Camera Shy

I have always been intrigued by the women who model for “girlie” magazines. Who are they really? What are they thinking about as they spread their legs or cup their breasts for the camera? How do they feel when they see themselves displayed for public consumption? Does it excite or repel them to imagine millions of guys ejaculating onto their images?

So when I met Damon, I was intrigued by the three expensive cameras dangling from his neck and shoulders. He was strolling through Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, snapping pictures of the flora and fauna; I was jogging along to the sound of Mick Jagger on my Walkman, and nearly fell over him as he knelt before a bright yellow rosebush.

As we exchanged apologies, he stood and let his camera fall idly to his chest, while I turned down my music the better to assess him. Damon, who I later found out was a recent émigré from Greece, towered above me like an Athenian god, with his well-defined muscles, olive skin and jet black hair.

I invited him to have tea with me at the Japanese Tea Garden. Two weeks later Damon and I were well on our way to falling in love. When he tried to inject me into one of his photographs, we had our first fight. Never, I told him, was he to take a picture of me.

I wouldn’t give in, until one evening, as we sipped champagne and watched the sun set over Pescadero Beach, I became slightly drunk. Climbing one the sloping rock formations that resembled breasts and cunts, I began playfully striking suggestive poses. Damon grabbed his camera and, while I half-heartedly objected, shot an entire roll of film. Getting into the spirit, I adopted ever-more compromising positions and found myself enjoying posing for him.

The next morning, sober, I searched furtively for the film, intent on destroying it. But Damon, wise to me, had already taken it to the darkroom.

That night when he presented me with a dozen glossy photographs, I was stunned. There I was, sprawled across the rocks, making love to Mother Nature. My long blonde hair flowed in the breeze, and my eyes sparkled wickedly in the sunlight. Sexual energy radiated from my body. I looked gorgeous.

Damon, pleased by my reaction, couldn’t refrain from uttering a small “I-told-you-so.” And he had bigger plans for me, he announced, producing a gaily wrapped gift box. Inside I found a hot pink satin bustier with black lace bra cups. Damon wanted to photograph me in this getup.

My escapade at the beach had not magically transformed me into a model, and Damon had to work on me. As much of a genius with the female body as with the camera, he slipped me out of my clothes while nibbling on my neck, fondling my tits, pressing his cock against my thigh. Undressed, I panted for him to enter me; he stood before me, one hand stroking his cock, the other dangling the bustier by its thin straps. "You don't get this,” he whispered, pointedly waving his cock, “until you put on this." And he threw the bustier at me.

Frantic, I climbed into the outfit. I laid down, spread my legs and opened my pussy lips with my fingers. Damon came over and rubbed the head of his cock against my clit. Then he calmly picked up his infernal camera, aimed it at me like a shotgun and peered through the lens. Immediately I stiffened.

"No way," I said, rolling over on my belly. To my amazement, a flashbulb went off, capturing my impudently raised ass.

"Cut it out, Damon, I mean it.”

The flashbulbs stopped and suddenly Damon’s long wet tongue was gliding up and down the crack of my ass, gently licking, working its way down to my pussy. He rolled me over and buried his head between my legs. I gave myself over to the delicious sensations, arching my back, as my tits popped up over their sexy encasement, and I thrust my pelvis against his mouth. I got hotter and hotter, and felt my whole face and body softening, yielding to my lover.

I spread my legs and parted my cunt lips to the merciless gaze of the camera. I stared straight into the lens, knowing it was capturing the soft animality in my eyes. Damon was breathing shallowly as he snapped away. With each click and flash of the bulb, I found myself getting hotter and wetter. I felt I was being made love to by the camera.

I grew bolder and more imaginative. I sat up on my knees, thrusting my tits forward, parting my lips seductively. I looked meaningfully at Damon, then lowered my head to his throbbing organ and took it in my mouth while he snapped away relentlessly. I pressed my tits against his balls and gazed up at the camera while I continued to suck. Damon, though clearly turned on—his cock was rock-hard and pre-cum was oozing out the head—continued to maintain enough professional demeanor to keep snapping pictures.

We went on in this fashion for hours. He rolled me over and rammed it in doggie style, snapping my thrusting ass. I sat on top of him and he took shot after shot of my tits, the nipples erect and pulsating. He fucked me on my back, taking pictures of my face, snapping furiously when I crumbled into orgasm. Finally he put the camera aside to pump his dick into me and explode into my satiated cunt. After we finished Damon headed for the darkroom. The pictures were amazing. The images of me sucking Damon’s cock, or lying beneath him, turned me on so much that over the next several days I masturbated to them. My favorites were the solo shots of me posing, just like the girls in the magazines. I imagined the photos being published, and men jacking off on them. It did not make me feel degraded—it made me feel incredibly sexy and powerful.

After that, I became virtually addicted to the camera. I bought lingerie, bras with cutouts for the nipples, crotchless panties. I made up my face, fixed my hair a dozen different ways, and nightly I posed for my lover. He took pictures of me lying on a bearskin rug, naked as a baby, bathing in a tub overflowing with bubbles, plunging a dildo into my pussy. After each shoot, we would make wild and passionate love. It was as if I were Damon’s personal XXX collection, and I loved it. I couldn't believe I’d once been afraid of the camera.

One day Damon heard about an erotic photo contest. With my permission, he sent off several pictures of me to the magazine. A few months later we received a notice saying we’d won! Shortly thereafter, the magazine published the photos of me. When it arrived in a plain brown wrapper, we opened it excitedly and turned to the designated page.

There I was, a full page spread in four colors, up on my knees in my bustier, one tit hanging out, my finger pointed to the nipple, my mouth open, seemingly ready to take cock. The caption read, "Photographer’s Dream Come True.”

For a long time we both just stared at the picture. Then I reached forward and unzipped Damon’s fly. I pulled out his hard-on and slowly began stroking it back and forth above the page. As his breath quickened, my hand moved faster, pumping his dick furiously until I could see he was about to cum. I aimed his cock straight at my tits on the page and he shot a thick jet stream of semen all over my picture. Then I leaned forward and put my tongue to the page, licking his cum from my tits and face. Damon, never one to miss a photo opportunity, picked up the camera and captured me for posterity, licking cum off my own picture.

Since then we’ve calmed down considerably; we take pictures at a more normal rate, once or twice a week. And we are advertising for someone to take pictures of the two of us making love together. However, they'll have to be as good with the camera as Damon. No more amateurs for this porn star!

—M. S.