoir photography sessions for many reasons, one of which was to ‘spice up’ the sex life particularly in twenty plus years marriages. The article claimed that many women approaching or in middle age as I clearly was with a marriage in which the sex life was waning, were turning to having a series of photographs taken of them in various stages of undress that they gave to their husbands as a present. It was a mark of their love, a token of their appreciation, a signal that his wife was still a sexually active and attractive woman and a reminder that he should do something about it.
I had not thought that much about it at the time and certainly could not envisage me booking a session. That said, the concept appealed to me and the idea of being photographed in my underwear and maybe even naked excited me, for I was very aware that I was a closet exhibitionist. Other than at times not wearing a bra, showing a little too much leg, now and then going ‘commando’ purely for kicks and, of course being topless round pools, I had not expressed my tendencies in that direction and certainly not with the involvement of my husband or another man. Nevertheless, as my levels of sexual frustration increased, the desire to do so was getting stronger so I decided to find out more about boudoir photographic sessions.
My primary motive for contemplating this genuinely was the hope that it would bring the sexual sparkle but to John’s and my sex life. However, as I thought more about it and researched it, I recognised that as much as I was doing it for that reason, I was also doing it for other reasons, well reason. And that was for me. I eryaman genç escort knew that I would get a tremendous buzz from it and that excited me.
I searched the net extensively and got very excited looking at the lovely websites with incredibly glamourous women and men, in stylishly, erotic poses. As it happens my researching into boudoir photography gave me another interest and that was looking at mild porn or erotica on the net. And boy did that help my now frequent masturbation activities!
At the time we were living in Essex just outside London. I found two studios that specialised in what I was after that were not too far away, with one being in Hitchin and the other in Finchley, two nice London suburbs. Both were easy to get to, but not so near to home that I was likely to ‘bump into’ anyone or have my car spotted when parked.
Using a private email account I had an email exchange with both, male, owners, during which I accepted their invitations to visit each studio to find out more. Both studios were clean and well laid out and seemed to have all the necessary equipment for boudoir photography, not that I had any real idea in that direction. Both owners were very charming, seemed knowledgeable and were not the slightest bit sleazy or pushy as I had half thought they might be. They showed me on PCs their portfolios, which included underwear and nude stuff from a range of models including big and small and younger and older women and a few men.
“Will your partner be participating?” one of them asked.
“How do you mean?”
“Well watching or taking part.”
“I don’t think so.”
“We can cater,” he said searching through the files on his PC before opening one that showed a good looking couple in their forties, I guessed.
I couldn’t help gasping and blurting out. “Are they actually,” before stopping myself.
“Yes Missus West, they are actually making love, though some do simulate it.”
That evening mulling over what I had seen and learned I chose the studio in Hitchin for what well may have been the wrong reasons: I preferred the owner, he was better looking!
‘I look forward to seeing you on the fifteenth,’ his confirmation email said, adding. ‘That is for a platinum service, which includes both still and a ten minute video and our session will last for two hours. Please let me know if you need any help with your wardrobe.’
I was alone that evening with no social activity, no friends to see, no kids and, of course, no husband.
I had a glass of white wine as I prepared a pasta dinner and two glasses of Chianti with it. After dinner, I watched the Channel Four news at seven, but my mind was straying. I could not concentrate for I had started thinking about the shoot and what clothes I would need. I smiled when I realised I was starting to think in a photographic model’s parlance. I poured another glass of the red wine and went to my bedroom.
I went through my lingerie drawers and selected several white and black underwear sets. I had decided that all of the shots would be in black and white and everything I wore would also be those colours. I found some stuff I liked including a number of bras. I knew that one of the white ones was completely diaphanous. I stripped down to my panties and put that on. When I looked in the mirror I saw that nothing was hidden and I watched fascinated as my nipples hardened making indentations in the thin, white lace. I put that on the definite pile and then tried on the black ones. One of those did nothing for me, but the other, probably because it was a couple of years old and was on the tight side, made my tits look bigger and fuller. ‘Like dumplings boiling over,’ I thought grinning as I took it off and put that on the yes pile as well looking at the label as I did and noting it was a D cup. ‘Hmmmm,’ I thought realising that I probably now was a genuine DD.
I added a couple of white and black, straightforward thongs to the yes pile and then slid a pair of white silk, French knickers up my legs; I could not recall the last time I had worn them They felt every bit as good as they looked and I thought that with a suspender belt, that I did not possess they would look great. A definite yes pile garment and a reminder to buy a couple of suspender belts!
My mind was swimming from the wine. Recently I had been drinking too much and when alone I rarely went to bed fully sober. As I decided what underwear I had that I could use on the shoot and from that worked out what I needed to buy, I could feel myself becoming aroused. My nipples were constantly hard and I knew that I was getting wet. I have always been a bit of a sexy, lingerie freak and to be surrounded by it as I tried on the bras and panties and then the couple of waspies and basques, were completely turn on moments for me. I sat on the bed and looked at myself in the dressing table mirror.
‘Not bad for forty-six,’ I thought, or maybe said quietly as I cupped my, now accepted DD cup boobs and pinched my nipples.
My mind was on the shoot. I could ankara escort bayan see myself removing a black bra and showing my breasts to the camera and, I had to admit as equally arousing, Marcus. As I thought that, so I caressed them sending those gorgeous sensations through my body. As I become aroused my breasts feel so full and heavy, they become full of heat and an irritation starts in my stomach and roars through my entire body. It is as if my clit is hot wired to each of my nipples.
I fell backwards onto the bed, my knees dangling over the side, my eyes closed, my hands grasping my breasts and my mind imagining I was in the photographic studio. I reached out and found the French knickers. I rubbed them over my breasts. The silk felt fantastic on my tingling flesh. I caressed each breast and pinched each nipple with the luxuriant material as I imagined being photographed in just the French knickers. The thought of Marcus, the Hitchin studio owner seeing me like that and taking shot after shot of my breasts aroused me even more.
Holding the French knickers in both hands, I ran the silk down my body, which was trembling with anticipation of the sexual relief that it was now demanding. I slid the smooth and cool material past my waist and onto the, relative flatness of my tummy. I rubbed my bare pubis and then slid it just that short distance further until it was on my clit. The sensations as I rubbed that and then with the fingers on my other hand ran the silk along my soaked lips were simply amazing.
As I masturbated by rubbing my clit and pushing two silk covered fingers inside me, my mind was visualising me lying on the studio floor naked, holding my breasts as Marcus knelt beside me recording every detail in digital splendour.
I came very heavily and slept well that night.
There was four days before the shoot. Time enough to order some more lingerie online and maybe pop into Agent Provocateur in town.
I spent the entire next evening browsing round the net looking at lingerie. Although I had no desire to buy any of the more bizarre stuff, I couldn’t resist looking at sites showing half cup bras and ones with the nipples cut out, crutch less panties, knickers slit at the back so that the crease in the bottom was on show and tight corsets in PVC and leather. I couldn’t envisage myself ever wearing anything so obvious, but I did find looking at them and the beautiful girls modelling them mildly arousing.
From last night’s stocktake I knew that I needed some black French knickers, silk of course, black and white lacy suspender belts, a black waspie, the white one was fine, camisoles, lacy top holdups and seemed and fishnet stockings in both colours. With the choice available and next or two-day delivery times, I realised that a journey to a shop would be unnecessary.
Just as promised the packages from the two different sites arrived two days later, both being delivered by Amazon at the same time, just after three.
I had just got home from work and was wearing a grey business suit and white blouse with black heels. I had my hair less spiky than usual and, although it was late October I was not wearing tights or stockings as I still had a nice tan from the ten days we had recently spent in Southern Spain. I removed the suit jacket and draped that round a chair in the kitchen. As my contacts had been playing my eyes up a little recently I was wearing my horn-rimmed glasses.
I took the packages upstairs to my bedroom and with shaking fingers I undid them. It was like being a young girl and receiving loads of presents, but these were not the sort of gifts for young girls. No these were very grown-up gifts; these were gifts for women. I undid everything and was pleased with my online shopping spree. I was now fully kitted up for my boudoir adventure.
I picked up the lacy, black suspender belt and wondered just how long it had been since I had worn one. We did wear them at uni, but that was the mid-eighties and thigh highs, self-support or hold ups or whatever people called them then did not stay up high on the thighs as they do now. In the early days of our relationship, I seem to recall John buying me lingerie including a sussie belt, but that was years ago. The memory of wearing one and the feeling of its tightness round my hips came into my mind and I suddenly had an urge to try it on.
I slipped the, probably slightly too short, grey suit skirt off and stood there in my heels, panties and white blouse. Looking in the mirror, I wrapped the flimsy, black lace garment round me and clipped it together just beneath my tummy button. With the black suspenders hanging down my legs, I formed a strange, but to me quite arousing image in the mirror. I had to put the stockings on as well. Rolling them up my legs and feeling the smooth nylon against my bare flesh made me tingle a little me and made me wonder just how the hell I was going to cope with being photographed without climaxing. I had no answer to that so I stopped wondering about it.
The sincan escort night before the shoot I packed the various outfits and then suddenly thought I had never posed before other than for holiday snaps and had no real idea how to do it. Marcus had said that he would organise everything and decide on the positions and that between us we would select the outfits that I would wear. It was how I should hold myself, my posture, eye contact with the camera and breathing in to expand my chest, and reduce my tummy that I realised were all mysteries to me.
Thank God for the Internet, I smiled googling how to pose for glamour shots.
After an hour or so cruising around loads of sites, I felt better. I had learned that I needed to lift my head up more than I would naturally, that I should make eye contact with a corner of or just above the camera, that I had to hold myself very upright and push my chest out and not stand with crossed legs.
Additionally, I found out something else. Well not found out, but suspected. Although the group of girls I was in at university had messed around with groping and snogging and I had experienced female induced orgasms, it was so many years since I had done anything along those lines that I considered myself now to be dead straight. Looking at the gorgeous and highly sexy girls modelling on the sites, I began to doubt that a little. I found my arousal rising as I looked at bare breasts, naked bodies and girls touching themselves. Also, I realised I wanted to see more.
I googled bisexual porn. A number of video sites came up, but they all offered two men and a woman and in the few I glanced at the men got it on together. I have to admit that I have always had a yen to see men together and seeing them kissing and sucking each other’s cock did make me tingle, but was not what I wanted to see just then.
I googled lesbian porn and got loads of sites. I flicked through a few and although the girls were gorgeous there was no story and it really was wham, bang and thank you ma’am with the girls getting down to it without any build up. Then I found a site that had a search facility so I tapped in lesbian seduction. Bingo, just what I wanted. It was a MILF as they called her seducing her friend. It was a slow build up with them starting with a drink and slowly moving onto sex. However, it was a good ten minutes, before they kissed and that went on for another ten or so. As the seducer caressed her friend’s breasts, opened her top and slowly attended to her, unfortunately surgically enhanced, boobs my temperature must have risen and my heart must have been pounding so hard I was surprised the neighbours did not hear it.
As they slowly and tenderly undressed each other I found myself following them and I was down to just my panties at the same time they were. I got so excited when they manoeuvred their legs and bodies so that they could press their pussies together and simulate fucking each other. We had a wonderful, three-way, mutual orgasm.
As I recovered from that, I could not help wondering just what the hell was happening to me?
“Great Jay, you’ve got some lovely stuff that should be very photogenic. You said that you wanted everything in black and white, didn’t you?” Marcus asked shortly after I arrived at the studio. I had changed my name from my real Jayne West to Jay Western for confidentiality reasons but actually I like being called Jay.
Marcus was wearing a white tee shirt and blue track pants that looked slightly too tight for him.
He had emptied all my outfits onto a table at one end of the room. It was quite a strange sensation to be with a man, especially one I did not know, as he sifted through my panties, bras and other intimate apparel. Strange, but also mildly exciting I realised with a worry.
“Well let’s make a start, shall we?”
“Sure, what shall I wear?”
“To get used to the lights and camera and for that to get to know you, just as you are will be fine.”
I was wearing blue, denim jeans with heels and a white button up the front shirt.
He stood me against black backdrop alongside a chaise longue and started shooting. He fired out his directions.
“Just move around, turn side on then back on, put your hand on your hip, now in your hair. That’s good Jay, in fact it’s great.”
I was remembering to hold my head up, push my tits out, hold my tummy in, maintain my posture and look just above the camera. Marcus was moving around using alternately a tripod camera and a hand held one. With that he would bend down and shoot upwards or stand on a ladder and shoot down. Several times he altered the lighting, making it brighter, then dimming it and using spot lights so that just my head and shoulders were lit up. Additionally I noted he had turned on the video cam that was on a tripod so I was being captured both still and moving.
“Ok, let’s look at what we’ve got shall we,” he said directing me to the table that not only held all my underwear, but also a laptop. He unloaded the cartridges from both cameras and uploaded them to the laptop. “Might be better in here,” he said opening a door off to the side. “It’s my viewing room.” All that was in there was a four-seater, black leather sofa, a couple of side tables and a large TV screen on the wall.
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