When her agent told her she needed photos for her new novel, Louisa had mixed feelings. The last photographer made her look fat. Twenty pounds heavier. She thought that happened only on TV. Sure, she had big boobs, but they were in her genes. All the women in her family were busty. Her older sister consisted only of mammary glands.
She had two choices -- go on a diet, or go to the gym and work it off on a treadmill. Both choices would take time. If she stopped eating donuts she could lose a pound a week. In 20 weeks, 20 pounds. This was simple arithmetic. Going to a health club, and working out, filled her with dread. She was a modest woman and didn't like flaunting her big boobs. Moreover, on a treadmill she always attracted a crowd --- people, both men and women, watching her (and her huge boobs) while she jogged for 20 minutes. Her boobs flopping up and down; people were using their cell phones to take videos of her. When her time was up, while the machine 'cooled down', she stepped off. People applauded. And cheered. And whistled. How embarrassing! And she had to go through this ridiculous torture in every workout until she dropped 20 pounds. She doubted her tits would get much smaller. Maybe her ass, but not her boobs. Her boobs were a 40 DD. She always wore Bali bras.
Louisa was writing a new romance novel. Her books always made the New York Times best seller list. Top 100. But if BSDM novels sold millions of copies, she needed to add some punch to her work. She always wrote about women overcoming huge odds to become successes. Women who broke through the glass ceiling. Self improvement, sort of. She used words the average reader could understand. For example, she didn't use words like 'manhood'. It was not descriptive; made her visualize a guy wearing a hoodie. She loved the word 'prick'. You could imagine a guy impaling a helpless virgin with a tool like that. Prick. It made a good visual. It sounded meaty and masculine.
Her novels were always lurid, because women needed a break from the drudgery of being a house wife. She wrote heavy books, good for masturbation. The men in her novels were just your ordinary every day dumbos. They were not billionaires. They didn't have well defined pecs, or washboard abs. No square jaw. No tattoos. But they all knew how to eat pussy.
Most guys are not porn stars who can fuck a woman for an hour, in every position -- inverted, hanging from a chandelier, or wrestling an alligator. Most guys shoot their load in two minutes, if you're lucky. And leave you frustrated. But they can eat pussy for as long as it takes -- until her heroine was left in a state of mindless hysteria.
Louisa knew her fans were mostly women. Guys would rather watch porn than read a romance novel. They'd never read
Gone With The Wind
. But women loved it, being over 1000 pages. Heavy enough for a good clitoral masturbation. But those days are gone forever. Vibrators are more efficient, being portable, and more discrete.
Let's introduce Louisa herself. Louisa, in her mid 30's, was divorced, and had only one true friend -- her vibrator. She named it Timmy. Timmy never let her down. First she would masturbate, and then finish herself off with Timmy. Even though writing novels allowed her to subjugate her sex drive, the urge to masturbate was as strong as ever. She enjoyed looking at herself in the long closet mirror. She studied her curvy body. She squeezed her tits together, flattening the firm globes one against the other. She had large heavy tits; they were full but nor overdeveloped. When she released the pointed melons, they sprang erect and resilient, their conical tips quivering. Whenever she handled her tits, the dark nipples always responded. -- hardening and becoming elongated, thickening like ripe buds. She turned her body to look at her ass. Her ex-husband always insisted she had a luscious ass. She cupped her hands over the cheeks of her big ass and squeezed. She pulled the cheeks apart. She massaged them with a circular motion. Her most secret fantasy was to get fucked in the ass by a dominant man. No man, dominant or otherwise, had ever done that to her.
She turned back to look at the mirror. She stood with her legs apart and separated the pink lips of her hairy cunt. She didn't believe in shaving. She stared at the gaping hole. She pushed her own finger inside her cunt, but it wasn't enough. She desperately looked around for something. She finally grabbed a hairbrush off the dresser and stared at it; it was made in China. She shrugged, and pushed the handle up her cunt with a deep groan. She fucked herself with that handle, whipping it in and out, churning her cunt until her body at last convulsed in a shattering orgasm. She was lying down on the bed when her cell phone rang. She answered, "Hello Bob."
It was Bob, her PR agent. "Louisa, hi. It's Bob ..."
She had caller ID. "Yes, I know. What's up?"
"I finally managed to get my guy free for a photo shoot. "
"Oh, that's good. Who are you going to use this time? The last photographer was repulsive."
"You won't have a problem with Marc. He's gay ..." Most of the best portrait photographers were gay.
"Good."
"He'll call you to set up a time. Do you want him to shoot you at home or in his studio?"
"I think home would be better. Then he can help me choose what to wear."
"Fine. By the way, his assistant's name is Annie, and she also does makeovers. So, just wash your face and let her do the rest. OK?" Annie was a lesbian.
"OK, sounds good ..." Louisa said. Every photographer wants his own look. Either too much eye shadow and she'd look like a vampire. Too much eye liner and she'd look like a whore. If her full lips were too prominent, she'd look like a cocksucker.
Marc arrived Thursday morning at 11 AM. Louisa was superstitious; Thursday for her was an auspicious day. He was friendly, seemed easy going -- slim, tall and partially bald. His assistant was Annie. She was flat chested, but cute. Blond with blue eyes. He toted a large camera bag, while Annie struggled with light stands and a tripod.
