here's one i put together one weekend. i have more ideas for Mrs Jizm - it depends on if youz like her and want more. GA - Gatwick Airport - Nov 2011
THE WOMAN PEERED at me over the top of her glasses. The spectacles and frown were a surprise; I didn't expect a glamour model, albeit a lady in her early forties, to look like a schoolteacher. That was the first impression. It was to prove an inaccurate assumption. Surprised by her severe expression, stepping backwards, I almost fell off the raised doorstep. To my relief she laughed, which softened the fierce look she'd worn when the door had first opened at my knock.
"Simon?" she asked in an indeterminate Home Counties accent. "You're Simon -- right?"
Nodding, I recovered my composure, shifted the camera bag on my shoulder and confirmed my name. The woman grinned at me and the door opened wider. Now that I could see her properly I revised my earlier estimation. I could tell she was an intelligent lady as her green eyes regarded me from behind the lenses of her glasses. Her pretty face, with only faint brush strokes of time at the corners of the eyes and edges of her mouth, was high-cheekboned, subtly made-up and framed by straight, honey-blonde hair. A flower-patterned summer dress hemmed just above the knees couldn't quite hide the rich, voluptuous figure. She was exactly to my taste. My cock thickened with anticipation. Even though the woman standing in the front door of her home appeared the epitome of middle-class respectability, I knew what she did to earn extra cash.
"Mrs ... Erm ... I mean ..." I bumbled, blushing despite being senior in years.
The woman laughed again. "Chisholm," she enlightened me. "But there's no need to be so formal. You can't call me Mrs Chisholm when I'm getting my clothes off for you. Call me Robyn."
She stepped back and gestured for me to enter. Moving into the modest, semi-detached house I blinked at her forthright manner as, with an inward grimace of chagrin, I gave silent thanks that I hadn't blurted out what I'd thought her name was. Over the phone, making the booking, I thought she'd said Jizm, that her name was Mrs Jizm. As a modelling nom de guerre it was a weird one, but as the weeks and months that followed passed, it was an appellation that Robyn Chisholm would adopt -- and it would be very appropriate.
With me being so obviously nervous Robyn suggested a drink and a chat. We stood in the kitchen while waiting for the kettle to boil.
"What kind of photos do you want?" she asked. "I'm OK to do glamour," she added when I failed to answer, "but I don't do porn." I assured her that basic glamour would be fine. We sipped our coffee on opposite sides of the kitchen. Again surprising me with her candour Robyn explained what she was about. "I've been modelling semi-professional for years," she said. "My family know about it, my mum and dad, and some of my friends, which is why I don't do hard core."
She told me about her workaday life, enlightening me about two kids a cat and a divorce. The details of the divorce didn't come out, I wasn't sure if he'd left or been chucked out, and I wasn't really concerned, my main objective was to get her out of her clothes; I wanted to see her big tits. Her being over forty wasn't an issue. She was delectable; well-stacked and attractive; the kind of woman I'd follow down a few supermarket aisles ... If I had a propensity towards weird, stalker behaviour that is.
Pushing chauvinistic and carnal fantasies about Robyn out of my head I sipped coffee and tried to concentrate, to behave in a calm and professional manner. Robyn was a model and I was the photographer. We had a business arrangement.
"Don't worry," Robyn soothed, noticing my continued agitation. "Think of it us as two friends together. The only thing is I'm getting my kit off. In fact," she added, smiling, "you can look at it as doing me a favour. I could do with some more recent pictures. If you don't mind ... If I could have a copy of them ...?"
I wasn't going to refuse Robyn anything. "Sure," I agreed breezily, feigning nonchalance. "No problem." Then, blushing again and with shaking hands I handed over Robyn's fee.
She casually put the money down on the kitchen work top. "So, how do you want me?" I saw her grin at my nervousness. "It's OK, remember, we're just two friends. Come on," she then ordered brightly, taking control. "Come upstairs and we can choose an outfit together." I followed her swaying backside to her bedroom. Robyn pointed to a mirror-fronted built-in wardrobe. "There's all kinds of stuff in there. Sexy secretary, dirty schoolgirl, corsets, stockings, leather," she listed, "all the old favourites."
"I ... I'm really not sure, Robyn. Sorry"
Mrs Chisholm looked at me. "Where's the camera," she asked.
"On the kitchen side," I replied, feeling foolish.
She sighed. Looking at me with a mock sternness, she said, "Go and get it.
Chastened I hurried downstairs. I was tempted to grab the camera and leave. Just get into the car and drive off the innocuous home-counties housing estate, leaving Mrs Chisholm and her big tits at home.
Looking back, I'm so pleased I decided to stay.
Returning to the bedroom I found Robyn reclining on the quilt. "Come on," she instructed, "start taking some photos. I'll do the posing." She grinned at me, lying on her side fully clothed, elbow against the bed with her cheek resting on her clenched fist and one knee raised.
After fiddling with the camera and eyeing the expanse of thigh Robyn's position revealed, I took a shot. She moved the moment the flash fired. This time, sitting upright, arms stretched behind her with her hands supporting her weight, Robyn thrust her chest forward. Gulping at the sight of her bosom straining against the flimsy cotton dress I took another picture while she smiled professionally.
Robyn moved again, rolling onto her knees and ruching the dress up over her hips. She pushed her backside towards my lens after settling her hands on top of the bed.
I stared for a few moments before muttering, "Fucking hell ..."
"Just take the picture," Robyn smirked. "You can drool and wank later."
About that she was right. That's exactly what I planned to do; it was why I was there; my plan involved taking photographs of this sexy, voluptuous woman and then, in the privacy of my flat, masturbating over the images. Steadying my hand, trying not to blur the photo with my trembling, I pressed the button. The camera's innards whirred and instantly Robyn was rolling into the next position.
She lay on her side, with the dress bunched around her waist and her thighs wide apart. The thong she wore bit into the cleft of her vulva. "Tell me," she asked quietly. "Do you like that? How do you feel looking at me while I show you everything?"
"It's ... I ... Uh ... I like it," I finished eventually.
"I like posing for amateurs," Robyn confided, still with her legs wide. "Professionals are too cold and clinical. They're more concerned with the light and the background and the look; they're not bothered about the model. Amateurs are more ... personal."
I took the picture and swallowed nervously. Almost before the flash had dimmed she'd hooked her underwear to one side. Her exposed sex held me hypnotised for a long moment. Robyn's slit was crowned by a tiny triangle of fluff; the labia, oddly compelling in their contradictory ugliness hung loose, pouting thick-lipped and drooping and drawing my gaze.
I could swear I saw a glistening of arousal.
"Shit," I muttered, unaware that I'd spoken until Robyn responded.
"Yes, you do like it. Me too, it's more personal, I love it when a man shows a bit of feeling, I love to see the way a man looks at me when I'm doing this -- all hungry and ... desperate."
Desperate was the word. That's how I felt exactly. A leaden desire settled in my stomach; I wanted to take out my cock, which was thick and hard by now, and just tug at it and stare at Robyn's body. What would it feel like to delve into that juicy-looking cunt?
"Oh fuck, Robyn. I ... Can I ... I mean ... Would you let me ...?"
"No, no, no," Robyn wagged a finger at me, "none of that. You take the pictures. That's all."
Fighting down the compulsion to launch myself at the woman -- I didn't fancy being hauled off by the police -- I lifted the camera to my eye, steadied myself as best as I could, and recorded the image of Robyn and her ungainly labia for posterity.
A couple more photos and then Robyn knelt upright. She lifted the dress over her head and posed in her underwear and shoes.
"Come on," she instructed. "Downstairs. On the settee, take some of me lounging on the sofa."
"Anything, Robyn," I babbled.
She laughed as she stepped carefully down the stairs in her heels. "I like you," she grinned over her shoulder. "You're welcome to come back and take some more pictures any time. Sometimes I get a tog that I refuse to see again, but I like you. You can come back."
