by Willow Sears
I don’t take long. The camera is in ‘our’ room – that is, the one assigned to us that night of the feast and food fight. I remove my boots but make few other preparations. I sort my tights, which went on in a hurry. After some consideration I decide to make it a commando raid, since I never wear anything under tights to avoid overheating, although I’m conscious of how thin this leaves my defences. There can’t be many other photographers who go into battle so light but I know I’m rushing, both through trepidation and from eagerness not to miss them together. I go silently along the passage to his room in my stocking-ed feet. It seems a little old fashioned for them to retire to the bed chamber to do this deed, but it’s nice for that. Being rock stars they might simply have done it amongst the porcelain in the dining room, or over the baize table in the billiard room. It could have ended up as some kind of sex Cluedo all around this grand house.
I choose after some consideration to not bother knocking, considering it a little gratuitous and a potential mood-killer. Instead I ease the door open and slip inside as quietly as possible. The only light source currently on in the room, a bedside lamp, casts its soft glow across them. Both are already minus their boots. He is bare-chested and has her on the bed. This is a moment he has waited a long, long time for. She is down to her bra and little skirt and they kiss with passion. There is no tentativeness here, no thoughts of pregnant wives slowing their enthusiasm, no way they are going to stop just for me. They do not even acknowledge my arrival. I lurk in the darkened space near the wall, not wanting them to have to notice me.
The room is one of the guest apartments, very spacious and decked out in dark period furniture. If this choice of venue is not very rock and roll at least they have some heavy metal present where they will eventually sleep: a grand bedstead, all thick horizontal and vertical brass tubes, plus a flourish of pointed finials at the higher head end. I perch on a chaise in the shadows away from the bed. I remind myself that I’m a dab hand at this now so there’s no need to tremble quite so much. It’s different this time though, because it’s him. That lovely aroma of his will be in her nostrils now, firing her senses, reassuring her. Those strong arms hold her gently. How many thousands of women have dreamt of being with him in a place like this?
Sindee doesn’t generally do much kissing. She likes to shock her conquests with her no-nonsense lustiness. He gets this pleasure where others do not. What else will she to do to show Cas that he is more to her than that oily-haired muscleman in full sweat-streaked stage make-up that she did in our van at the first festival we played, or the bassist with the malfunctioning vital organ that she so avidly sucked off alongside his friend? Cas must have bedded hundreds of females. Is there any difference in his heart now, or is it just in the number of hormones running through him – the greatest ever quantity of blood speeding to fill his straining cock? A marriage is on the line here and from the look of them both I’d say its fate has already been sealed. I could gather evidence that might cost him millions of dollars, not to mention the emotional cost. But, as ever, recklessness and profligacy will rule the day.
Her bra comes off and immediately his hands are there to take the weight. He loves the fullness of her, that is for sure. He bends to take her into his mouth. There is no tongue-tip teasing of her piercing like I gave her that one time, in this very house. I can see his glistening greedy wetness on her flesh, his lips closing upon her hardened tip. These are the pictures I should take, if I could only concentrate. He wants both her nipples at the same time. He wants all of her, to fill his mouth with her. His hunger unnerves me a little, and makes me wetter still. It keeps me pressed to my seat but I know that no pictures taken from here will come out. You cannot take from darkness into light. I will need to get closer.
They kiss and her skirt comes off. He has romanced her enough. She is left looking irresistible in just those pink netted stockings. I can see the fabric stretched over the curves of her hips and bottom, enough to mark the flesh. She is naked beneath. Unlike my stockings, hers are crotchless. There is no way they would be anything else with Sindee. I get a flash as she moves her legs. It still has my pulse racing, that rude bulge all proud between her thighs, shameless and ready as always. Is there any way I can keep my heavy breaths in check? They will hear me for sure otherwise.
His hand looks huge on her little behind as it grips and dimples the pliant flesh. Imagine the sting it could give her here. He is pulling her in, delving down to try to get his fingers into her wetness from the rear. She has her legs apart either side of him, rubbing her crotch against the bulge in his jeans, offering her breasts up to be sucked again. She gasps out loud, her head snapping back, as his teeth capture one long swollen nipple. She grips his hair and holds him in place as he gorges again. When she fucks him it is going to be wild.
My friend always lets her partners know exactly how much fun she is having. She sounds almost feral sometimes, like passion and rudeness are bubbling out of her. It is her shameless love of carnal pleasure. So many men would wither from the power she exudes in the bedroom, which is why she has to stalk the macho, egotistical world of heavy rock to find her equal. Her ways might not bag her a prince, but they won’t stop her riding everywhere in helicopters and sleeping in chateaux and having the time of her life.
“I want your cock,” she says, sounding insistent. “Give it to me.”
I will never know if she says these things just for my benefit as her audience – her instinct to perform taking over – or if he would get this if they were alone. As it is he doesn’t have to give anything; her fingers are already tugging at the buttons on his fly. His six-pack scrunches as he bends to help get rid of his jeans, then he is there, already half-grown and filling before my eyes. Surely only stars of rock and porn wear nothing under jeans? She gives out a mini cry of victory and takes hold of him. I expected him to have a piercing like Russell but it is unadulterated, although he does have something of the drummer’s size and devilish upward curve. My heart is banging, surely loud enough to give me away. I feel precarious. For the first time I don’t know if I have the means to stop myself being drawn in.
I always love the sight of her hand around a straining erection – she always looks like she knows exactly what to do with it. His is thick and as stiff as a metal rod. She will be able to feel the blood pumping through it. Her eyes are bright with lustful glee as she bends to him.
“I’m going to suck your gorgeous cock,” she says to him. Such information is superfluous. There can’t be a girl he has bedded who hasn’t done the same. But how many of them, I wonder, have had the confidence to tell him of their intentions? It is a little treat for him; you can see it in his face and in the extra swell of his already straining glans. This lack of shame, this confidence, is what sets her apart from me. It is why I’m still here in the shadows and not close in, capturing her full lips opening against just the tip of that bulbous head, to bestow a soft wet kiss that has him sharply drawing in air. God, she is so irresistible, with that gorgeous smooth inked skin and those naughty stockings.
In the past I have idly thought to look for pointers on technique, but she doesn’t seem to treat any man the same. Here it is a light teasing flick and some soft sucks, building his need. She wants to ensure this is as good as he has ever had. She is willing to put her own hunger on the backburner to bring this about. You shouldn’t be able to look so beautiful doing something so rude, but she does. It’s just in the closed eyes, that same angelic look she has when she sleeps. When she finally takes him deep he grunts and pushes his hips upwards. She has more than half of him in her mouth. I’m sure it is the glans that carries the sensitivity and there that the most effective attention should be concentrated, but this sudden deeper immersion must have him longing to be inside her.
I know in the future she will use other tricks. She will keep any icy mouthful of her drink like she did with that Norwegian punk, or keep her red latex glove on and spit all over the shaft like she did to the guitarist
of that thrash outfit somewhere in Eastern Europe. Now, though, it is all about savouring him. She wants this man inside her, possibly all night, and that means some uncustomary patience. The fingers run along him but the grip is light. She takes his balls into her mouth one at a time but her cheeks do not hollow with hard suction. I should be in there to capture the little clear bead of pre-come at his tip.
Then the most beautiful thing I have witnessed between a man and a woman. He is on his knees, side-on to me, his prick glistening from her mouth and desperate for her. She takes up a similar position, easing in and pushing her rear out towards him to teasingly take just his first inch or so inside. Both gasp. Her neck stretches back, right back, her spine arching like a gymnast’s so that she looks up to the ceiling, her dangling hair brushing her stuck-out rump. She is so lithe. He grips her pink locks to hold her like this. I expect him to sink in and fuck her like a beast but instead he leans forward and gives her an upside down kiss: his chin pressed to her top lip; his kiss at her bottom lip; his nose to her chin. The symmetry is wonderful.
I manage at last to do my job. I shuffle on my knees out of the shadows towards the foot of the bed and capture them this way. If Honey ever sees this picture she will know instantly that her marriage is doomed. People who fit this perfectly are destined to be together. I would have them stay like this forever but he frees his grip and she leans forward onto her palms, pushing back with her hips as she does so to take more of him inside. My own puss feels like it has been plugged into the mains so Lord knows how this feels for her – sublime, at the very least. He looks like a wild man, a savage, with his long hair and muscles and rings. He must be aching to unload into her but he shows restraint, pushing forward to open her gently and bury every fraction of his pulsing cock into her gorgeous body. How many times has he longed for this, even when he was inside his wife?
I feel like a cameraman near lions at a watering hole, compelled closer despite the danger. Her eyes stay shut and he doesn’t look at me. On some level he must want my photos to be seen by others. He must want the devastation they would cause. It is surely the ultimate egotism, to want to be pictured as you fuck? My focus is too tight to include faces. I press and hold, taking images in fast sequence, capturing the sinking of his cock inside her, the impact and the judder through the softness of her bum. I zoom closer still, as if being nearer will allow me to feel some of what she does. He reaches forward with both hands to hold her breasts. I aim on this, close enough perhaps to blur and spoil the image, his fingertips crushing her swollen nipples.
I think this might be where he loses it and goes at her. He is hunched over her now and wearing something of a sex face, with lip curled in an arrogant sneer. I think he might not be able to hold back the beast but he stoically keeps to the same rhythm and force. Just for that one moment I’m not sure if it is her in control as usual, or him. As he straightens up, perhaps readying to pound her, she regains the initiative by leaning back into him, still impaled. He reaches around and uses a thumb and forefinger to hold and pinch the swell of her outer lips, trapping her little clitty. He likes to squeeze, grip and pinch. She cries out and I see the tremor run through her. I press the button. This would be the photo a blackmailer would use.
Then he sees me. I’m surprised because he must have known I was there. It isn’t possible that he didn’t and yet he looks suddenly annoyed to find me on my knees, only three feet from the end of their bed. They must surely have only been playing as if I was invisible – I know they have talked about me being here. Sindee told me to come! My heart bangs even faster. It’s like I need to give my excuses but I’m not going to because I’m stunned to silence. He reaches out, his hand casting a shadow over the brass rail at the end of the bed.
“Gimme that,” he says, firmly. I make to shuffle forward but he stops me. “Stay exactly where you are and gimme that fucking camera.”
I have to lean forward, arms out, one hand holding the offending camera, the other grasping the cold thick horizontal top bar of the bed frame to prevent me from spilling face first into it. He takes the camera, allowing me to grip the rail with both hands and get my balance, but then simply drops it onto the bed. In the same movement he leans forward and closes his hands over mine to keep me held there. His face looms near and I get that warming scent of his, but the expression is still a frown, like I have betrayed him. He turns his head slightly, to speak over his shoulder.
“Gimme your stockings, baby,” he tells Sindee. She does as he asks without question, stripping them off quickly and then getting on her knees to hang them in front of his face. He takes them in one hand, his other still partially trapping me. However, this does leave me with one free hand to either try to prise him clear or deal out a mighty medal-winning punch to the jaw. I do neither. I continue to grip the rail with white knuckles, even though I already have slight inklings about what is to happen. No drug could have my heart thudding harder. I don’t try to stop it happening. I silently and obediently stay still as he winds the nylon around the rail and my wrists in turn, doing figure of eight loops to make sure the binding holds fast. He ties a final couple of bows. I make the most cursory of efforts to pull free and it just seems to tighten the material around my wrists. In the back of my mind, however, it has already registered that it wouldn’t take much wriggling to work it loose. He rises up onto his knees, his cock still fully erect and pointing in my direction. As he dismounts the full implications are hitting me.
He goes into the shadows behind me and I hear his weight going onto the floor as he kneels down. I look to Sindee. I don’t know what my expression is. By choice I would want it to be like Raven Girl’s that night in the maze: defiant and challenging and yet somehow acceptant too. I think I’m a little too nervous for that. My friend’s is simple to ascertain. She is gleeful. She makes no effort to come to my aid. Instead, what she does is take up a position on her back with her head propped on the pillows so she can see it all. Then she opens her legs wide and starts to stroke her pussy.
Thick fingers are at my waist, pulling buttons and zips open to free my shorts, which slide down the nylon of my stockings to land around my knees. If I’d worn hosiery like Sindee’s I would be wide open to him now. Those same fingers start off with pinches at my stuck-out rear, just little nips here and there, some a little more spiteful than others although I cannot differentiate between pain and a pleasant tingle. It is making my bottom feel expectant. And then it comes, without warning. The noise is perhaps more shocking than the impact – a loud slap that sounds far harder than it felt. Perhaps it was just the surprise of this that made me emit my little squeal.
I feel my cheek wobbling, which must be a sight. The contact is hard to define. It is pain, surely? Slap you anywhere else and the sensors in your skin would tell you immediately that it hurt. But this has a pronounced tingle to it, one that spreads across the surface and makes you gasp. It is – I cannot think of another description for it – pleasant. Like shivers in a hot bath on a really cold day. Then the smart comes back, as if the sensors under the impact zone were shocked senseless but are now re-gathering, seething from the affront. It is this bit that hurts, like sunburn does.
Then the next slap lands and the whole process repeats, with no dulling of the senses. The impact sends the tingle right through you, right to your sex. It makes you whimper and writhe. The delayed growing burn makes you panic and tremble. As more slaps land I wriggle wildly. The red burn builds, never abating except for in those few golden fractions when the next impact lands and converts the sear to a delicious white sizzle. You don’t want more but the slaps are the only things stopping the burn, so you long for the next. God knows how I will see it through when he is done.
Humiliation only adds to my quiver. Not just being prone with my rudest places stuck out at him and at his mercy, but because I know my puss is as wet as can be; enough to soak my stockings. My saving grace is that at least I am not naked there, although I still cannot help feeling like a desper
ate harlot. It is like your bum is specifically designed for this uniquely pleasurable torture, to make it bring tears to your eyes and yet have you yearning, almost begging out loud, for more. Then it only gets worse. I feel his fingers lingering at my behind. He has been a silent assassin up to now but then he chooses to taunt me.
“You really do fucking want it, don’t you?” he says in low tones. He has long nails on a couple of his fingers to help him play his acoustic guitar. I register their prod into my flesh and I realise with increased panic that he is trying to rent the nylon of my stockings. The ripping sound and the cool against my skin confirm that he has been successful. He tears the material and it splits apart like skin on a bursting fruit to expose the whole round of my naked arse. Why the hell did I decide against knickers? I can feel the press of him against me, his cock like a hot dog between my cheeks. I feel the wet of that pre-come droplet smearing my thigh. I think he is going to plunge it into me, just hold me fast and fuck me hard. I am wet enough. My eyes screw shut and I take a deep breath.
Instead another slap lands and this time I cry out loud, the jolt of it felt right in my clit. More follow in quick succession, easing the burn which is now almost too much to bear. My skin there will be shamefully red and feels like it is constricting, cowering from the smacks. Without the material there to help hold them, both cheeks will be wobbling even more: juddering and jiggling and coming apart to give the rudest glimpses possible. The unease in my belly is like sickness, gathering through panic and stinging pain. I can barely separate the red spite from the white bliss on my skin now; barely discern which bit I want more of and which bit is way, way too much. Then I break and for a while it just seems calming, the receptors refusing to feel another sting, the heat so great it converts in my mind to coolness. It is like being soothed in rapture. It is almost enough to make me climax.