A black shag rug, Heavy velvet drapes, a patterned chaise, and seedy lighting. The key elements to a 1950s homage to boudoir. The pouted red lips on a powder-white face, high heels, and a bathing suit. The classic pin-up girl. Whether she was a blond brunette or redhead, on a calendar or pinned in a locker. The sexy woman in a black and white movie. She is the epitome of sexy for me. In another time, I was that object of desire, frozen in time and the woman of men’s fantasies. I know I’m silly, but I like the realness of pin-up girls. I could be a pin-up girl. I’d never know who had seen me or put my picture in their locker. The internet-famous thing scares me. The judgmental and anonymous comments didn’t offend me; they are pathetic attempts to not be invisible. No one puts a picture in their locker of women they judge. I also like the idea of being admired from afar.
There is something weird about writing a journal in longhand, then sending you a picture of it—anyway, crazy busy with the installation for the rest of the week. I will have limited ability to communicate.
As requested, I have attached the pictures of my closet and bedroom rearranged to your liking. I am walking to work in order to ensure I am getting exercise every day. I am wearing what I like to work not things that make me invisible, and yes, I love the feeling of no one knowing that I am wearing lace and satin under jeans and shirts. I touch my bracelet a thousand times a day to remind me of you and how much I love being yours.
I have this weekend marked as you arrive Friday morning. You have your key. I will be home by seven. I can’t wait to see you.
You have done well. You’re an amazing woman. Thank you for the pictures of your tasks. I rather liked the black lace with the rosebuds under your company polo shirt. Imagine my hand cupping your breasts while you present your latest plan.
This Friday, leave the jeans home, wear your tight pencil skirt- nothing underneath. I want a picture of you at work in your skirt and heels, lace bra and white blouse. Your nipples display perfectly, your tits look amazing in your lace bra. Wear your hair in a loose braid, lips red. The small ass plug just to top it off. See you soon.
The anticipation of seeing Sir made Friday drag. I used lunchtime to get my paws and claws painted Brazilian red. In the late afternoon, a quick flurry of text messages inspired the most effective stakeholders meeting in meetings’ history. I manage to get out of the office and home before six.
The surprise of the living room transformation stopped me cold. Sheets of burgundy velvet over the windows made the room darker with a rosy glow. A large umbrella light, like photographers’ use, was across the room. The couch was missing, and a square leather-topped table had impact toys and red ropes. My chaise was positioned in the middle of the room. It had a shaggy black throw. I giggled in delight and actually jumped up and down with joy. It was perfect. We were going to play photoshoot. With arms crossed, Sir watched me from the dining-room door. His form-fitting black t-shirt was my favorite thing. I bounded across the room to greet him, “thank you, what a great surprise.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He kissed my forehead. What are your safe words?
“Penguin and lawyer.”
He nodded as he spoke, “you wanted a pin-up girl experience,” He laced his finger through my hair and brought me close, “you will have that; are you prepared to be pushed tonight?
My voice was just above a whisper, “Ok,” as my heart began to pound. The fear of the unknown won over the desire to be lost in time with him. “No feet or breath play?”
“Understood,” he smiled. “your clothes are in on the bed.” A noise came from the kitchen.
“What the hell? Who’s here?” I stepped back from him. This was something new. Why was there someone here? As I walked around him, he followed me into the kitchen, a man was looking out the kitchen window.
“Bill, this is a beautiful spot, what a great backyard. There is enough room for a basketball key and hoop.” Hearing Sir’s name struck me.
“This is your photographer, Pete. Do you still want this?”
I dropped my head and said, “Yes, Sir. Thank you for this. May I go get ready?”
“Good girl, off you go.” He slapped my ass as I walked by.
I was shaking by the time I closed the bedroom door. There was another man in my house. I was vibrating, my throat tightened, and I could taste bile. I didn’t even look at the bed. I went to the bathroom and watched myself in the mirror.
“Ok, girl, calm the fuck down. Safe, sane, and consensual. This is your fantasy. If you don’t want it- say so.” I stared at myself and did some sort of sexual fantasy inventory of the last six months with Sir. I ran the water and brushed my teeth, rinsing the taste from my mouth. “Ok, girl, get present.” Heavy eyeliner with a small wing and mascara made my eyes look bigger, a lip pencil, powder, and deep red lipstick finished the look. I powdered my cheeks and chin. I learned powder on the forehead, just got make-up in my eyes when I began to sweat. Nancy Sinatra would be proud. I brushed out my hair and put it in a twist. I secured my hair with bobby pins, and I made my way to the bed. He had been through my drawers, and there was a gift box: the stockings and full garters, a pair of high waisted girdle panties, and a bra. Compared to modern lace lingerie, this stuff was granny wear, but I loved how securely it held me. I felt safe and sexy in it. The gift box was small. Inside was a small pocketknife, like the ones we got in souvenir shops when we were kids. And a note.
I want to take you there. No cutting of you. Just cutting away the bull. If you trust me, bring the knife with you. If you just want your picture take, don’t.
I opened the knife and ran the backside of the blade along my forearm. The blade was shiny; I turned it over and dragged it along my arm. I was curious enough to close the blade and bring it with me.
In front of the chaise, Pete had a small table that could adjust the height. I remember seeing one in the Sears photo studio when I was a kid. Black velvet draped over it. He had me stand behind it. He spun it until it was just under my boobs. He locked the table’s wheels and positioned me with my elbows squeezing my tits together. The camera flash filled the room repeatedly as he talked to me. I didn’t realize how wound up I was until I released the knife onto the posing platform in front of me. Pete never broke stride. He just talked me through poses.
Sir stood behind him, just watching. After a dozen different poses, Sir stepped into the light. He was in his discipline dress, a pair of well-worn jeans. He stood between me and the camera, kissing me fully on the mouth. A warmth filled me, and I purred as my body responded to his touch. I froze when the heavy flash went off. He pulled me in and spoke softly. “Are we good? You are amazing, I am with you.” The camera flashes continued.
“You’re enjoying yourself?” he asked.
He moved the posing table, and I stood in the middle of the room, wanting permission to touch him. Permission to drop to my knees and take him in my mouth. Permission to drag my nails over his chest. I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth and nipped at it, waiting. I hated waiting.
I nodded. I was holding my breath, my brain was racing, but not in a bad way. He took the knife, opened it, and laid it on the leather table. Sir roped and restrained me; it calmed me. Sir was not gentle. I watched as he pulled and adjusted the red ropes. Pete posed me, adjusted the lights, and froze moments. There was music somewhere. On the floor, kneeling with my ankles bound and knees lassoed to my arms tied at 90 degrees, I looked up at Sir. He stood silently – I smiled. He unzipped his jeans. His fully erect cock laid against the zipper.
I opened my mouth. His glorious smooth cock, warm and tasty. I loved the feel of him in my mouth. He pushed his cock to the back of my throat, I gagged as he held my head, and I used my mouth and tongue, saliva ran down my chin, my eyes watered. He called me his whore, and my enthusiasm to suck increased. The pace of sucking his cock made my pussy ache. I fought the restraint wanting to touch him. I gagged and sucked, trying to keep eye contact- he held my head and pumped his cock until is cum ran down the back of my throat. He was sweet in my mouth. As he separated from me, I became self-aware. I watched as he left me alone in the middle of the room, my face was wet and uncomfortable. He zipped up his jeans and talked to Pete about what a used up little slut I was. They talk about me like I wasn’t there. I couldn’t move. My head was spinning. I tried to free myself my wiggling, the result was me falling over.
He was at my side, “you are a stupid slut.” He righted me. “Pete, let’s move her up here.” You will be freed when I decide I am done with you and not before.” They each took a side and put me on the chaise. The camera was there and intrusive. I couldn’t contain my frustration. I was crying. Sir stroked my skin and kissed my tears. “Where are we? do you still want this?”
“Yes,” I said without reservation.
He stood behind me, his head close to mine, the knife slide across my skin, under my bra. He cut the straps and released my breast. He pinched and slapped my breast, sucking and kissing my neck -a mix of humiliation and sexual hunger intensified the experience. He moved methodically, cutting away my clothes. I was exposed. I could feel the heat rise. My entire body was blushing, my façade was cut away. The lingerie hung off me like peeling skin. I was raw. I started to sob, trying to hold back the tears, my body heaved as my breath caught in my chest.” Sir cut the rope that held my thighs, opened my knees, and fingered my sex. My heaves became moans, and he flicked my clit and finger fucked me. While the ropes were pulled away, I opened myself to him. The pace was frantic. He stripped away the remnants of my lingerie, he tore at the stockings as he flipped me over. His hand across my ass sent shock waves rolled through me and intensified my arousal. A shift to the belt made my clit swell and thumb in excitement. I counted as he had trained me to do. He smoothed and checked my skin after every five strokes. I ached for his touch. My cries and whimpers were met with a crop to the thighs. I was so aroused my ass popped in anticipation of being brought to climax. I rode his fingers and gripped them with my cunt.
“May I cum, sir?” He stood and stepped back. I grew cold as the room came back into focus. Pete stood with his camera.
I rolled over and sat up in confusion. “Oh my god,” I balled up and dropped my head to make myself into a ball and hide from the camera. I had forgotten about Pete.
A flash filled the room. He was still taking pictures. I raised my head; the tears flowed as I saw what reminded me of my pride lay in shreds on the floor. I was tired, and my body felt heavy. I bent over and picked up a piece of my bra. I wiped my face with it and stood under the harsh light of Pete’s lens. I was utterly exposed. I was frozen. My brain wouldn’t work. The flashed continued. I rose my hands and shielded my face the onslaught of flashes.
“I’m done,” I said. I was fully back into my body, and my brain was starting to function again.
Sir was at my side, the lights were off; the room was dark, except for a candle, the music was still playing.
“I want you.”
I hesitated and tipped my head towards Pete to suggest, “but he’s here?” He said nothing, but held my gaze. I opened my legs and welcomed him in.
I am still processing this weekend. We had talked about pushing my boundaries. In the moment, letting my body be present erased the raw and exposed sensation, I felt as you cut away my bra and the flash froze the moment in time. Your hands around my neck, your teeth grazing my shoulder as he recorded us, was exhilarating. I hope I expressed my gratitude for constantly keeping me with the sensation and not in my head.
Scared and struggling with shame. The sexual tension and my body’s response to being exposed and vulnerable scrambled my brain a little.