Glamour Model

They decide among themselves whose turn it is. That's the deal: just one of them, at the end of the session, their choice of hand job or blow job. To completion, as they say. The others take pictures and direct the action. But that's for later.

My name is Louise, and this is one of several groups that I model for -- it's just the four men, or arguably three men and a boy. There's George, whose big, comfortable house we're in: a businessman, about forty, plays squash and keeps fit; Eric, age indeterminate, tall, thin, wears glasses, who is and looks like an accountant; Alan, thirtyish, something to do with the police, with a gorgeous, sexy wife; and Gerald -- Gerry to his friends -- who is George's son.

George's wife -- Gerry's stepmother -- insists that Gerry is of legal age, which in England is eighteen for most things. I have my doubts, but it's not really an issue: after all, he's going to be photographing me, not the other other way round. And he's a computer nerd: when digital cameras replaced film it was Gerry who knew how to store and manipulate images, set up a virtual private network and create a secure website, where images could be organised, displayed and shared with the others. So there are no secrets from Gerry and if his stepmother, who poses for the group like the the other wives, is okay with it then it's really none of my business.

Anyway, back to this evening.

I arrive in good time: I always do. I think that if people are paying a fair amount for three hours of my time then the least I can do is to be there, dressed -- or undressed -- and ready to work at the start of the session.

In the corner there's a dressing table and stool for the model. It can be screened off for modesty, which seems pointless to me. They're paying me to strip off and pose naked: why would I undress behind a screen?

I touch up my hair and make-up and take off the clothes I arrived in, folding them over the back of a chair. They're busy checking lights and cameras; I doubt if anyone even notices that I'm briefly naked before I get into the lingerie I have brought for the first session. Later they'll tell me what they want me to wear, but the first change is usually left to me. It doesn't take long: stockings; a waspie with long suspenders; no bra, but a filmy chemise that doesn't quite cover my bum; and skimpy knickers. I know what they like. The knickers won't be on for long, but Alan likes them, by which I don't mean that he puts them on his head or anything, just that he likes me to pose with knickers pulled aside, or pushed down to my thighs, or round my ankles, or... you get the idea.

I turn to see that they're watching me now, their preparations done. I smile: "Okay, guys -- ready when you are."

I feel my nipples stiffening; they always have, ever since I discovered my inner exhibitionist at a shockingly early age. Photographers like it, though, so these days it's a plus.

There used to be strip-pubs: quite a few of them. Any town of any size had pubs with back rooms where more or less raunchy strip shows were a regular part of the entertainment; there would be a coterie of girls working the circuit and I was a natural shoo-in.

And it was okay. It was never going to make me rich, but it paid the bills. I got along with the other girls, learned how to tease and entertain the punters while keeping the management at arm's length. I got the now familiar buzz from stripping for an audience and they responded enthusiastically to a stripper who enjoyed her work. On a good night with a friendly crowd I'd get naked, give them a raunchy dildo show, then pull a carefully selected punter onto the stage, get his dick out and give him a wank or a blow job. And they loved it. But then came the killjoys and the do-gooders, and these days a strip-pub is a rarity. Mary Whitehouse, you have a lot to answer for...

People I knew got me into what was euphemistically called "glamour" modelling. I posed regularly for girlie magazines and websites, and still do occasionally, but I prefer camera clubs and informal amateur groups like this one - friends who started out photographing their wives, then progressed to photographing each others' wives and the occasional paid model. For the most part they're friendly and considerate; if they like you they book you again, and over time you get to know them.

And I

am

good at it; if I wasn't they wouldn't pay my not inconsiderable hourly rates.

Glamour modelling these days is basically soft porn. And not always so soft. There used to be categories: 'UK Magazine' (open legs), 'US Magazine' (spread pussy) and 'Continental Magazine' (fingers, dildos, vibrators); these days you do it all, or you don't work. And I confess the 'US Magazine' category was always a bit of a mystery to me. I mean, I did it; we all did. And still do. But while I can see why a photographer might want me to spread my legs, and I can understand the erotic impact of picturing a woman pleasuring herself with a dildo, the attraction of a gynaecologist's view of the inside of a vagina is lost on me. Still, who pays the piper calls the tune, and if that's what they want...

And a word about the language:

tits

,

bum

,

arse

,

pussy

and the like are just working vocabulary to a nude model, though I dislike

cunt

, which to me is a coarse and ugly word.

I don't know if it's due to porn on the Internet, but there is an expectation in recent years, especially among amateur photographers, of interaction with the model. It starts innocently enough: a shot at the end of the session with the photographer or photographers and the model, who is invariably naked. Harmless fun and something to show their mates. But then there'll be arms round shoulders, a hand on a breast or a buttock, and you have to draw a line about what is and what isn't acceptable.

Interestingly -- to me anyway -- in groups like this one it's often the wives who blaze the trail. Eric's wife Mary is a case in point. Like him she's an accountant. Dressed for the office, wearing glasses and with her hair up, you wouldn't look twice. But with her hair down and a touch of makeup she's gorgeous. In front of a camera she's uninhibited bordering on lascivious. She has nipple and labia piercings, which the photographers love, and a collection of rings, studs, pendants and chains to go with them. She gets a kick from setting off airport body scanners and having to be examined in private by customs officers.

When I saw a group shot with Eric's wife in which they were all naked and the men all had erections I realised I was in danger of being eclipsed. I upped my fees and my game a little and offered a hand job or blow job at the end of the session: it's not as though I haven't done it before, on stage for an audience, and it's an arrangement they're happy with. For now.

Eventually, I suppose, it will all become more explicit. I've done explicit porn shoots with multiple partners, and I'll do them again if the price is right and I like the people involved, but they're the exception and I'm choosy about who I do them with. If it gets to the point where every photographer just expects to fuck the model as part of the deal, then that might be when I'll retire from this sort of work and find something else to do.

Anyway, I settle into the armchair they've put at the front of the studio and look sexy. Not everyone can do that, especially when wearing next to nothing. It's partly a skill you can learn, but mostly it's innate: you have it or you don't. And if you don't you're not going to succeed as a stripper or a glamour model.

I run through a few standard pouts and poses: enough to break the ice and get the session under way until someone starts to direct. It doesn't take long. And I was right about the knickers: within five minutes they're gone, but not before Alan has had his fun with them. Alan's favourite poses all involve me spreading my legs and pulling my knickers aside, a blatantly erotic display that appeals to them all. It's not hard to tell; if they're asking you to hold the pose and jostling for position to get the shot then you know it's a good one.

It does help that I'm smoothly depilated down there, which they like. And I have "interesting" labia; they like that, too.

Young Gerry, who's still a bit reticent, asks me to lift the chemise up over my tits. I flick my nipples to harden them up for him and he grins as he takes the shot and moves in for a close-up. Photographers do like my nipples: they're pert, pink, prominent and respond visibly to stimulation. When Gerry's satisfied, the others move in for close-ups while my nipples are still exhibiting their appreciation.

Eric and George soon have me down to just the stockings and the waspie, one leg over each arm of the chair. Next I'm over the the chair back, legs spread, and then kneeling, arse in the air and knees spread as far as the chair will allow. They're not doing pussy close-ups yet, but it's still early in the session. Later they'll be between my legs capturing it all in glorious detail.

I'd say it's all very business-like, except that it's not. They're keen and experienced -- apart from Gerry, who's still a bit new to it all -- but they're amateurs nonetheless. They're doing it for fun and there's no denying the sexual charge in the atmosphere when things go well. As they generally do.

Soon it's time for a change. I'll pose in a range of different outfits -- clothes, underwear, sometimes nothing at all, until it's time for coffee. Somehow I'm always naked when the coffee arrives...

This is where a life model would preserve her modesty with a full-length robe; I'd feel ridiculous, covering up when they've just been photographing me naked, legs akimbo, so I don't. And I'm aware that when the wives are posing they don't bother with robes either.

We sit on sofas around a low table and George's wife, Marina, brings in a tray of coffee and biscuits. She's a pretty brunette with a hint of an accent -- her family was from East Europe. She hands out the coffees, gives me a smile and wriggles into a space between her husband and her stepson. Shots from the previous session, when, as it happens, Marina was the model, are displayed on Gerry's iPad. There's plenty of constructive comment, and occasional ribaldry at shots and poses that didn't work -- bloopers, if you will. There are also a couple of short video sequences shot by Gerry, who is really quite good at it and wasn't at all inhibited by the model being his step mother.

Marina is actually quite a decent model. She's a little older than me and doesn't spend as much time in the gym but she has a good enough figure, with shapely legs and nice breasts. You don't have to be physically perfect to photograph well -- mostly it's in your head. She doesn't have quite the insouciance of the seasoned professional, but she has the quality, rare in both men and women, of looking good without her clothes on and is at ease being naked in company. She poses naturally without looking awkward and takes direction, hiding and exposing bits of body as required and spreading wide on request.

Eventually Marina clears away the coffee cups and attention turns back to me. The second part of the session will be raunchier than the first; it always is. They gather round to see what I have in my bag of what photographers call toys. This time I've brought a set of love balls and one of those vibrators with the ball-bearings inside. There's immediate interest in the love balls, which they haven't seen before, and some discussion of how they are used. They're quite big, shiny, metallised plastic balls joined by a flexible cord, with a loop for pulling them out. I've no doubt I'll be demonstrating them before the session's over.

They generally provide a toy or two of their own and I look to see what they have brought. With a grin, Alan brandishes his perennial favourite, a long-necked wine bottle. I nod my acceptance; we've used it before. With a hesitant smile, young Gerry proffers a cucumber. I think he's coming out of his shell.

"I trust that's not straight from the fridge, young man."

He shakes his head. "No. Mum explained to me about that."

"Okay." I'm not wild about pushing fruit and vegetables into my vagina but it is often asked for, and I don't mind provided they're clean, firm, not ridiculously large, and at room temperature. Carrots, courgettes, cucumbers and bananas are all popular. And if you search the usual porn sites for 'squash photoshoot' you'll find an interesting video of a certain young model with a butternut squash; maybe next time I'm in the supermarket...

For the final session they decide on the outfit I started with -- stockings, waspie and see-through chemise, but without the knickers. The waspie is one of my favourite bits and pieces: it's pretty and nips in my waist; it has laces in the front, but there's also a hidden zip so it doesn't take forever to get it on and off; it's shaped at the top to fit under my bust and the bottom edge curves up over my bum at the rear and stops at the panty-line in front, leaving everything on show. It has long, sexy suspenders attached front and rear which, today, are purely for erotic effect since the stockings I'm wearing are hold-ups -- I'll need them to stay up when the waspie is gone, which probably won't be all that long.

I'm soon down to just the stockings, on the armchair and running the gamut of poses with the toys. At this stage there are really only two poses they're interested in: a leg over each arm of the armchair, doing interesting things with my labia or inserting toys from the front, or on my knees, arse in the air, doing much the same from behind. And although there are only so many things you can do with a cucumber -- nearly in, halfway, all the way up and on the way out just about sums it up -- it can take a while to satisfy everyone's erotic -- they would say "artistic" -- fantasies.

Alan, who provided the wine bottle, has a particular thing about hands-off poses, where you push the object all the way in then take your hands away, keeping it in place using your vaginal muscles. Not everyone can do this, apparently. I can do it with a dildo, which is fairly light, though it's more difficult with the vibrator which, with its batteries and ball bearings, is actually quite heavy. A free tip for any aspiring models: if you're trying to keep a vibrator in your pussy hands-free, it's easier if you take the batteries out.

Then comes Alan's bottle, which causes a little frisson of excitement as it nearly always does. I don't know what it is about bottles -- it was the same when I was stripping in the pubs -- but men do like to see a woman with a bottle in her pussy. Or a candle. Maybe it's just that bit more wanton than dildos which are, after all, made for the purpose. I spend a little time slipping it in and out as directed, front and rear; they seem to like it, and it goes in further than you might expect.

I suppose the same applies to a cucumber, which is what we do next. It's quite a substantial cucumber and I use some lube so it will slip in more easily; Gerry gets the shots he wants, including a short video sequence of the thing sliding in and out, and is pleased when each of the others wants shots of me with a cucumber in my pussy after he's got his. I delight Alan by doing some hands-off cucumber poses.

George calls Marina back when we get round to the balls; apparently it's something she'd like to see. From a photographic perspective, all you can really do with love balls is push them in and pull them out again, but they spend a while photographing me doing just that. There's a little bit more to it -- pausing for a shot as each ball appears in the vaginal opening, and again at the point where it's spreading the lips wide apart. Inevitably they want close-ups, and a video sequence -- I must ask Gerry what he intends to do with all these little video clips. Sometimes they want me to leave the loop hanging out, which makes it easy to pull the balls out once they're inside, and sometimes they want me to push the loop in with the balls so that everything disappears. That does mean that I have to put my fingers in and fish about finding the loop, but they seem to like that, too.

Which just leaves the finale. Marina brings in a tray of drinks, which is how we always used to finish off when the session was over. Even Gerry gets a small one.

I accept a sherry, and as we sip our drinks I learn that the chosen recipient of my favours tonight is Eric. I'm not unhappy about that: Eric's okay, and despite his generally nerdish appearance he's actually pretty well endowed. Size may not be everything, but when you're performing for the camera it's a lot easier if you've got something substantial to get hold of. Sherry in hand, I wander over to chat to him. It seems he intends to get naked and I pick up a small smile from Marina, who clearly approves. I'm naked already, of course.

"What I'd like is for you to suck me until I get hard, then finish me off by hand. Is that okay?" At least he has the good manners to ask.

"That's fine, Eric."

"It shouldn't take long; I'm halfway there already." I follow his glance down to his crotch and see that he's telling the truth. "Of course we'll have to make sure they get what they want." He glanced around at the other three.

And that, of course, is the downside of sex for the camera: you're not doing it for the pleasure of the recipient, you're doing it to provide a spectacle for the photographers. Which is not the same thing at all, although the recipient still has to enjoy it if there's to be a decent climax at the end. And the photographers want to know when that is about to happen, because it's the one bit you can't just repeat.

I'm glad he doesn't want to come in my mouth: partly because that doesn't provide much of a spectacle for the camera, mostly because it's something a bit special which I prefer to keep for close friends. And I don't like other people to come on my face or in my hair, either.

But Eric, I gather, doesn't want to come on me at all, which makes a change. Eric wants the force of his ejaculation to be seen and photographed in all its far-reaching, free-range splendour. I glance at Marina, who'll have the job of cleaning spunk from the carpet and wherever else it may land. She shrugs.

So Eric gets naked and I take him into my mouth and start sucking. There's no messing around with an inconveniently flaccid penis: he's quite firm already. I do my best to ignore the cameras zooming in for close-ups.

I've seen Eric's cock in pictures, but never fully erect, and it's only as I suck that I realise quite how long and hard this thing is going to get. I wonder how much of him his wife, Mary, can accommodate; I doubt if I could get half of his length inside me.

When he's hard I take him out of my mouth and start to wank, to an immediate barrage of demands from the three taking pictures.

George wonders if I can get both hands on Eric's cock. I can. Allan likes one of my hands cradling Eric's balls while the other strokes his shaft -- Eric's, that is. "Just fingers and thumb, Louise; it's much sexier than wrapping your fist round it."

When they're happy I glance at Gerry.

"Could you pull down his, er..."

"Foreskin?"

"Er, yeah, that, and then bend over and kiss the tip."

It's quite an erotic pose and I notice the others moving in to get the shot, too, so I treat them to a few more, with me doing nice things to Eric's glans with my lips and tongue.

When we're done I glance enquiringly at Gerry. "Okay?"

"Brilliant, Louise. Thanks." I notice Marina smiling encouragingly at him. I don't know what the family dynamics are here, and I don't intend to queer my pitch by asking, but I know Marina has some very explicit shots of her and George doing the things that couples do and I wouldn't mind betting it was Gerry who took the pictures.