CHP 7 — IN WHICH MICKY DOES SOME PHOTOSHOPPING.
Early in the morning, having been asleep for the slimmest of hours, I was awakened by a ping! And then another. And another, and another and another . . . Carla was doing the photos!
In an instant I was sitting up in bed pulling hard on my vape, my laptop burning my thigh’s through the duvet, a strong black coffee steaming on the night stand, and Cotton unhelpfully sitting at the bottom of the bed meowing incessantly to be fed — beautiful ceaseless pinging throughout.
Taking a moment to prepare myself, I caught up with the action and started pinging back.
The first outfit in our smutty virtual photo-shoot was to be composed of six simple items; basic white cotton knickers, black tights, a white vest top, black silk blindfold, blue ball-gag, and a substantial vibrating dildo.
Over the course of a series of twenty-five images, Carla slowly made revealing adjustments to the garments, and buried more deeply the vibrator in her tight little fuckhole, faithfully progressing through my story-boarded instructions — skilfully dripping on her student accommodation standard issue bed, stripped back to its blue sheeted mattress; her boyfriend Jebediah, paying strict attention to the camera angles.
As each image passed before my unblinking eyes, I praised the almighty and marvelled at the mathematical precision of each and every glistening curve — every atom of Carla’s slutty little body being in perfect agreement with the entirety of spacetime.
Furiously I texted my admiration – shocked by the realisation that all of a sudden Carla and I were exchanging actual information! A genuine dialogue was occurring. Furthermore, we were having a definite giggle. In fact it was about the most fun I’ve ever had! — and I’ve been to see the Crown Jewels.
Before Carla moved onto the second outfit, there was the tricky matter of the final image in the first series to address. At my request, Carla had agreed to take off the by now messed up knickers and put them over her blindfolded face, with the ball-gag securing the profoundly dirty gusset within her beautifully gapping mouth. To ensure that the gusset was wet enough and dirty enough to be noticeable to the average viewer, Carla wiped all the cream that had accumulated on the vibrator from the depths of her luscious cunt onto the soft material and left it for a while to soak in and stiffen — a helpful image of the wiping supplied.
Meanwhile, images of Carla in the second outfit began to appear on my screen — blue crop-top, black leggings, white cotton G-string, white ankle socks, blindfold, ball-gag, with a powerful vibrating wand always in shot.
As morning stretched into early afternoon I gleefully absorbed the data; collecting it in a pre-prepared pool on my sweating hard-drive — a rictus grin fixed upon my jubilant boggling boat race. And, of course, my rigid cock swaying about in front of me like a prone cobra throughout; in every image, Carla looking good enough to envenomate. Fucking perfection!
A short while after the final images from the second set came through, Carla sent the final image from set one — all the milky juices from her earlier gyrations having set in a most alluring stain; now forced into her dirty little mouth and held there forever.
As things progressed we both loosened up a bit, and continued having what appeared to be a funky good time. But then, just as Carla was preparing to do the third outfit — black leotard, black tights, blindfold, ball-gag, wand — following close after a message stating that she was getting quite excited by the whole thing — to which I responded saying I was also experiencing a quickening effect — she suddenly stopped, saying that she was feeling sick and didn’t know why, and that she would probably do the remaining images the following day.
What the fuck?
As I turned the morning’s events over and over in my disrupted mind, wondering all manner of strange things to account for the inexplicable termination of the wondrous photo-shoot, I came to the conclusion that a faintly visible bite mark on Carla’s left arse cheek might hold a key to the mystery.
Could it be that overcome by the heart stopping sight of his delicious girlfriend bent over in a succession of increasingly exposed positions with nothing between her slick labia and his groaning hard-on but a minimalistic triangle of soaking wet cotton, Jebediah simply lost all interest in photography and instead took up fucking — thrusting his way through the remainder of the day, even as Carla typed out a shaky late evening acknowledgment of my follow-up afternoon txt of concern.
C: “Everything perfect. Gracias xx’
Confused, I went to work Photoshopping the first two sets of images — manipulating and branding them to within a pixel of their sum total – and left worrying about the images I didn’t have until I felt inside myself a furious longing (I reckoned about a week).
Whilst engaged in my thorough modulation of Carla’s most toothsome delights I found myself tumbling face first into a series of extremely detailed accompanying dreams about the very intimate ways in which I would like to involve myself in each potentially evolving scene. Fantasies, basically.
For example: in one image from the second set, Carla is lying on her back on her bed with her arms at her sides and her legs casually parted; she is blindfolded and gagged; she looks as though she might be unconscious. Her blue top has been partially pulled up, to leave her very pert tits exposed — a cold wintery draft from a light blue curtained window behind the black steel bedframe causing her nipples to reach for the frosty sky; little fleshy bullets that need biting and sucking and slobbering over.
Her leggings are very tight and very thin. Beneath them I know she is wearing a tiny white G-string. Sitting on the bed beside her I put my hand between her legs and start rubbing her hot sweaty pussy. Although she seems to be sleeping, when my fingers first roughly connect with her quickly dampening vulva, a delicate sound escapes through the holes in her ball-gag; a sort of breathy moan. And as she lets out a stream of increasingly strained echoes of that first response to the unyielding pressure between her tensing thigh’s, the muscles of her abdomen begin to ripple in a rhythmic wave of building urgency, her breathing increases until she’s almost whistling through her gag, and her arms and legs begin to quiver slightly, and her feet point and her toes curl, and without even so much as an attempt to indicate that she is about to have and indeed is having an orgasm, she convulses in a full-body shockwave of internal electricity; a momentary flow of creamy discharge filtered through her clothing, spattering the sheet as my fingers flicker across the soaking mound of her heaving vulva; so see-thru wet you can almost count the hairs; the sodden material squeezing in time with her convulsing holes.
In another, Carla is bent over with her legs wide apart and her head buried in a pillow. Her arse is spread nice and wide, with the string of her underwear doing little to disguise the source of the filth that is freely flowing from her whorish little cunt — a steady dripping falls out of her, pooling on the mattress below; a retreating wand, expelling flying droplets of glinting cum, flees left of screen.
I imagined how nice it would be to, at that very moment, to simply drag the string aside and fill her up with my raging cock; fuck her until our knees are resting in puddles of piss and cum. Maybe I’d splash my hands in all that outpouring, wipe it all over her, make her whole body stink of it; then lick her clean and start all over again — the mere sound of the wand being switched on making her belly clench and her pussy drip . . .
Having obsessively fiddled about with every stunning image until each seemed to me in perfect sync with its many layered intent — beavering away at my steaming laptop, a fifty year old victim of the modern age, being bombarded for hours at a time with bright girlie photons — upon completion I emailed them to Carla — my thinking being that she would be less likely to lose faith in the project if I could show her how committed I was. In response, Carla said the images looked fantastic. To which I said I was a bit worried about her. Carla’s final word being not to worry; she had enjoyed it.
Although I felt increasingly confused by this Malagan Goddess — bearing in mind that I am a master of confusion — one thing I did know: if by some miraculous set of circumstances I ever managed to actually get my cock inside her, I could be certain she’d light up like a fucking pin-ball machine!
And I stand by that:)
As I waited for Carla to complete her commission I continued worrying that the very act of my commissioning her might have been improper — I mean, laundry is one thing.
Nursing an increasingly anxious weight in the pit of my traitorous guts about Carla being so young, not to mention petite, and cute, and let’s not forget that her pussy smelt like it tasted of pure orgasms, I couldn’t help thinking the following:
If one was to attach a short length of rope to each of the four corners of Carla’s bedframe, attaching each also to four ringed leather wrist and ankle cuffs worn by sweet naked Carla Regaliza herself, it would be a most pleasing situation to find oneself partaking of. I think it would be a good idea also to cuff her just above the knees — roped to the sides of the bed — gotta keep those legs open; no tricks.
Sliding two fingers directly into Carla’s cunt, from fingertip to knuckle in one endless surge, I forcefully massage her G-spot whilst crushing and rolling her clit with my thumb — the knee restraints proving their worth in keeping that squelching little pussy exactly where it needs to be. Just for fun, as Carla looks down at herself — blushing and breathing hard — I withdraw my fingers and write my name on her abdomen in her own creamy muck; before deleting the text with a sweep of my palm across her smearing belly, moving up to her indescribably pert tits, pinching her nipples with my rough juicy fingers; and wiping my hand over her protesting face.
Then back the fingers go, straight into that dirty little hole, searching out each dripping seam, flickering around that dribbling piss hole, coaxing a deluge with a slow clicking action. Restrained and immobile, Carla grits her teeth and growls, or opens her mouth wide and strains her perfect Spanish chin — her green eyes strobing; rolling up into her head as though she’s trying to take a peek at her own brain. All the while my fingers flexing — my dirty middle-aged digits squeezing cum from a squealing teenager.
Then back up across that tiny body, scraping my cum drenched nails over her sensitized flesh, covering her in her own stinking discharge, slavering her with wave after wave of wet sensation, giving her but a moment to breath, before attacking that juicy little fuckhole again . . .
Ping!
C: “Hey. I’m gonna take more of the pics now.”
Over the next three hours Carla sent me the outstanding image sets for the remaining outfits. The first set from this session (outfit three) comprising the complete removal of a black leotard and black tights, with more heavy work from the wand, all the while gagged and blindfolded — the gusset of the leotard suffering a thorough soaking in its journey from cunt to laundry bin.
The final set (outfit four), the set I had essentially left to Carla without any instruction, was the best. In this series of twenty-five images, photographed in the bathroom, Carla wears only a blue swimming costume, gagged and blindfolded.
To begin with Carla stands in the tub with her arms reaching up to the ceiling and her legs wide apart. It would be a simple thing to just lean in and mess with her cunt — I mean really mess with it; yank the gusset of her swimming costume down with one hand, and fuck with her holes with the other; getting every bony inch of every dry finger wet in Carla’s gurgling cunt; sharing the slippery action with her puckering little arsehole; messing her up like it was some sloppy recipe; the drips on the clean white of the tub clanging like the shameful tolls of secret bells, that drip slow down the thighs of fresh young students in bathrooms during the long winter nights.
As the photographs evolve, a jerky movie strung together over twenty-five frames, Carla descends into the tub and spreads her glorious legs nice and wide — the stretchy gusset of her swimming costume creamed taut across her ready hole. Although it is not possible to discern Carla’s facial features in the image, it is possible to read the emotion she conveys. The expression she adopts – filtered through the straining ball-gag, concealed by the blindfold – is one of excited nostril flaring terror. Within moments the piss is bubbling up through the costume and her throat is making some kind of ah sound and she’s swaying from side to side — well as much as she can, given her constriction in the tub — her pussy visibly pulsating, making her piss in waves.
Her face dilates further, her lips retracting to reveal sharp little teeth, her nostrils gasping wildly, her muscles and nerves zigzagging like lightning to the tips of her toes.
The piss soaks down her swimming costume, over her tits, leaking from the neck line, turning the blue material almost black as it travels.
Sincerely it would be a thrill to peel aside that pissy gusset and slide something large into one of those little girlie holes. Maybe a big gnarly rubber cock, plunged straight down into the heart of the slut, making her lips smack with every ceaseless thrust, banging her cervix and shifting her innards about. Little spatters of cum shower down amongst the piss, covering Carla’s arsehole with a spray of milky stars, soon rubbed into her burning flesh by greedy fingers forcing open her twitching anus and circling about inside, pulling in every direction at once; popping the rubber cock out and setting off a squealing spring; watching the piss drain into her gapping rectum.
At the end of the series, Carla is pictured laying in the bath tub curled in a foetal position, soaking up a pool of her own piss, blindfolded and gagged, her sodden swimming costume around her waist, her skin glistening, her beautiful face in the beautiful filth by the beautiful plughole . . .