That day went by slowly. I tried asking every nurse that came into my room if Taylor was still alive, but they either didn’t know, or they didn’t want to talk about it—maybe they didn’t want to worry me. If that was the case, they were doing a terrible job.
I asked the doctor and he pretended like he knew nothing. “I can’t possibly keep track of every patient in this hospital,” he said with a dry, uncaring tone. My stomach churned again, for the hundredth time that day.
Then night came and her area was still empty. When I woke up, a young man had taken up her curtain cell. He’d been in a car accident, though he was now in stable condition.
I kept asking the nurses about Taylor, and they kept refusing to tell me anything. I felt like I was going crazy. I asked to borrow my new neighbour’s phone, to check the Internet for new obituaries, but I couldn’t find nothing. It didn’t help that I didn’t even know Taylor’s last name.
I searched through hundreds of pages of local girls named Taylor on Facebook and Twitter, but the search was hopeless. The name was to common, and I didn’t even know if she was on social media. Given her circumstances, it probably wasn’t unrealistic to assume she stayed away from Facebook and the like altogether.
Three more days went by, and it became obvious that she had died. On the night that I accepted her fate, I cried—and I cried a lot. And then I made myself feel a little bit better when I remembered that I’d helped to satisfy a few of her lingering disappointments. Thanks to me, she died with fewer regrets. But because of her, now I was stuck with a regret of my own that could never be satisfied. I found myself wondering what life would be like with her as my girlfriend—maybe even my wife. I imagined a future with her—even with her cock and her biologically male DNA. Life could have been so simple and so happy, but now she was gone and I would probably forever find myself comparing girls to Taylor. And I had a feeling that any girl I decided to marry would simply be a compromise.
Another few days passed and that sadness continued to linger. The young man next to me was released and a new girl moved in. She was cute, with long blonde hair and a big rack. She chatted with me a bit, but I found it hard to muster up any excitement with her. I just kept wishing that Taylor was there instead of her.
On my third week in the hospital, they let me stand up for the first time. It felt good to bear weight on my legs—though it wasn’t long before the atrophied muscles in my legs started to ache. I was only able to make it up and down the hallway twice before I had to lay back down. But at least my blood got to circulate around my body a little bit—and it was nice being less sore.
But despite the aching in my legs, I decided I would walk around the hospital. I couldn’t stand my room. I couldn’t look to my right without thinking about Taylor, remembering our long conversations and fun romps. I hated thinking about her because the mental image of her beautiful face would make my heart burn and ache.
I even tried to walk up and down the stairs. My back started to burn after just a few steps, but I powered through to the top floor regardless. I figured the more I moved, the sooner my body would strengthen so I could be released.
The top floor was much nicer than my floor. There were windows everywhere and the hallways were much wider. Even the nurses seemed happier, even though the ward was for patients with terrible diseases. Thanks to my limping and grunting and groaning, no one knew that I didn’t belong on that floor.
I went down the hall casually, trying to find a pop machine so that I could drink something different than water and orange juice for the first time in three weeks. There were no pop or snack machines on my floor, but I’d seen people walking around with sodas and bags of chips, so I knew they existed.
I came around a corner and that’s when I saw her, being wheeled by in a wheelchair: Taylor. She was alive. She looked over at me before she disappeared into another room, and I watched as her eyes lit up. She really was alive—either that or my brain was now playing tricks on me in my state of delirium.
I followed her into that room. All of the doctors and nurses looked back at me. One of them said, “You can’t be in here.”
“Is that Taylor?” I asked.
“I said, you can’t be in here,” he said again.
“Ed! It’s me!” Taylor called out. “The trial is working, but they have to keep me quarantined while they study me!” And that’s all she was able to say before the nurses came and rushed me out of the room. They locked the door once I was in the hallway, so that I wouldn’t bug them anymore.
And suddenly, I felt better than ever. I felt like my body was strong and healed, like I could go run a marathon or two. Taylor wasn’t just alive—she was recovering. The drug trial was working, clearing the disease from her system. Soon she would be released. Soon, we would be free to leave the hospital together.
I didn’t get any sleep that night, even with a strong flowing of drugs through my system. How could I sleep? I couldn’t stop thinking of all of the things we were going to do together. I couldn’t stop thinking of introducing her to my family. I couldn’t stop thinking of showing her off to my friends. And of course, I couldn’t stop thinking of getting her into my bed and ravaging her with my now-fully-functioning body.
THE END
PRETTY MODEL
Michael is a big-time photographer. Jenn is a new model, looking to build her portfolio. Michael doesn’t mind shooting new models for free, as long as they’re pretty and as long as they seem like the type to put out at the end of the shoot.
The shoot with Jenn goes great. The photos are amazing and Jenn is beautiful. But things become complicated at the end of the shoot when Jenn has a little wardrobe malfunction, and Michael sees that she’s been hiding a big, hard secret between her legs.
CHAPTER I
TFP means ‘Time For Print’. It’s a term used in the photography and modelling world, and it means a model gives the photographer her time in exchange for copies of the photographers prints—in other words, both parties work for free, usually for the sake of gaining experience. I was already an experienced, working photographer, so I only did TFP shoots with pretty models.
Sometimes I would feel guilty as I sorted through my e-mail inbox, seeing all the messages from models asking if I would consider shooting TFP. “I don’t have any money, but I really want to get my portfolio together so I can get an agent,” they would say. I would check out their pictures and usually I would pass. A girl had to be stunning if I was going to spend a whole day preparing, a whole day shooting, and another whole day editing. It was a lot of work to pad my already thick portfolio.
It’s also how I determined my rates for models. Even if they were willing to pay, I would want more money from the less attractive girls. I knew they were going to be slapping my name on every Instagram post, so I needed to make sure only quality girls were making the cut. So in a way, a big part of my job was rating women—just don’t tell the feminists.
Another big part of whether or not I was willing to do TFP shoots was whether or not I thought a model would be willing to do more than just shoot. What can I say? I was a single man and I didn’t have a lot of time for dating. I had to get action somewhere.
I would navigate over to their Instagram or Tumblr pages and I would look through their photos. Usually the ones who weren’t afraid to post nudes were the ones who wouldn’t be afraid to put out. You could usually tell by the expressions on their faces whether or not they would be willing to spread their legs for a little bit more attention to detail. Licking the lips in shots almost always meant they would be up for anything.
When girls said, “Is it okay if my boyfriend comes along? He’s not very comfortable with the idea of me being alone with another guy for a few hours in a hotel room,” I always declined or cancelled completely—and not even just because I knew it would mean I would get none. There’s nothing worse than having a guy looming over your shoulder while you’re trying to work. And the boyfriends always tried to get their two
cents in: maybe she should stand up straighter, maybe she should cover her cleavage with her arm, maybe she should put on something less revealing… I wasn’t interested in that. I needed a clear headspace if I was going to do good work—and I had to be horny.
Model photographers won’t tell you that secret: the key to getting sexy photos is to be horny. When I had a shoot planned with a hot model, I would always abstain from sex and masturbation for at least three full days—more than enough to make me squirm as soon as the girls got into their little lingerie outfits. There’s a special kind of energy that a man gets when he’s horny, and that energy can be harnessed into great work. And that was another reason I only picked high quality girls for my TFP shoots. If I was going to not only spend days preparing, shooting, and editing, but also abstaining from masturbation, then the girls better be pretty. Sorry if that isn’t very politically correct of me.
It was a late February afternoon when I found a very pretty model named Jenn in my e-mail inbox. Of the fifteen girls who messaged me overnight, Jenn was undoubtedly the prettiest. “I don’t have much money, so would a TFP shoot be at all possible?” she asked in her message. It was a sentence I’d read many, many times. And so far, just judging by the single photo attached to her e-mail, it was a yes. But I wanted to do more digging first.
I copied her e-mail address and pasted it into the search bar on Facebook. Her amateur modelling page came up. I looked through the few photos that were up. She was very pretty: dark hair, stunning eyes, and a thin, curvy figure. I loved curvy girls, but I almost never got to shoot them. Models were always bone-thin, and fucking a bone-thin girl isn’t terribly fun. I always get taken out of the moment when I thrust forward and can feel both of a girl’s hip bones, or when I run my hands up and down her sides and can feel the gaps between her ribs.
I found a few more pictures by digging a bit deeper. I was able to find her personal Facebook page (not just her modelling page) and I was able to find her Twitter. She had a few bikini photos, but none of them were too revealing. She didn’t seem like the type to put out, but that wasn’t a deal breaker for me. I knew I would have enough fun shooting and editing her pictures.
So I messaged her back and asked if she was available on the upcoming Saturday. She replied quickly, within the hour. “I can make it work!” she wrote, so I replied with some more information: location, wardrobe, and so on. For TFP shoots, I always told the models to bring their own outfits and do their own makeup. I couldn’t be bothered to arrange a makeup artist or a wardrobe girl. Plus, I wanted to keep the shoot intimate, just in case there was a chance we would end up fucking.
I would spend money on the hotel room though, and the liquor. Hotel rooms always make the best sets for boudoir-style shoots, and liquor is usually necessary to get a model to make the sexier poses—and it was usually necessary if I was going to have any chance of getting some action.
That shoot was still three days away. I still had one other girl to shoot before Jenn. Her name was Larissa, and she was pretty cute (cute enough that I was willing to shoot her for free, but not quite as cute as Jenn). The only reason I booked Larissa was because she had ten different pictures on her modelling profile page where she was licking her lips. There was even one shot where she was bending over and her panties were being stretched to the point of being see-through. If she were willing to post a picture of her wearing see-through panties, she would almost certainly be willing to get a photographer’s cock in her tight hole.
I had a motel room booked just down the street from my house. I purposely booked a cheap motel because the theme of the shoot was ‘trailer trash’ (I’ve always had a thing for white trash girls—what can I say?). I brought two cases of cheap beer with me: one unopened, the other full of empties, to be used as set decoration. I asked Larissa to bring lots of lingerie, most of it to be used as set decoration. When she showed up, I asked to see her outfits and then I started spreading it all around the room. I hung a pair of panties on the lamp and a bra on the ceiling fan. I ruffled up the bed, sprinkled a few empty beer cans about the room, and voila: a perfect set for the photo-shoot.
Most girls would hesitate when I offered them a drink to loosen up, but not Larissa—Larissa got right into the booze. She pounded back a beer within a minute and then she opened another one. And she still wasn’t even in her first outfit yet. I couldn’t fight the smirk from my face, especially after I noticed her checking me out in the mirror. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was there for the photo shoot, or if she was there hoping for a nice fucking.
She started out in a lacy bodysuit, which was mostly sheer. Her nipples were out in the open for me and my camera to see, and she didn’t seem to care. “What are these photos for, by the way?” I asked. “Your modelling portfolio?”
“Well,” she said. “They were going to be for my boyfriend, but we just broke up last night. So I guess they’re just for me.” She said, already slurring her words slightly, as if she’d had a few drinks before showing up. And my grin only grew bigger. There was suddenly no pressure to get good pictures. She might end up posting a few of the shots on her Instagram page, but she wasn’t going to be using them for modelling, so other models and agents wouldn’t be seeing them.
So we got shooting. She was not a professional model, but she was giving it her best anyway. At least she wasn’t shy—there’s nothing worse than a shy amateur. Without having to be directed, Larissa grabbed her tits, threw her arms over her head, spun around, bent over—she even grabbed her ass cheeks and spread them, and when I zoomed in, I could see the stretchy flesh around her tight asshole, which was hardly being covered by the thin lace of that bodysuit.
When I asked Larissa to change into a different outfit, she didn’t even bother to slip into the bathroom. She just went into the corner and turned her back to me before getting nude. Her next outfit was a bikini, which I thought was strange with the setting, but I didn’t say anything. It was tiny and it held up her big tits nicely for the camera. I snapped a bunch of photos while Larissa posed—some of her poses were better than others—some were downright strange, as if she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with her arms.
We hadn’t even been shooting for an hour when Larissa said, “Can I ask you to take a kind of racy picture for me?” As if the pictures we’d been taking weren’t racy enough. “I want a picture that looks like I’m here about to have sex with someone. I want to send it to my boyfriend—I mean—my ex-boyfriend.” She laughed. “He’ll be so pissed.”
I cleared my throat, feeling my cheeks turning red. “What kind of picture?” I said.
“Well, I’ll be naked. Are you okay with that?” she asked.
I nodded my head, feeling my cheeks getting redder. Larissa was setting a new slutty standard. She reached around and pulled off her top, and then she quickly slipped out from her bottoms. Her face didn’t even turn a single shade redder, as if she wasn’t even a little bit shy. “Maybe I can be touching myself—like this,” she said, and then she reached between her legs and pressed two of her fingers against her plump pussy.
“That’s fine,” I said, my voice cracking a little bit. I’d fucked a dozen models before—Larissa was about to be number thirteen—so I had no reason to be shy. But there was something about Larissa’s shamelessness that made my heart stutter. I took a few photos. She bit the corner of her bottom lip and looked right into the lens, as if she was looking right into my eyes. She rubbed her fingers in a circle.
“Maybe get one of me from behind—like this,” she said, flipping herself over and springing up onto her hands and knees. She let her hair hand down onto the cheap hotel bed sheets. Now, I had a clear shot of her asshole, which was slightly agape as if she’d been plunging a toy in and out of it before showing up for our photo shoot. I snapped a few more shots.
And then I took a deep breath. “If you really want to make him jealous,” I said. “Maybe I could be in a few shots.” Larissa looked back at me and her eyes lit up.
“You wouldn’t mind?” she said.
I shook my head. “As long as we keep my face out of the shots,” I said.
She stared into my eyes with a grin. “Would you be okay if maybe I was holding your cock for a few shots?”
I nodded my head. Now my face must have been dark purple. I quickly reached down and pulled away my belt. I tugged my pants down to my ankles, and then I switched to my widest lens: a 14mm. I walked up to the bed and then I climbed up. I planted my knees down and then I got my camera ready to shoot. “Okay, go ahead,” I said. My heart was pounding. She crawled up and kept her gaze connected with my camera’s lens. She had a cute smirk on her face.
She gently unbuttoned the single button of my boxers and then she reached her fingers through the slit. I felt her warm hand wrap around my cock. “You’re big,” she said. “Even better.” She pulled my cock out from that hole, and then I snapped a few photos. She could probably hear my heart pounding. Luckily the camera wasn’t recording audio.
She started to stroke my dick, getting it harder and harder. She never looked away from that camera lens, as if she was looking right into her ex-boyfriend’s eyes, saying ‘fuck you’. I didn’t mind being used as revenge. She was good at stroking cock, and I wasn’t about to turn down a nice stroke. She leaned forward and ran the tip of her tongue up the underside of my shaft. My cock twitched and then a drop of pre-cum oozed out the bulbous tip. She licked it up. I got a few more pictures.
“My ex always wanted to do anal and I never let him,” she said casually. “I also never let him fuck me without a condom. I know this is asking a lot, but would you be willing to stick it in my ass for me? Without a condom. Just for a few pictures. I promise I’m clean.” My heart stuttered and coughed and pounded up into my throat. I nodded my head quickly.
Big Hard Girls Page 34