Posts tagged otto Photuz
Shuttering to Think

Men at bars ask if he’s my father. He grabs my ass lasciviously saying, “What? We have a very progressive relationship.” 

The stranger that was trying to hit on him up curls his lips in disgust and looks at me with pity.  “He’s what we’d call a pig, isn’t he, dear?”

I grin and grab my friend’s ass in return, closing the circle of our bodies so that we’re thigh to thigh. “I usually call him uncle,” I say.

“So he’s your husband?”

We both laugh and turn away from the nosy stranger.  We’ve spent years not putting a label on our “relationship” why the hell would we start now?

It started as photos. So many photos.  Each shoot darker, edgier, racier.  There was no limit to what I’d do for his lens.  When he wore a tie and shiny shoes so I could kneel at his feet, I fell deeply in lust.  I pretended to play with myself in a mirror while this faceless man watched, my friend playing the man while taking photos with the other hand.  Dr Jekyll and Mr Otto. When he grabbed my hair to angle my head for a photo, I wasn’t pretending for the camera anymore.  The moment was real. Or was it?

Photographers are complicated.  I’ve been a little bit in love with all of the good ones. I kind of have to be in order to give that much of myself to their camera and art.  If I faked it, it would show, the photos would look limp and lackluster.  But as soon as the lens cap goes on, the lights go off, and we put on street clothes the moment ends, the fantasy is gone.

Except when it lingered. There have been a few men able to hold my heart in their hand long after the job was done.  That lust remaining in the air even after we’ve put the fantasy on the shelf.  Or were we still holding onto our roles?  Confused?  Unwilling to let the moment pass, tempted by something that wasn’t there?

Maybe, which is why I don’t make a habit of tussling with photographers.  It gets too weird too quick, the line between reality and the art too thin.  Besides I’d rather shoot a million times with someone whose images I love than fuck them once and ruin it all.  Because that’s how it usually goes.  Once we’ve had each other, why bother pretending for the camera.  Reality can’t live up to the fantasy. 

Until it does.  This particular photographer and I danced around each other forever.  The yearning was there but neither of us wanted to be the one to break the rules and step over our professional boundaries. It wasn’t until I said, “Touch me.” And took his hand to direct it towards my body that we allowed ourselves to bring a dose of reality to our camera games. 

And those years of not touching made the finally touching that much better.  There was no question both of us wanted the other.  Requited lust had us breathless and giddy by the time we had to call it an evening and part ways.  And yet we hadn’t ruined the fantasy.  I still wanted more of him and to crawl around in rope and chain and latex for his camera. He was an exception to my very stringent rule.  The one man I will touch and pose for as the spark never gets old.

“Father, uncle, hubby, pig.  Want to hit me now?”  I asked him recently.  Biting my lip and giving him a sassy grin, I was ready to move from the socializing to the playing section of the evening.  He cocked his eye brow and looked down at me like, of course! His chuckle turns into a breathy “Yeah.”

At the cross he clips me in with carabineers and leather cuffs, stretching my arms wide.  The thrill of our play so deep that I don’t mind the lack of rope, he more than makes up for it in other ways.  He’s warm and just the right amount of scary standing behind me.  I never know what to expect from him, just that he always stays in my boundaries so I don’t have to stay on the alert, I can melt into his cruelty.    

He starts with floggers, building the intensity as I dance and moan under his ministrations with leather flails. I know what we look like together, how hot our play is. Its well documented, recorded a million times over in billions of pixels for the whole world to see.  So I know what he’s seeing.  That my ample ass turns him on.  No question about that. No reason for him to shoot it so frequently and thoroughly if it weren’t true.  So I can be totally in the moment, enjoy the pain me expertly doles out with no wonder or worry. 

He hits me until I literally feel like I’m flying though I’m pinned to a cross. He hits me until I have bruises that last a week. Tiny purple circles like a connect the dots game across my thighs that I smile at in the shower and bathroom.  Reminders that pull him to the front of my imagination in the middle of the work day.  He hits me until I’m so high I can barely stand or speak.  He’s filled my head with happy chemicals and in a brain newly free of pharmaceuticals I am awash only in the dopamine and serotonin that we made together.  I’m tripping on our weird connection, the drugs we’ve made with our bodies.

This is real.

Dirty Dates

The latest anthology to contain one of my dirty stories is now out on shelves and in e-book format! Dirty Dates edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel is full of stories of long time lovers spicing thing up by sharing their forbidden fantasies.  My contribution is "Magic Words"  in which a woman and her lover explore the power that one little word can contain.

I'm not going to ruin the surprise by telling you what that word is but I will share with you a sexy little snippet of the story and the photo that inspired it. 

My photographer friend, Otto and I have gone on some pretty filthy adventures for his camera.  On this particular day he was kind enough to humor my lust for older men in shiny shoes and ties by playing my Dirty Uncle Otto. I sat in his lap in my argyle knee socks and photo magic happened. He's a professional and a gentleman but I left that shoot so hot and bothered I had to write a story to recover.

If you enjoy the excerpt please consider buying a copy of the book.  If you're near Portland, I'll even sign it for you!  And if you need sexy photos taken, may I recommend otto_phokuz.

Excerpt from "Magic Words"

"His voice is low and controlled, a late night radio deejay purring into the airwaves. “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul, Lolita...” I can't help but giggle at his choice of reading material, nor can I resist being swept away while listening to him read.

He stops and I hear the book being closed, followed by the further unlatching of his pants and belt. “Come sit on my lap.”

He reaches his arm out to guide me as I turn, eagerly moving to sit facing him. He shakes his head, giving me the “turn around” gesture again. Not wanting to displease him, I turn and wait, a bit disappointed I wasn’t even given an opportunity to see that part of him I’ve been longing for all afternoon.

“Sit,” he says, using my hips to guide me backwards. Convinced this will lead to more chaste reading of Nabokov, I’m surprised when he stops me just above his lap. I feel him adjusting himself. “Sit in my lap properly.”

I’m not sure what he means until I realize he’s using one hand to guide me lower while the other holds his cock steady, pointing in the direction of my pussy as an offering. The moment his cock touches my lips I realize how warm and inviting he feels. I can’t contain myself another second as I slide down the length of him in a rush. Once fully inside me, he grasps my hips, keeping me from moving. “There, that's better.”

He wraps his arms around me, holding me close, and kisses my neck. His cock is so hard it's almost painful; this only makes me crave him more. Small noises fall from my lips—moans, cooing and wordless begging—so desperate for him that I'm not even sure what I'm pleading for.

“Shhh,” he whispers in my ear. “Shh, darling, it's okay.” He continues to hold me still; the lack of moving while so absolutely full of him is torture. I so badly want him to fuck me that I'm unsure how long I can endure this.

He reaches for the book, using his strength to hold my back against his chest with his other hand so I can't move. He reads, this time quieter and closer to my ear, like a bedtime story. “There might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child...”

He holds me tight to his body as he reads, only letting go for one brief moment to adjust my skirt so that it covers my lap. He drapes it modestly over my thighs so it would appear to anyone watching as if I’m merely sharing the chair with him.

I give into the situation, enjoying the wickedness of his cock being inside me while hearing a story."