We were eighteen when Freya and I found a porno under her dad's bed. Freya was mortified and ran out of his bedroom with my jokes about her dad's wanking habits ringing in her ears.
It was an older magazine, a 'Men Only' dating back to the 1970's. I sat myself on Mr Cartwright's bed and wistfully ran my fingers across the cover, holding the periodical to my nose so I could sniff its musty scent.
I couldn't help but leaf through the abundance of scantily clad, heaving chested women adorning the myriad glossy pages. Quite apart from how naughty it felt to be looking at a top shelf magazine, I found myself drawn to the glamour of the tastefully photographed pictorials. The objectification seemed so exotic, and the overt expression of sexuality a paradox of wanton submission and unquestionable empowerment. This, I mused to myself, was truly a demonstrative display of femininity.
Blanche was particularly inspiring. It wasn't so much her beauty, though that was undeniable, but the manner in which she held court. She was queen of her stage, stocking clad legs exuberantly draped over the arms of an ornate chair, blue eyes sparkling, lips pouting, breasts bared provocatively.
I marvelled at the confidence she exuded when spreading her legs, even her labia seemed to pout exuberantly, flowering like the blooming petals of an orchid under summer's morning kiss. She captivated the lens so majestically. I was transfixed, drawn to the fantastically brazen nature of her poses.
The moment was shattered when Freya stormed back into the bedroom, grabbed the magazine and thrust it back under her dad's bed far more swiftly than I would have liked. She was pissed off with me. Regardless, my interest had been piqued.
I was extremely rebellious back in my youth, some might say little's changed, that I've merely honed my obstreperous ways. What's certainly true is that as a wild eighteen year old I sought to push boundaries whenever, and wherever I could.
And so when I returned home the following day, with Blanche and her glamorous cohorts fresh in my mind, I had the most wonderful idea. It was back in the nineties, before the age of selfie's and phones, but I was fairly sure there was an old polaroid camera in the loft. I'd seen it sitting amongst a box of junk when we'd put away the Christmas decorations earlier in the year. I snuck up and retrieved it when nobody was about. It worked, much to my delight, so I hid it in my bedroom side table and began preparing the next step of my grand plan.
In the weeks that followed I bought stockings and a lace suspender belt from Ann Summers, just like the one Blanche had been wearing. I practised pouting in front of the mirror and honed my fuck me eyes. I wanted to master the essence of exuding 'allure' in the same manner Blanche had.
The rush was bordering on euphoric when I sat the old polaroid camera on my bed and began delicately easing my toes into a stocking. It felt glamorous to be affixing the straps of my black lace suspender belt to the hosiery nestled atop my thighs - and when I caught sight of my reflection, leaning over, my breasts swaying back and forth with pendulous vigour, I grabbed the camera in my shaking hand and took my first photograph.
It wasn't bad, all things considered. My boobs hung with a fulsome flounce, and there was glamour in the act of me elegantly holding the top of my stocking in my fingers as I peered into my standing mirror with the camera in front of my face.
Taking that first image was like jabbing a vein. A sexual high lurched through me and consumed me in its thrall. I wrapped an arm under my breasts to exaggerate their fleshy swell. The camera gravitated, as if applauding my increasingly risqué choices, its viewfinder wantonly consumed by my youthful cleavage climbing upwards in domed exuberance.
Each photo brought something new, from the manner in which the camera captured the speckled hue of my dark areola seeping like ink blotting in ever increasing circles across a milk white canvas. Deep blue veins streaked like tributaries as my tits cavorted with each pose I struck. My protruding nipples rose like gnarled rouge corks, aroused and crying out for attention. Every moment was captured in an analogue splendour.
Photograph after photograph spilled from the front of my new favourite toy, giddily encouraging me to snap more. I ran my tongue across my lip, grabbed one of my tits and squeezed until traces of my fingers seeped in red streaks across my bosom.
Click!
Each nipple was stretched, pulled, distended demonstratively, the pose held, as another shot was fired off. One successful effort encouraged another.
Click! Click!
There was something delightful in drawing out the denouement. I pushed my cunt towards the mirror and buried my fingers between my folds, edging myself with frenetic rubs of my engorged clit, all of which I photographed to heighten the experience.
And yet, despite nigh on overdosing on sexual elation, there was more to explore - a final boundary to push beyond. Blanche had shown me the way, and she would be my inspiration.
I dragged my standing mirror until it stood adjacent to my rickety old dressing table. I loved my duchess table - it was the epitome of cool kitsch. I'd bought it at an auction for less than twenty quid. What paint it may once have had was long since worn away, leaving the original wood bare and exposed, which added to its allure. A three sided mirror sat precariously within a cracked frame. It would be the backdrop to my finale.
I sat back on the faded velvet cushion woven into the stool, leaning back against the duchess table as I did so. The more I looked back at myself in the mirror, the more confidence I somehow found within myself. The insecurities I'd had about my areola being too big were suddenly replaced with a pride in the prevalence of the dark rings adorning my tits. My curves felt pleasingly buxom, and the belly fat I could never quite shake didn't seem quite so out of place amongst the cavorting cleavage and overt sexuality of my figure.
I wanted to show Mr Cartwright my cunt. I wanted him to wank off over me, rather than the women in his magazine. I wanted to be his wank material. Blanche had shown me how - and as I sat back on my stool I spread my legs, raising my knees extravagantly upwards and pointing my toes. Thoughts of Freya's dad fuck-rushed my mind. Weird, obscure moments leapt to and fro, like how he had a habit of crossing his arms when he stood waiting for the kettle to boil, and the time I saw his fat cock when I'd walked in on him pissing.
That had been a beautiful moment. I'd blushed and stammered an apology. He'd blathered something about being 'profoundly sorry for not having locked the door' before adding that he hadn't known I was visiting. I remember looking straight at his cock as he said it. I hadn't seen one that long before, nor had I realised that some dicks had kinks and curves in them. His enormous fat piece of veiny man meat could have fucked around corners. I guess it's true what they say about men with big feet. Afterwards he'd squeezed my shoulder tenderly and told me to call him Julian, but I've always called him Mr Cartwright. I enjoy the seniority it infers.
