While My Wife's Away

by James Lear

  ‘Just hold it there. Stay exactly like that.’ Pete moved around, above, below, both sides, then crouching between my legs, tweaking the focus, concentrating while my cock lay pulsing on my stomach. Pre-come was oozing out of the hole. ‘That is a seriously nice dick.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Hold it up. Push it toward me.’

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘Yeah. Perfect.’ He carried on shooting. ‘Show it off for me. Nice.’ He moved behind the sofa, looking over my shoulder. ‘Now let’s get your point of view. Wow. That’s great.’ I let my head loll back toward him, resting against his shoulder. I wanted contact. He glanced at me, caught my eye, and smiled. He put the camera on my chest, his arms around me from behind, so I could see the display. There was my cock, rock-hard and looking huge. ‘Not bad, eh?’ said Pete. I could only moan in reply. He let one hand rest on my chest, stroking me gently. I shuddered.

  Now, I guess some men would have taken advantage of the situation, set the camera aside, and joined me on the sofa. Pete was nobody’s idea of a sexy man, but I didn’t care—if he’d suggested we go to bed, I’d have raced him upstairs. But for now, he restricted himself to a few light touches and a pinch of the nipple that almost made me shoot before standing up again. I glanced at the front of his trousers; he was obviously hard. How could he control himself?

  ‘Stand up and take everything off, please.’ He was business-like again. When I stood, pre-come hung off my cock in long silvery threads. Pete reacted quickly. ‘Hold on, let’s just get that.’ Click click click, just before it dripped to the floor. ‘Perfect.’ He scrutinized the screen. ‘In focus too, how about that. Let’s go to the bathroom. I’d like to see what you look like wet.’

  I stood in the middle of the room, my cock sticking straight out in front of me, and I thought that if I didn’t come soon, I would go crazy.

  ‘Hey! Come on.’ Pete put a hand on my upper arm and steered me. ‘Let’s get you under the shower.’

  I followed right behind him. The bathroom was tiled in slate walls and floor with a walk-in shower. He switched on the taps, and while we waited for the water to get hot, he took more pictures.

  ‘So, Jack, you’re straight, right?’

  ‘I don’t really know. Bi, I guess.’ Was this me speaking?

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I mean, I’m married to a woman. I have kids.’ Why was I telling him this?

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘But recently I’ve . . . well, I’ve been thinking . . . ’

  ‘Most of the men who model for me are straight. You’re in good company.’

  ‘Right.’ How could this be? Was I just one of millions? ‘And do they . . . you know?’ I touched my cock.

  ‘Get hard? Of course they do. What man wouldn’t?’

  ‘Right.’ I wanted to ask if anything happens.

  ‘OK, here you go. Should be nice and warm. Step in.’

  The water felt good on my shoulders, streaming over my chest and stomach, flattening my pubic hair, and parting around my hard cock.

  ‘Use some soap.’

  There was expensive-looking shower gel on the shelf. I washed while Pete watched and clicked. I lathered up my head and face, under my arms, my torso, around my cock.

  ‘Turn round. Let me see your arse.’

  I did as I was told. I took a blob of shower gel and worked it between my buttocks.

  ‘That’s it. Nice. Show me.’

  I pushed my arse toward him, soaping and stroking, rubbing my finger over my hole. What the fuck was I doing?

  ‘Hold it open for me. Hands on your cheeks.’

  I spread my arse, exposing myself in a way I had never done before. These were the shots I’d been dreaming of—the images I could never capture myself.

  ‘Bend over a bit, push it out. Now reach round and press your cock back between your legs. Let me see how hard you are.’

  This meant bending over even further, so my arse was totally spread, the water hammering down on my back. He carried on shooting.

  ‘Right, that’s it. My lens is starting to steam up. Here’s a towel. Let’s take a short break while you dry yourself.’

  I rubbed my head, dried my back and my legs. Pete sat on a stool watching.

  ‘Now, how far do you want to go?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you want come shots?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’ I was desperate to come, and the idea of him photographing me while I did was intensely exciting.

  ‘Do you want any pictures of me touching you?’

  My cock jumped. I tried to keep my voice calm. ‘Yeah, we could do that,’ I said, as if it had just occurred to me. ‘If you like.’

  ‘Come on then. Back into the studio.’

  ‘You can touch me now if you want.’ I was still drying myself.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I stood close to him, my cock sticking out, wet again. Pete took it in one hand and squeezed. My knees buckled.

  ‘That’s very hard.’

  ‘Yeah.’ That seemed to be the only syllable I could manage. He wanked me gently, lightly.

  ‘Let’s go next door and photograph this. I don’t want to miss it.’ He felt my balls, which were very tight. ‘You’re close, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Take your time. Come on.’ Holding my cock, he led me back to the sofa. ‘Just sit back and relax. Legs wide open. Do you want to watch some porn? I’ve got straight stuff if you . . . ’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He smiled. ‘This hot enough for you?’

  ‘More than. I’ve been close to coming ever since I walked through the front door.’

  ‘Really?’ He was taking pictures again, each click of the shutter taking me one step closer to orgasm. Finally, he knelt between my feet. ‘Now, this is going to be tricky, but we’ll manage. Let me just get the focus right. There.’ Holding and operating the camera with one hand, he took hold of my cock and started to wank me. ‘Tell me when you’re close.’

  I closed my eyes and thought of Michael sucking me, hoping that it would happen again. This might be my last chance to feel that. After today, this had to stop.

  The gentle movement of his hand continued, and I knew the end was close. ‘Now,’ I said.

  He fiddled with a button and the camera’s clicking became continuous. ‘Go for it.’ I needed no encouragement. Spunk shot out of my cock, the first load landing on my stomach, the second going somewhere over my right shoulder onto the green velvet. Everything was focused on the moment, a single bright spot around which all else was indistinct and unimportant. It was about me, my naked body, my cock, giving myself to the camera, to anyone out there who might see the pictures—and at that moment I wanted everyone to see them—and to the man behind the camera, Pete, holding me, controlling me, owning me.

  The shooting stopped, and I realized I’d been making a lot of noise. In the silence that followed, Pete took a few more pictures. But he knew exactly when to stop. The euphoria of giving myself away was ebbing, swiftly replaced by a new tide of remorse. What the fuck had I done? I’ve had sex with a man, his hand on my cock making me come, and I allowed him to take photographs. Everyone will see them. My life is over.

  Pete handed me a box of tissues.

  ‘Do you want a shower?’

  ‘No.’ I wiped the spunk off my belly and chest, and struggled into my pants and socks, desperate to get out of there as soon as possible.

  ‘You missed a bit.’ I glanced up; he was smiling, pointing toward my neck. ‘Just there.’

  ‘Oh.’ My voice was gruff; I cleared my throat. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ll let you get dressed.’ And with that he left the room, taking his camera with him. If he’d left it, I would have ripped out the memory card and snapped it in half. It took me less than a minute to dress. He must have been peeping through the door, because he came back in just as I was tying my shoelaces.

  ‘H
ow are you feeling?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, fine.’

  ‘I know a lot of guys feel a bit weird after their first shoot.’

  First shoot? He thinks there are going to be more?

  ‘No really, I’m absolutely fine.’ I tried to sound normal. What’s so strange about nipping out of the office at lunchtime, going to a total stranger’s house, stripping off your clothes, modeling for pornographic photographs that could wreck your marriage, letting him toss you off, and then just going back to work as if nothing had happened?

  ‘So,’ said Pete, in the kind of voice you might use with a hysterical child or a vicious dog, ‘I hope you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Yeah, like I said, it was fine.’

  He nodded. ‘What would you like me to do with the photographs?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want me to send them to you?’

  ‘Oh. Right. OK.’

  ‘If you give me a direct email address I can . . . ’

  ‘Sure. I’ll send it to you when I get back to the office.’ One of my laces had knotted itself. I felt like screaming. Fuck it, I just wanted to get out. Pete said nothing. I put my coat on. ‘OK. Well, thanks.’ I was on the landing, on the stairs, heading for the door.

  ‘Hang on!’

  I looked up. He was on the landing, something shiny in his hand. ‘Your watch.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fuck, that was close. Angie gave me that watch. I could just hear her: ‘How did you lose it, Joe? Where did you leave it?’ Pete said, ‘Cheers.’

  ‘You’d be surprised at the things people leave behind. Phones, watches, even wallets.’

  I took the watch, shoved it in my pocket, and left. When I looked back, he was standing at the door, the camera still round his neck, waving.

  Of course I didn’t send him my personal email address. All he had was the anonymous, computer-generated address from Craigslist, and all I had to do was delete the Hotmail account I’d used, and that was that. All traces gone. He could never find me. Yes, he could post the photos if he wanted, but I knew where he lived, and if he caused trouble, I could go round to his house and . . . well, he was an older man, not in particularly good shape. It was surely not worth his while, unless he was making a fortune out of selling the pictures—or engaging in blackmail. Was that his game? Luring horny married men into his so-called studio, seducing them, then the discreetly veiled demands for money, the escalating amounts, the threats . . . well, that was something to consider during the next few sleepless nights in my daughter’s bed. Another worry to add to the growing list.

  I was back at my desk a little after two. First things first: delete that email account. It was heavily password-protected, nobody could possibly access it, but you never know what’s out there in the ether. I logged in for the last time: one new email. Of course—he’d wasted no time. ‘Great to meet you, Jack. Here’s a couple of shots that really stood out for me. Will send the rest . . . ’

  ‘Hey, Joe.’

  Jesus. I shut the screen down. My boss.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Can you just nip into my office when you get a second?’

  Oh God, here we go. The photos have been sent to her. She’s going to ask me to clear my desk. And we thought it only right to tell your wife and your parents.

  ‘Sure.’

  My palms were sweating. Guilt is a horrible, powerful thing, as powerful as lust.

  ‘I need to go over the diary for next week.’

  Oh thank God, thank Christ, thank you, thank you, nothing has happened, I want to be sick, I want to cry but I mustn’t, I can still feel the slight ache in my balls from an intense orgasm, I can feel the pull on my body hair from dried spunk, and just down the road there’s a man with the power to destroy me, a man who wanked me off and who, for a few mad moments, I almost felt I loved, and now life goes on, we check our diaries, we set up meetings, we pretend that everything is just fine.

  And it will be fine. It has to be fine. What happened today will never happen again. I’ll delete that email account as soon as I can, and I won’t look at the photos; everything will be wiped clean.

  The diary session turned into a team meeting, and then I was called away to deal with something else, and by the time I got back to my desk, it was five o’clock, and guilt was giving way to curiosity.

  What were the photos like?

  3

  NOTHING HAPPENED. PETE SENT THE PHOTOS—OF COURSE I DIDN’T quite get round to deleting that email account; it just sat there until I was horny enough to open it up again—and they were good, far better than I could ever have imagined. One look at them was enough to bring it all back, the intoxicating moment when I first exposed myself, the rush of confused feelings as he made me come. The remorse and shame soon faded into memory, popping out in the dead of night but quickly ignored when my dick got stiff, which was most of the time.

  I may have told myself ‘never again.’ I may even have believed it for the odd ten or twenty minutes, but I knew perfectly well that it was only a matter of time before I succumbed again. Craigslist was always out there, a huge beast with millions of tentacles reaching out to grab me. I took to checking it every morning on the train, just for a laugh I told myself, to see what craziness was going on in the houses and flats that I passed on my journey to work, to see how many straight and married men were doing exactly what I had done. Most of Pete’s models were straight, he told me, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking hold of my dick, confident that I wouldn’t push him away or beat him up. He knew, as thousands of other men on Craigslist knew, that I was there because I wanted it, and his job was to take control, to give me what I could never ask for with words.

  In hindsight and with a few weeks’ distance, my encounter with Pete was one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to me. It wasn’t so much the end result, the photos, as the process of giving myself to a man, making myself vulnerable, an object to be directed and controlled. I couldn’t forget the feeling of total surrender at the point of orgasm. I wanted to be taken, owned. I suppose it’s how women feel when they’re with a man—it’s what I used to give Angie, I guess, that feeling of powerlessness, of being dominated. My cock was rock-hard in Pete’s hand, but whenever I thought of that moment, it was my arse that seemed to respond. I wanted to be touched there, to be penetrated.

  The thought obsessed me. I tried it myself, because like most men, I am not averse to the odd finger up my bum when it feels right. The sensation is good, and I’ve gone so far as to look at sex toys on the Internet. But what you do to yourself is not the same as what others do to you.

  With this in mind, I started looking for appropriate web content that I could stream to my phone, with the sound muted of course, during my bathroom wanks. I quickly learned the keywords: sub, dom, BDSM, DILF, and so forth. I realized quickly that I was not interested in pain, but rather in submission. If I wanted to be spanked, it would only be in order to get over a man’s knee and show him who’s boss. If it came to bondage, I didn’t want to be genuinely powerless or in danger; I just wanted to know what it felt like. As for arse-play, I thought I could manage a finger or two, or maybe one of the sci-fi-looking gizmos called prostate massagers, but probably not a cock—not the size of the ones in porn, at least— and certainly nothing bigger. Some of these guys were taking huge dicks, even two huge dicks, and massive dildos the size of beer cans, even entire hands.

  At that point in my speculations, I usually came, and I thought nothing more about it until the next time.

  Then the dreams began. At first they were easy to dismiss as the kind of dreams we all have about leaving the house improperly dressed, being naked on the bus or whatever, something to laugh about. But they didn’t stop there. They became more focused. I was naked with a group of men or with one man, being looked at, admired, touched and caressed. Hands were on my cock, like Pete’s hand or Michael’s hand. Hands were on my arse, stroking the cheeks, pulling them o
pen, touching the hole, and going inside it.

  The images stayed with me all day long. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I felt as if I was living in some kind of double exposure, with everyday reality overlaid by the vivid but intangible pictures of my dreams. Sometimes I could hardly talk to people, so real were the imaginary sensations. Even Angie noticed, and we had already been hardly communicating at the best of times, speaking only to exchange important information about the children or the running of the house. The boiler needed fixing, for instance. Angie’s elderly aunt was in the hospital. There was a big family wedding coming up in the summer at which we should present a united front; there was accommodation to be booked and presents to be bought.

  One morning at breakfast, she said, ‘Are you OK, Joe?’ and when I looked up from my toast, I saw real concern in her eyes.

  ‘Fine. Fine. Just not sleeping very well.’

  ‘Oh.’ That of course raised the subject of our separate bedrooms. Perhaps Angie was ready for reconciliation. I’d done my time in exile. If only she knew that I was farther from her than ever. ‘OK.’ She got up and started clearing plates and cups. ‘What time will you be home tonight?’

  ‘Usual.’

  ‘Can you pick Alex up from band practice?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  That was it. No reconciliation, no renewed tenderness. Was I disappointed? No. The truth is that I was relieved, even excited. I could explore further, as if she had given me permission. And on the train into work, after first making sure that nobody could read over my shoulder, I opened Craigslist again. The usual nutters were there doing things that were either disgusting or physically impossible. And then this:

  Dom top, 35, seeks masculine sub for fun sessions. Nothing too heavy. Please be fit, sane, DDF.