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Message-ID: <39512asstr$1038604202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: jimmy@jimmy-hat.com (Jimmy Hat)
Subject: {ASSM} Photo Club (MF voy exhib)  
Date: Fri, 29 Nov 2002 16:10:02 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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This work contains graphic depictions of sex acts.
Please do not continue if this makes you uncomfortable,
or violates laws in your part of the world.

This story is Copyright 2002 by Jimmy Hat (jimmy@jimmy-hat.com)
----------------------------------------------------------------------

PHOTO CLUB

ONE 

Dustin got hard. The woman peeled her dress away and posed
nice-nice for the cameras and Dustin grew stiff as a board.
Dustin saw nylons and white garter straps. Dustin went sproing.
Dustin's prick leaked precum. 

The doll did her thing. Demi cup bra let her tits shake. Two
miniature water beds pressed together. Cleavage formed. Black
line between two white mounds. Black line went deep. 

Boys ate it up. Boys snapped pictures. Boys fifty years old and
up. 

Dustin stared at those tits. His dick twitched. His dick ached.
Dustin savored it. 

The model wore gloves. Pink satin up to the elbow. She was
far from fifty years old and up. Maybe half that. The model 
moved to take the gloves off. Her fingers slipped off the end. 
She lost style points. 

"Teeth," one of the boys calls. 

She got the idea. Glossy red lips gave way to pearly whites. She
moved her head down and her arm up. She looked over the arm. Kept
eye contact with the lens. Batted fake eyelashes. Chompers
chomped down on pink satin.  Her pinned hair stayed out of the way. 
The arm moved to the right. The glove didn't. 

The boys whooped. The boys snapped pictures. The boys advanced
film. 

She moved to the bra. 

"Not yet," Dustin said. 

She moved to her panties instead. Wide white bottoms. Hip
huggers. Way old fashioned. Way grandma. As by request. As what
was laid out for her to wear. Like the pearl earrings.

The garters ran underneath. She pushed off the panties slow like.
Stopped every inch or so. Rotated in quarter turns at each stop.
She had done plenty of still work. She let the boys get all the
angles. 

Her bush crept over the top of her panties. A burst of dark
curls. Full. Natural. She hadn't had this full a bush in a long
time. Mags wanted trim bush. Runway strips. Bald skin. She grew
it out special for this. Took months. She went on vacation.
Visited home. Stayed out of work. The job made up for it. The job
paid real good. 

The panties came off. She bent over for the cameras. Cheeks
parted. Pussy smiled for the camera. Asshole winked. Flashbulbs
popped. 

Boys shifted in their seats. Boys adjusted equipment, cameras and
otherwise. 

Dustin's favorite part was coming up. 

She stood up, backside to the camera. The assmen kept busy
clicking and cranking to advance. 

Dustin waited. 

She moved her hands up to the hooks of the bra. Shoulder blades
converged, yearned to kiss. Fingers worked from memory. They
moved like diligent attendants. They could have belonged to
someone else. She could have been someone else. 

The fingers unclasped the bra. It fell off her shoulders. She
turned around. Dustin stood still. No breathing. No blinking. 

There. Bare breasts, Garter belt. Beige nylons. Full bush and the
folds of skin beneath. She smiled for the camera. 

Dustin breathed out. The tension of anticipation drained away.
She looked good but not right. Tits too heavy, tummy too flat.
The look was all wrong. 

No offense at being found naked. She expected him to be there, expected
him to take a photo. Expected them all to. No surprise. No shock
of recognition. 

The show went on. Dustin couldn't afford to pay the models on his
own. The photo club made all that possible. 

She had experience. She put the panties and bra back on because
some guys liked it better when the bra came off first. Dustin
didn't stop her. The session went on. 

* * * 

Dustin developed photos. He clipped prints on a line and took a
look. He had them in sequence. 

Dustin came a lot in darkrooms. Red light alone could stir his
prick to life. 

The glove in the teeth came out spectacular. That was a money
maker. That could have made a cover shot someplace. It was a
warm-up. 

The pink shots were warm-ups, too. Bent over. Hand on ass,
pulling it open for the camera. Pussy got him hard, that was an
innate reaction. That was just plain natural. 

The one that sent him over the edge was the one of her back.
Shoulder blades pushed against her smooth skin. Painted
fingernails stood out dark and shiny next to the sturdy white
strap of the bra. The tension was gone in the bra, the hands were
guiding the two straps apart. She's about to turn and bare
herself to him, but there's no way to see her face. Caught in
time. 

This was a conditioned response. This one was his memory, not his
genes. 

Dustin stroked himself and popped off. His legs trembled. He
doubled over. 

Dustin left and let the prints dry. 


TWO 

Dustin cropped photos with an X-acto. He glued them to pages. He
laid out a good spread.

Dustin ran the mimeo himself. He stuffed envelopes. He typed out
the addresses on a Corona Four typewriter. 

Dustin published a rag. Not a single semiconductor helped him
out. Dustin did penance. 

He got to the last name on the list. Some were local photoclub
guys. Some he met at glamour conventions. Hard to believe, but
some of them were culled from his father's old lists. 

Old coots must be going on eighty. Cataracts probably kept them
from even seeing the damn sheets. Dustin didn't care. Checks came
in, mags went out. 

His father ran a photoclub. His father ran mail order smut. Ran a
book barn behind a floral shop. Plain brown wrappers. The old man
had pull. The old man bribed vice. 

Feds didn't bother with him, postal inspectors never
nailed him. Time busted up the operation. Hugh Hefner. The
Beatles. Free Love. 

The old man remarried when Dustin was just noticing girls
himself. A model. Half the old man's age and twice
Dustin's. Dustin carried a torch. Dustin crushed hard. 

Dustin discovered playing with himself. Dustin liked it plenty.
The old man kept the house clean, so Dustin had to use his
imagination. 

One night Dustin spied his step mom undressing. White underwear,
nude hose. Dustin watched her pull down her panties. Dustin
didn't need his imagination anymore. He couldn't stop watching
then. He touched himself. She unhooked the bra. She turned. He
came. Dog water. A little trickle and a hard seizure. 

She saw. She screamed before she realized who was outside the
window. 

The old man beat him. The old man set him straight. 'You wanna be
a geek, get off on this.' He brought his son the wares. He let
him in on the family business. 

Too late. Hef was in. Hef got big. Mainstream. Money dried up. Photoclub
died. His father couldn't run a flower shop for shit. 

Step mom left. 

The old man blamed Dustin. Home life got real ugly. 

Dustin turned eighteen and went far away. College. A marriage of
his own. Home life turned ugly there, too. Dustin had intimacy
problems. His wife tried counseling. His wife tried religion. 

Finally his wife gave up and tried disco instead. Danced. Popped
pills. Fucked strange men in nightclub bathroom stalls. Started
bringing them home and fucking them there. Sometimes more than
one at a time. 

Dustin wasn't numb to it. He got off on it. 

Enough was enough. She left. No old man around anymore, so Dustin
blamed Dustin. 

Dustin internalized. Dustin got old. Dustin watched a lot of TV.
Cable. HBO. E! Cinemax. Plenty of T&A. Artless, all of it. 

He saw "L.A. Confidential." He recognized his adolescence.
Memories stirred. Dustin rented a tape and watched it all
weekend. He wore out some parts. He read Ellroy's book. 

Dustin enjoyed a renaissance. He took up photography. He found
eBay and antique equipment. They gave each other new life. He
found glamour conventions. He found like minded individuals. He
found his own counseling and his own religion. He set up a
photoclub. 

No touching, no sex, no pornography. No stag films like the ones
the old man had on big reels behind bags of fertilizer. Dustin
couldn't find the right equipment anyway. He didn't fix his
problem so much as transport himself before it started. He was
running in place, not to stand still, but to try to go back. 


THREE 

Dustin dropped off the issue's mailing at the post office. 
Went back to his workshop. Put the key in the door. Someone
called his name. 

"Yes?" he asked, puzzled. 

"I'm Special Agent Gerald Maytag and this is Special Agent
Stanton. We'd like to ask you a few questions." 

Dustin heard nada. His eyes trained on the brunette. The
blue eyes, the lips, the pale skin, the flush color in her cheeks
from blood running so close to the surface. The hair style
was different, but the color was the same. Even had that
shiny quality to it. He was a boy again. He was looking at
his stepmother.

They badged him. They went inside. Sat down. They
asked him about the newsletter, the photos. He answered as an
automaton. Just stared at the brunette. She was changed, a
little older than he remembered. Otherwise, the resemblance was
uncanny. 

He answered questions about the models, the mailing list, the
subscription fees, the checks. Yes, he declared the income. Yes,
he could show tax returns. He produced them from file cabinets.
He moved like a robot. He watched her. 

Your records are incomplete, the man explained. Model release
forms, U.S. code eighteen section two two five seven. The
mailings could be illegal themselves. He explained the penalties.
He mentioned the photo club. He mentioned their interest in
learning more about its members. One member in particular.
They could help each other. 

Dustin heard him, but watched the woman as much as he could. She
was a gift. She was a birthday cake, a surprise party, a
Christmas tree. 

"Is everything OK, Mr. Trapelo?" she asked him. 

"Yes, fine," he answered. 

"Do you understand why we're here?" the man asked him. 

"Yes," Dustin said. "I think I do. You've been sent to help me." 

"We're not here to help, Mr. Trapelo," the man said. "We're here
to explain--" 

Dustin interrupted. "I'll stop." He looked at the woman. "If you
want me to." 

"Mr. Trapelo, it's not a matter of me wanting you to stop. As
Agent Maytag explained, you are in danger of criminal
prosecution. We understand your operation is small and probably
harmless, but nevertheless there are some rules you need to
follow." 

"Pose for me," he blurted. He had nothing to lose and so much to
gain. "Pose for me and I'll stop." 

The man leaned in. "This is not a negotiation and Agent Stanton is
not here to audition. You don't have to stop. You just need to
comply with regulations. And in any case we're--" 

"You want to know who's in the photo club. You're using the
magazine to threaten me. I understand." 

Maytag was surprised. He looked like he had been a daze staring
at Stanton, but the guy had caught on just fine. Maytag wanted to
know who was in that club. The fifties were gone. There was no
need to organize a private group to take photos of naked women.
Those were everywhere. But the need for secrecy was still there
for kiddie porn, violence, extreme hardcore. And they had
a suspect.

"I'll play along," Dustin said. "Just pose for me." 

Maytag looked at Stanton. He warned him. Not a
bargaining session. 

"I'll pose for them," she said. "Not just you. We get to meet our guy,
and then we get all of the film." 

Now Maytag saw where she was going. He thought it out in his
head. Trapelo arranges a shoot. Maytag does outside work,
snapping photos of their man going in. Stanton gets cover.
Stanton gets a closer look at him. And vice versa. It could work. 

"We get all the film they shoot," Maytag said. 

"They won't like that," Trapelo said. "I don't like that." 

"Tell them I'll work free if that's the deal," Stanton said. 

Trapelo swallowed. "I want my copies." He was sweet on her. He
made it plain. 

"No way," Maytag said. 

Stanton put up a hand. "You get all the film. Then you go legit.
Take care of the model releases, or we prosecute. Mail any
of me, and I'll come back personally. And I won't be the least
bit indulgent." 

Dustin looked shocked. "I would never mail you away." 


FOUR 

Flashbulbs went off intermittently. Stanton sat demurely in her
red dress with white polka dots, painted mouth curved just so
into a smile. Arched back. Rolled shoulders. Head tilted to the
side. Long dark hair curled up and pinned at the sides. Flipped
gently in the back. Stanton offered a clear view of her long pale
neck. Large mother-of-pearl earrings drew attention to the smooth
line of her jaw. Attention went from there the smooth skin of her
cheek. She looked like a pin-up. She walked off a calendar. 

"That's fantastic," one of them called. Cameras clicked. "Now
give us a smile, sweetheart." 

Dustin had folding chairs set up, but half the guys stood. A
screen hid the workshop equipment and gave a simple backdrop for
the poses. 

Stanton grinned. Lips painted curtain red revealed teeth bright
as foot lamps. 

"That's it," another goaded. "Give it to us!" 

"Oh, I'll give it to you," Stanton cooed. She put her hands on
her knees and leaned forward. The lapels of her dress sagged and
opened a view to the tops of her breasts, pushed together by a
tight fitting bra. 

"Oh, you are so nice!" 

"She's not nice," called another. 

Dustin watched it all. Dustin snapped pictures faster than any of
them. Dustin jazzed on the whole scene. 

Stanton sucked on her lower lip. She straightened and tapped her
painted fingernails on her beige hose. A couple of guys rewound
film. They missed out on what she did next for the shutterbugs. 

Stanton swung one leg apart from the other and then began to
hitch up her skirt. When there was just enough to show a small
slice of thigh and a hint of white garters, she jumped to her
feet. 

"Tease!" 

"I told you she wasn't nice!" 

She whirled. She began to raise the skirt again. Eyes and lenses
took in the backstitching that ran up the brunette's fine legs.
The red dress reached the tops of her stockings. Again Stanton
let go and twirled. 

Cries of "Tease!" filled the room. 

Stanton gave them a lot more of the same. Spreading her legs.
Lifting her skirt. Bending over to let her tits seem to spill out
of her dress. Flashing her ass. 

They ate it up. 

She unbuttoned. The dress dropped in a puddle around her ankles.
Stanton covered herself with her hands. Real modest. The guys
yukked it up. They snapped away. 

She moved to take off the bra. Dustin stopped her. He gave
orders. Monotone voice. He locked in. He jazzed. His mouth went
dry. 

She ditched the panties. Her bush was trimmed close. She turned
and bent over like he asked. Her pussy was bare of hair. Her
puffy lips showed clear and true for the gulping photogs a few
feet away. 

Her hand moved up to her bra. Dustin hadn't even asked. She
guessed right. 

The fingers moved. Dustin trembled. The bra slipped away, and now
that smooth muscular back was bare. Slender arms. Boy's
shoulders. Gentle double hump across her back. 

When would she turn? She had to turn. Dustin had to see. 

Narrow channel down the center. Small waist. There would be
dimples in her back above her ass. Dustin knew it. But he wanted
to see her turn. It seemed to take forever. 

It happened. She rotated and those firm full breasts came into
view. Creamy. Round. Pointing slightly. Beautiful. 

Dustin looked up at her face. Her hands were there. She covered
her mouth. Her eyes bulged. The hands dropped down. She feigned
utter surprise as the bulbs went off. 

Dustin's cock swelled so much it hurt. 

Stanton found him in the crowd. Her eyes softened. The surprised
look faded. The guise of horror melted. A smile grew. Her hands
left her breasts. One ran between her legs. The other went to her
mouth. She pulled down on her bottom lip. She winked. 

Dustin's prick ached. 

No sex. Dustin said there was never any sex. Stanton saw the look
on his face, though. He wanted her right then and there. 

Wouldn't that give them something to remember, Stanton thought.
Only they might not be so happy to part with those photos. Maybe
something a little more private. After? No, here. 

"Get those lamps," she said. The men hesitated. The girls never
talked. They didn't direct. "The lamps," she repeated. "Move them
behind the screen." 

"Do it," Dustin said. He didn't know why she wanted it. He just
wanted to please. 

The men moved the lamps into place. Stanton stepped forward. She
took Dustin by the hand. They retreated behind the screen. "Just
you," she said. "Only you." 

The club members saw it backlit. Her hands moved over him,
undressing him. She draped clothes over the side of the screens.
Shirt, pants, socks. Then garter belt, stockings. 

Shadows moving behind the screens. Two side by side became one.
The one split again into two. One curvy, one square. The curves
dropped. The head rocked back and forth. The boys whooped it up
good. They cheered on their host. 

The curves rose. The square had a new appendage sticking standing
out straight. The square dropped. Its head nestled in the top
curves. The curves turned round and bent over. The head moved
back to the corner. The guys hollered more. They snapped photos.
They slapped backs. 

The head lifted and Dustin stood. He entered her from behind and
pushed inside her. They threw shadows. Her breasts swung and his
ass rocked. She grabbed a table and held on as he slapped away. 

They parted again. He rolled on the table. She climbed up. Then
the hands and their painted fingernails reached over the top of
the wood frame and held tight. Two shadows were now one, and the
hands over the edge went white-knuckled. 

On the other side of the screen Stanton dropped her tight cunt
onto Dustin's hard pole. He looked up at those magnificent tits
and the way the flesh jumped as she fucked. 

The backlighting made them out as an ambiguous shadow. The
clothes and her hands wrapped over the screen told the full
story. Great photo op. They all took it. 

Dustin drank it all in. He trembled. He spasmed. He came. Stanton
felt his cock pulse. She reached down and rubbed her clit to
hurry herself along. She came as his cock started to deflate and
the semen ran out onto his balls and tickled them both. 

The small assembled audience watched the steady motion shudder
then stop. The moans rose, broke into soft cries. Hushed. 

The pair cleaned up. They dressed. They emerged to applause. 

* * * 

Maytag watched them leave. Trapelo and Stanton exited last. Her
hair was so retro. What the job demanded, she delivered. Above
and beyond. They walked over. Trapelo opened the door for her
and closed it behind her. 

"We get everything we need?" Maytag asked her. 

"Did we?" Stanton asked Trapelo. 

"I'll call you from my darkroom." 

END
----------------------------------------------------------------------

I hope you enjoyed that, and I'd love to hear your comments.
There is an anonymous e-mail form (and more stories) at 
http://www.jimmy-hat.com , or you can mail me 
directly at jimmy@jimmy-hat.com

Anyone wishing to charge fees for access to this material, 
through any media or publication, must receive the written
permission of Jimmy Hat.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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