Mis À Nu

My friend Ethan, a photographer, invited me along while he shot nude photos of a married woman who messaged him through his website. She told him she recently lost some weight and got a boob job. She wanted to surprise her husband with some sexy photos. Ethan knew an abandoned barn in the middle of nowhere. He sent her directions. We met her there on a weekday morning, soon after her husband left for work. She took off her clothes without ceremony, like one would do at a doctor's office.

"Behave uninhibitedly," Ethan said, his eye glued to the viewfinder.

"Like this?" She threw back her hair.

The camera clicked several times. "Yes."

She climbed a ladder and swung from the rafters. She crawled seductively in the dirt. I was ostensibly Ethan's "assistant," but there was nothing for me to do but stand behind him and enjoy the show. She led us out of the barn and into a field, where she squatted on her heels for a few shots and then crouched onto her hands and knees. In this moment, a glint of sunlight revealed a glorious string of sticky moisture that stretched, nearly sixty centimeters, between the woman's ankle and her pussy.

I nudged Ethan's arm. "Elle veut être baisée."

Later, we went to a bar, where Ethan and I took turns fucking her in the toilet. I have since forgotten her name. I never learned her husband's reaction to the photos.

During the many times I have since masturbated to this memory, what always gets me off is the "revealing" of her conspicuous arousal. Up to that point, I bought into the charade that the photoshoot's purpose was to surprise her husband. She may have believed that, too--or rather, her consciousness denied and attempted to suppress her unconscious desires. An existentialist would call this "bad faith." The woman pretended her body, writhing "uninhibitedly" under the gaze of two strangers, was a simple prop for the benefit of the photos she said she wanted for her husband, denying her choice to put herself in a position to get fucked by two strangers. But goaded on by the camera and our encouragement, her body betrayed her true desire.

I read the vitriolic comments on my first two stories with amusement. Some readers fail to differentiate between fantasy and reality. They whine over the actions of fictional characters. Others rebuke me to "finish" a story which omits graphic details already implied. I fear these readers misunderstand me, that my stories may be too literary for Literotica. In the above vignette, Ethan's model tried to hide her ulterior motive, to swipe away the strand of liquid, but it stuck to her fingers like silly string. That singular moment, when a woman's bad faith is mis à nu, is for me the climax of every fantasy. What follows is a foregone conclusion.

Another true story:

I fancy myself a feminist and love intelligent women, but this invariably butts up against the fact that my sexual fantasies are rooted in the notion that women, like inanimate objects, have a switch that turns them into whores. Most women have a fraught relationship with their bodies, their intimate relationships, and what it means to be perceived as promiscuous. Unlike in pornography, women do not drop to their knees at the sight of a big dick. Some women like to act like whores sometimes, but no self-respecting woman aspires to be a mere sex toy. Because of my fantasies, my partners invariably grow to resent me for objectifying them. In turn, I lose interest, because the slightest resistance or complication--anything more than a switch--turns me off. C'est la vie.

My girlfriend, Yara, and I reached a stage where we loathed one another's company. Our sex life faltered. She started ridiculous fights, often zonked out of her mind on pain pills. I considered leaving her, but we shared an apartment and two dogs. Instead, with nothing to lose, I suggested opening our relationship. By that point in my life, I had several ménages à trois, usually of the boy-girl-boy variety, such as with Ethan's model, but never one with my own partner. It was a barrier I hesitated to cross with Yara because of what I feared it might do to our relationship.

At first, Yara expressed tepid enthusiasm. She confessed the idea of being shared with another man made her wet. Being the center of attention was her lifelong fantasy. However, when it came to executing a threesome, her interest seemed to wane.

First, she insisted we plan the encounter in a different city with a man neither of us knew, but when we set up a dating profile for her to peruse options, she made me search the profiles and rejected nearly everyone I suggested. Almost nobody was handsome or tall enough for her.

I showed her the profile of a man who resembled Daniel Craig. "This one has dogs. You like men with dogs."

She rolled her eyes. "You know I'm only doing this for you, right?"

After several weeks, she reluctantly chose someone on a dating app, and I booked a room with a king bed, a living room, and a full bar. I offered to buy her a new dress--but she found all the outfits I suggested too whorish. Leading up to the meeting, her chats with the man remained chaste and perfunctory. She ultimately bought a button-front floral dress that came just above her knees--the sort of generic dress a woman might wear on any first date. As we drove to the hotel, she kept her arms crossed and hardly said anything.

The man she chose, Michael, met us at the hotel bar. He kissed Yara's cheek and insisted she twirl around for him in her new dress. The dress clung to her svelte body, and she looked sexy. I caught Yara's face fleetingly light up at the initial attention, but then she plopped onto a bar stool between us and returned to her façade of coolness as we ordered drinks and talked about our jobs and travel. I noticed that she kept her eyes on Michael's face, but she otherwise let on no hint about why we were there. After nearly an hour of idle chitchat, I subtly reached over and undid the top button on her dress. She sipped her drink, either failing to notice or pretending not to notice that I had exposed a hint of her red bra.

The banter progressed with painstaking mundanity. Yara regaled Michael with details of her graduate school research. Michael at least pretended to act impressed. However, when he made a suggestive joke about her accent, she quipped rather bitchily that it was not yet settled anything sexual would happen between them, so he should remain a gentleman. He laughed it off, but I could tell her rebuke stung him and that he was losing his patience. In the silence that followed, I suggested we relocate to our hotel room's living area, and I was relieved when Yara shrugged and agreed. As Michael paid our bar check, I reached over and unclasped the next button on her dress.

If Yara noticed her unbuttoned dress as we left the bar, she did not let on. Michael tried to stand near her on the elevator, but she scooted closer to me. In the hotel room, Michael sunk into one of the couches while I fixed us fresh drinks, but Yara sat on a different couch on the room's opposite side. Even though her little tits were peeking out from the top of her bra, she kept her hands primly in her lap, like she was defending her thesis. I handed Michael his drink and scooted between Yara and the couch's edge, nudging her into the middle.

We sipped our drinks and talked for almost another hour, but it was not until well into a slurred monologue about her disdain for American football that Yara suddenly looked down at her chest and noticed--or feigned to notice--for the first time that her dress was wide open to about midway down her torso.

"Ça, alors!" she gasped. Her face flushed, and she reached down to cover herself.

But Michael, apparently sick of jumping through hoops for the threesome he was promised, exclaimed, "Oh, for fuck's sake!" stepped across the room, and seized Yara's wrist. Following his lead, I grabbed her other hand, and together we pulled her arms away from her body.

At our sudden aggressiveness, Yara's pretense of modesty evaporated before my eyes in a scene I have relived countless times as masturbatory fodder. Her mouth formed a circle, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she threw her head back. Michael and I each grabbed one side of her dress and ripped the entire front open. She jutted out her chest and instantly parted her legs as wide as they would go. In mere seconds, I witnessed Yara's transformation from someone pretending to be an inanimate object without choices into a woman in unqualified rapture because in her mind the choice she desperately craved has been made for her. When I peeled off her panties, I found them drenched, maligned in bad faith.

After that, we tossed Yara onto the bed. She lay in the center while we spun her around like a plateau tournant, fucking her mouth and pussy for hours. But that, dear readers, you should have already guessed. ;-)