by Sofia Connor
Her eyes closed and she drifted off into a totally spent sleep, only vaguely wondering when the painting of her body part would come in. For all she knew or cared, that had already happened. If not, was there to be another round of sex after the painting? Feeling the shame, but dismissing it, she found she hoped there was another round to come.
* * * *
It had been two weeks since she'd last seen Grant—at the photo shoot in Hunter Winslow's studio. Somehow, as she had feared, after having been so fully taken by Winslow, she couldn't feel the same way about Grant again, not the least because he had sent her home in a taxi and stayed on at the studio with the photo artist, no doubt to share in the pleasure of the development of the photos of her. But eventually she became antsy for attention, and when Grant called, she agreed to go out with him. It was only after she'd rung off from that conversation that she realized that Grant hadn't been pestering her for dates and attention either. This was quite unlike him. Before the studio photo shoot, he'd called her at least once a day.
Perhaps, she thought, the little orgy they'd fallen into had given both of them pause for thought.
When she did see Grant again then, she knew it would be the last time.
They had gone on a boat cruise from the tip of Manhattan. Being somewhat new to the city, Cath had never seen the city scape from the water, so Grant took her on the Midtown cruise. Then it was back to his apartment, where they both were to shower and change, make a little love, eat dinner, and then make some more love. It had been the routine they'd fallen into prior to the Hunter Winslow photo shoot.
But this time the date ended during Grant's shower. While he was checking on the makings for their dinner, Cath toured his apartment and found a room she'd never seen before—his very private study. Prominently displayed on his wall was the postcoital photograph of Cath at Hunter Winslow's studio just two weeks earlier. Her body wasn't the least bit camouflaged in this photograph.
When the shock of seeing herself vulnerable and nude and spread like that—even though knowing that photographs had been taken—wore off, Cath moved in closer to the photo. It was titled "Cath Afterward #2."
So this was why the title of the photo she'd seen in the gallery was marked number three—because two copies without the camouflage painting existed beforehand. She had no idea how Grant had gotten hold of this copy, which exposed her in very recognizable form for all of the world to see—unless, of course, if Hunter Winslow had given it to Grant.
"It's lovely, isn't it?"
Cath turned toward Grant. He was nude, ready to go into the shower. He was half hard, and his voice was thick with lust. "Every time I see that, I want to take you again."
"This isn't the photo I agreed to, Grant. What happened to the body paint camouflage? You said no one would even know it was me."
"Oh, there's such a photo. That's probably already hanging in the gallery. As he told you at the end of our session, Hunter photoshops the colors in on that one—the number three version."
"Hanging in the gallery? You said it would be hanging here, just for you to see."
"I was talking about this version, not the camouflage one."
"And how did you get this version? He didn't say anything about producing any copies that hadn't been photoshopped. Who has number one? And is it the same as this—as explicit as this? Baldly me? Showing everything, including how I looked naked after . . . after . . . being taken like that. By both of you."
Grant just gave her a lopsided grin—and Cath realized she didn't have to be told who had the number one photo—or how explicitly it was of her after sex.
"Just seeing it and you together has me horny," Grant said.
Cath didn't have to be told that either. He was at full staff now.
"Come, shower with me." He was holding a hand out to her.
"A few minutes. Give me a few minutes. Go ahead a start without me."
When Cath heard the shower running, she reached up and took the photograph off the wall and walked out of the apartment. It was merely symbolic, she knew. It was a photograph. Grant would just get a replacement if he wanted one. And the thought of that made her see the inside of Grant's den again in her mind. She hadn't focused on what she'd seen before. The very first thing she'd seen when she went into the room was the photograph of herself, and she'd walked directly to that. Now that she was removed from the room, though, she realized that that wasn't the only photograph she'd seen on his den walls. There were others, several others. All of people in the same pose as she had been in—and not just women; men as well.
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, grabbed 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.
Sounds In Sync
Chapter 1
My husband, Jeffery, died four years ago. It was peaceful for him, it seemed, though, with three sons, all teens, it was my life's hardest challenge. One good thing was he left us well covered financially. It's the emotional coverage that has been lacking and there was nothing he could do about that.
So, you cope.
Our two oldest boys are in college and there's only Neil, the youngest, eighteen and a senior in high school, left at home. While, of course, I miss my two older boys, Neil is a good student, never any trouble, and nice to have around.
The emotional vacuum left by Jeff's passing, has not been filled in any measure by anyone new and I've been left, like many single women, I suppose, to deal with matters as best I can.
For the first time since I was in college, I've now got a few vibrators and a dildo that provide me some sexual relief though never a good substitute for the real thing attached to a caring and attentive man.
So, my sex was strictly solo and, well, it's all I had.
I mostly tried to take care of my sexual needs when Neil wasn't around as I do like to enjoy my masturbating as much as I can and, well, sometimes, I get a bit spirited and vocal. But finding just the right time isn't always possible so, one night, I'd gone to bed and was using the dildo, I often forgo the vibrators when Neil is home, and I was in just the right mood for the feelings to be much better than usual.
So, I suppose I was a little louder than normal when I began hearing sounds from his end of the hallway. Of course my door was closed, his usually is as well but, after all, the rooms in the house are connected by heating ducts so I suppose that might be how I heard him.
There was little doubt of what I was hearing, my son was obviously masturbating as was his mother down the hall from him, masturbating as well.
Knowing Neil was doing the same, I tried to hold down my orgasm but, well, maybe there was a bit of extra eroticism in us doing it together in time if not space, and I was a little louder than I'd intended.
About a minute after I'd orgasmed, Neil, quite obviously, had a roaring orgasm himself that could not be mistaken for anything but. I lay there, part of me rather turned-on by it all, part of me rather wanting to put the whole thing out of my mind and fall asleep.
At breakfast the next morning, it was a Saturday, I fixed him bacon and eggs, the usual weekend fare he likes, and when I sat down with him while he ate, he said, quietly, "I really enjoyed last night, Mom, you know, when we were both, um, you know, getting off."
I felt my fac
e warm and I just sipped some more of my coffee not knowing how to respond or even if I should.
When I didn't reply, he added, "I really thought it was cool to hear you cum when you did, I'm glad you have some enjoyment, you're still too young not to."
I just sat there, really at a loss, when he went on, "When I heard you, it just made me so hard, well, that I just had to do it myself."
I finally said, "Um, I did hear you as well, at the end, especially."
"We could do it together, Mom, it was really pretty cool last night, might even be better that way, doing it together. I've heard you before and, well, it's always been pretty hot listening to you. When I do, it helps me get off and, well, I would't mind if you saw me doing it."
I simply had no words that would come out of my mouth as he added, "I'll bet we would both be happier doing it together."
I soon left the kitchen, still unable to voice anything about his suggestion. But, it did not leave my thoughts, especially when I masturbated later that night. There were images of Neil, naked, stroking his penis as I lay opposite him, legs splayed, fingering deeply, both of us looking at each other as our passion erupted in unison. I tried to shake these thoughts away but they kept coming back unbidden.
Then, several days later, he returned to the subject as we were finishing supper.
"Have you thought about my idea, Mom, that we get ourselves off together?"
If I'm being honest, as soon as he said it, there was a feeling between my legs. I am human, after all, and some things happen whether you want them to or not.
"Honestly, Neil, I haven't, it just seems, well, improper for a mother and son to do something like that."
"We both have needs and desires, Mom, they're natural, you taught me that yourself."
"Yes, I know, but...well somethings are private."
"Okay but answer me this: Does the idea turn you on some? Be honest."