Cath puzzled over all of this for two days, expecting Grant to call her at any moment and to precipitate some sort of confrontation. She had no idea what she'd say—or even why. And this not knowing had her jittery and staying close to the telephone.
She ran their last conversation over and over in her mind, dissecting what had been said—and what hadn't been said—trying to make sense out of it. And while she was doing so, she remembered that he'd said the camouflaged version of her photograph should already be on display in the gallery.
At first she declared she would never go looking for it. But increasingly she realized that she must. She must know just how camouflaged it was. She couldn't bear the thought that she'd be with a client someday and he would give her a curious look and say something like, "You are familiar to me. Have we met or have I . . .?" In her mind, she saw him turning red at that point and mumbling something in embarrassment, just then realizing where he had seen her—in a postcoital nude photograph on an art gallery wall.
She put on a brunette wig she'd gotten for a costume party, dressed in frumpy clothes, dug out dark sunglasses, and took a taxi to the art gallery.
She easily found the photograph. She remembered the colors that had been swirled on the lounge and floor—burgundy and silver and a cobalt blue. Sure enough, it was titled "Cath Afterward #3." He didn't even have the decency to give her a fake name. She stood in front of the photograph at a distance and was relieved to see that, as with the Rachel photo, she had to look hard to see the female figure in it. Up close, though, she certainly could see the nude figure, and she could see that it was of her and that it was obviously taken after exhausting, but exhilarating sex. She struggled in her mind. How much was she able to identify this—and her—because she already knew who the subject was and what the circumstances were of the photo shoot?
She had herself half convinced that, other than the name, no one but Grant, Hunter Winslow, and she herself would know who that was.
Was it the only photograph of her on display, though? Knowing what the earlier numbered photos showed, how did she know one of those wasn't on the wall here too?
Cath started walking down the line of art works. She wasn't standing away from them now. She was walking very close to them—and she could clearly see the figures and distinguish them from each other. Her eyes had been trained to pull the sex-satiated nude from the background.
Still, it was a shock when she came to a male nude. Even before she looked at the title, she knew it would say "Grant Afterward #3." She had known every bulge and crease of Grant's nude body. There was no question that this was Grant. Or that the photograph had been taken postcoitally after a full, exhausting sex session.
But with who—and under what circumstance? Winslow certainly hadn't taken any nude shots of Grant laid out on the studio couch while she had been there. Was that why Grant had stayed there that night? Was he still able to look that taken and satisfied for photos shot after Cath had left that night? Or had he had more sex after she left. He hadn't looked this well fucked when he called a taxi for her that day.
She didn't have long to contemplate this, however, as shock was replaced by greater shock when she heard Grant's voice. Here and now, in the art gallery.
She felt she was disguised enough that he wouldn't recognize her, but still, although she drew near to him, she positioned herself behind a column.
He wasn't alone. He had a beautiful redhead clinging to his arm—dressed in a mere slip of a cocktail dress that was clinging even closer to the curvy contours of her body.
"I wanted you to see these before we went out to Fire Island," Cath heard him say.
"Why?" She had an irritating prissy little girl's voice. Cath wouldn't find anything about her that was hard to disdain or hate.
"Don't they make you feel sexy? I want you to feel sexy as we make love on the beach."
"The pictures make me feel sexy? Not really. You know what you have that makes me feel sexy, Grant, baby."
"Approach them closer. Focus your eyes on any edging you see. Let me know what you see."
"Holy moley, sweetie, that's a woman. And boy has she been fucked."
"Bingo. That's the expression I want to see in your face after I've fucked you on the beach, Trudy."
Cath blanched at the answering giggle. She couldn't listen to any more. He was going to take the redhead out to Fire Island, just as he'd taken her. And he was going to fuck her in the nude on the beach. That seemed just fine with this bubblehead. How many other women had he successfully played this line to, Cath wondered. Probably all of those he had photographs on his den wall for. The photos were his trophies. That's all Cath had been to him. A trophy he worked hard to collect. She was happy now that she had made it a bit difficult for him. This redhead obviously was going to lift her skirts for him at the first whistle. The way she clinged to him, they'd probably come directly here form his bed.
Photographs. Cath wondered if there were more of her in his possession. And if so, were they in that beach house out on Fire Island? She had the burning need to know, and although she fought the urge, the next day she was driving out across Long Island and onto Fire Island to check it out. She still had a key to the beach house that she hadn't given back in their sudden parting.
She parked down the street from the house and approached from the side, through the yard of a large house that obviously had been boarded up for the season, and then for only a short distance along the shrubbery fringe of the drive out onto the spit to where the driveways of the two houses forked. She came around the side of the small beach house and looked out onto the sand.
The redhead was up on all fours on the spread beach towels, and Grant was crouched over her hips, fucking her like a dog. They were both nude. Cath slipped into the house and searched it top to bottom, breathing a sigh of relief when she found no evidence of any photographs of nudes, let alone of her.
She walked over to the sliding glass door to take one last, lingering look at Grant fucking the redhead. There was a slight twinge of regret that it wasn't her. But each time she tried to conjure up Grant making love to her, the visage of Hunter Winslow, with his cold, black eyes; sensuous sneer; and hard-muscled, Satyr's thin body swam up from the depths to blot Grant out.
The towels were there, but Grant and the redhead weren't. And as far as Cath could see out into the bay, they weren't in the water either. Boldly, she slid open the glass door and walked out onto the deck. She didn't really give a shit if Grant saw her or not. All of the embarrassment should be on his side, and she'd half enjoy telling the redhead that she was just the latest in a long line of conquests and victims.
She still didn't see anyone in the direction of the beach, but she did hear voices off to her right. She turned her face to see the two nudes, Grant and the redhead, join a third nude, a man, on the deck of the main house. She had no trouble identifying the second man as Hunter Winslow.
Of course, she thought. These are Winslow's houses. When Grant had brought her to the beach house and insisted on going out onto the beach in the nude, it was just to put her on display for Winslow—an audition for her to be one of the subjects of his "Afterward" photo series.
Just as the redhead was in an unknowing audition even now. Or maybe not as unknowing as Cath had been. Maybe Grant had no occasion to call this Trudy bimbo a prude.
It indeed was evident the redhead was auditioning. The three were already in a tableau that Cath knew well herself—Grant on his back on a chaise lounge, the redhead facing him and riding his cock, and Hunter Winslow behind her and between Grant's spread legs, already working his way into her ass.
Cath stood, transfixed. And she remained there in the shadows of the eaves of the beach house, watching what was going on on the deck of the other house, long enough to see the three disengage. And, in a not wholly unexpected variation on Cath's own experience, she watched the redhead sit off to the side as Hunter Winslow grabbed and spread Grant's legs and Grant arched his back, grab
bed at the edges of the lounge with his fists, and yowled to the skies as Hunter thrust his cock into Grant's ass channel and started pumping him hard.
* * * *
Cath was walking out of her shower and toweling herself off when she heard the buzzer from the street door to her small apartment house.
"Yes, who is it?"
"It's Hunter Winslow. Buzz me in. I'm coming up."
"What do you want?"
"You know what I want. You want it too. I could tell that."
Cath's trembling fingers hovered over the connection to the door release.
"Buzz me in. Now."
Her fingers pushed the release. She sighed, wondering if he'd be surprised that she received him in the nude.
Oh, well. Why hide anything? No camouflage needed now. She was a long way from Annapolis now.
The End.
My Favorite Glove Saleslady
Ever since my mother bought me my very own pair of black ladies' kid gloves after she had caught me wearing her kid gloves to pleasure myself with, I have developed a very strong affection for the ladies who work at the "Ladies Glove Counters" in the better department stores. Now I know that I am dating myself, but I go back to a time when every woman had scads of beautiful leather gloves and would never be caught out in public without her gloves.
I was always fascinated by the array of kid leather gloves in all colors, styles, and lengths. I was especially fond of the long white kid leather "debutante" gloves which were the vogue back then and still are today.One of the things that I would enjoy doing when I got a little older and able to get out on my own and had a little spending money, was to shop for gloves. Soon I had myself quite a collection of fine leather gloves. I also enjoyed calling the better department stores and chatting with the ladies who worked the glove counters. I would pretend to be interested in buying a pair of gloves and asked for a great deal of information about the gloves they carried. I was always interested in the longer gloves and wanted to know if they carried the "opera" length gloves. I found that the "opera" length 16 button gloves had the 3 buttons at the wrist. While they were quite fashionable they were more difficult to put on and remove. The longest kid glove without the "3 buttons" was a 12 button glove that came just over the elbow.
Most of the sales ladies were curious but some were on the rude side especially if I told them that the gloves were for myself. One sales lady in particular, her name was Helen, found it rather amusing that a man would be interested in wearing women's gloves. I spoke with her often and she was always very pleasant. As a matter of fact, I felt that we had become friends. I told her that I had very small hands and how my mother had bought me my first pair of kid gloves when I was younger because she caught me wearing her kid gloves to pleasure myself and that I had been wearing them ever since.
I imagine that there were periods when there were very few customers in the store and our conversations helped pass the time of day. I confessed to her how my mother had used me to model dresses that she worked on when she was a seamstress and how that was the beginning of my enjoying womens clothes. I told her that I was now a full fledged cross dresser and that I enjoyed going out in public especially to shop dressed as a woman. She was both curious and fascinated by this.
We discussed leather fashions a lot and I expressed my preference for unlined leather gloves which were now becoming more difficult to find. She agreed that most women seemed to prefer the silk-lined gloves but that she too enjoyed the unlined kid gloves. We agreed that leather skirts were very sexy and that we both loved leather lined boots. I was beginning to think that she too might have a glove and leather fetish as we were becoming very friendly.
Unfortunately, she said, the buyers only stocked the silk lined gloves and that unlined leather gloves would have to be special ordered, perhaps from France, and would be expensive and that such a purchase would have to be paid up front before the order would be placed. I assured her that it would be no problem and proceeded to give her my account number and name to charge the gloves to. I also gave her my "femme" name and my telephone number for her to call me when the gloves came in.
She questioned me in great detail about my cross dressing and what my preferences in clothes were. I told her that I loved the classic lines better and how I needed to feel sensual when I dressed as a woman. She agreed and thought that we had a great deal in common.
Two weeks went by and I did get a phone call from Helen telling me that my gloves were in for me to pick them up. She began to question me again about my cross dressing and admitted that she was greatly fascinated by the idea of a man dressed as a woman and that she would love to meet me as my "femme" self and that maybe we could go out for a drink when I picked up my gloves. She was only working until 6PM and it would be nice if I came in just before that to give me enough time to try on my gloves. I told her that I thought that it was a fabulous idea and made a date to meet her two days later.
When the day came to pick up my gloves, I carefully selected what I was going to wear. Of course all my under-things were black satin. I chose an electric blue satin blouse with short sleeves so I could try on the long gloves that I had ordered. I mated that with a simple black pencil skirt that came just below my knees. I wore my Joan and David black leather boots with a 3" heel that just came over my knees and a soft black lambskin leather walking coat and of course my usual black kid gloves.
She must have been watching for me for as I approached the glove counter she met me and asked if she could be of assistance. I said yes very politely and told her that I had been speaking with Helen and that I had ordered a pair of long black unlined kid gloves. She smiled and said that she was Helen. She checked me out from head to toe and told me that I looked very nice. I of course did the same. She had a sleeveless white turtleneck sweater and a long leather skirt. I had to assume that she would be wearing long leather gloves too. She appeared to be in her mid forties, very trim and very attractive. She must have refreshed her makeup before I got there. Her fresh lipstick begged to be kissed.
I removed my gloves and Helen commented on what beautiful hands I had and on the red nail polish. She placed the gloves that I had purchased on the counter and I began to try them on. She was very helpful in sliding the tight leather on my fingers and up my arm and I could sense that she knew I was getting aroused by this. The gloves fit perfectly and the aroma of new gloves filled my nostrils. I decided to keep the gloves on and I completed the purchase and she retrieved her coat and handbag and we headed out of the store.
On leaving the store she squeezed my gloved hand and I was right. She had also put on a pair of long black kid gloves. We walked through the parking lot hand in hand. When I reached my car, I opened her door and she leaned into me and we just briefly brushed lips. She got in the car and I went around to the driver's side. I put the key in the ignition and before I even started the car she asked me if I would mind if we went straight to her home instead. She held my hand and kissed my finger tips and confessed that she had not made love in a long time and that she was very horny. I said that I understood and then she placed my gloved hand under her leather skirt. I could feel that she had no panties on. She rubbed her pussy with my gloved hand then put two of my fingers in her pussy and began to masturbate moaning all the while. I leaned over and kissed her as I was finger fucking her. She held my face in her gloved hands as she flicked her tongue in my mouth. After a few minutes she pulled my fingers out of her pussy and apologized for getting my new gloves wet with her juices and proceeded to suck my finger clean and wiped them off with a tissue. She looked at me and said, "We need to get home fast"
When we got to her house, we were no sooner inside her house that we began to embrace. I knelt down in front of her and kissed her pussy through her leather skirt then I hoisted it up, spread her legs, and began a slow and rhythmic kissing of her pussy then thrust my tongue and started sucking her clit. She moaned and rocked back and forth. Of course both of us kept our kid leather gloves on
. She reached under my skirt and freed my cock from its satin panties and it came hard instantly. The feeling of her gloved fingers around my cock had me ready to explode. She stopped quickly and led me into the bedroom. She must have been planning this for the covers were pulled off the bed already revealing gorgeous light blue satin sheets. She had me lay down on my back and knelt over me so that she could suck my cock as I continued to lick her pussy. The feeling of her gloves on my cock and on my legs and the aroma of her leather skirt over my face was the greatest sexual feeling that I had ever had. Both of us came off in each other's mouth, she swallowing all my cum and me swallowing all her love juices.
After a brief rest and some drinks and conversation, she showed me her collection of leather gloves skirts and boots. By then I had regained some of my strength and we fucked for the rest of the night without ever taking our gloves off.
The End.
Birthday
Tonight was his birthday. His present was my ass's virginity. I'd prepared it for him, stretched my back entrance with my fingers and toys so as soon as he came home he could have me.
I heard him open the door and call for me. I didn't answer, I wanted him to see me how I was. My ass high up in the air with a large plug in it. Hanging from a ribbon around the 'neck' of the plug was a card saying "Happy Birthday" on it, with a tube of lube close behind me -- I'm sure he'd get the hint.
Forced Quickies Page 110