More Photography than Drawing

It’s early afternoon when the doorbell rings. You’ve been waiting for it, your dick semi-hard from the prospect of it. You’ve switched on all the statuettes. Brianna’s there, her sketchbooks clasped to her chest pushing up her breasts, her face radiant, her brown eyes eager. She’s wearing a thin, rollneck black jumper and a short black skirt. The way her top clings to her body suggests she’s not wearing a bra.

You gesture for her to go to the lounge. You’re about to offer her a drink when she interrupts.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Brianna.”

“I was thinking. It would be easier if I was to take photos of you posing and then draw from them later. It would mean you wouldn’t have to stand there for so long.”

As you study her, she licks her lips. “And that would give us more time for other parts of the session?”

She nods. Yes, it would give more time for the kissing, and the cuddling, and the sex. Tempting. But then again, it would look suspicious if someone looked at her phone and saw pictures of you posing. They might get the right idea.

“Alright, but only clothed posing.” One thing for her to have pictures of you clothed. Another thing for her to have pictures of you naked.

She nods.

“So, how would you like me?”

“I was thinking I’d like you in a shirt and proper trousers, sir. Like you wear in school. But I was thinking with a glass of wine in your hand.”

You’re wearing a t-shirt, jumper and jeans. You’ll have to change.

“You’ve thought this out.”

“Yes, sir. I’m thinking of illustrating a story I’m writing. A young girl is seduced by an older man. So, I’d like some pictures of you looking debonair to start with. Can I have a glass of wine as well?”

You agree. Brianna has a glass of white from the bottle in the fridge. You pour yourself one as well. Then you head upstairs to change. When you come back down you notice she’s been rearranging the furniture.

She’s soon directing you to sit in the armchair with the glass of wine, and she paces the other side of the lounge working out the best snaps. For about five minutes you take various poses. She shows you when she has taken one she really likes.

“Sir, could you unbutton your shirt?”

You’re reticent. “I told you no photos of me naked. If the wrong person saw those, we’d both be in trouble.”

“But I’ve got drawings of you naked?”

“You can always say the drawings are from your imagination. We can’t say that of photos.”

“I’m not asking you to take your shirt off, sir. Just a few buttons.”

She gives you the puppy dog eyes look, and you can’t say no to that. Anyway, you’re both going to get naked pretty soon. You do a few buttons, which becomes a few more. Soon, your chest is showing. And that’s when you call it an end.

“No more photos. Drawings from now on. Put your phone down.”

She does. And retrieves her small, secret sketchbook.

“You can get naked now, sir.”

“You know the rule. I get naked. You get naked.”

She’s already pulling the black jumper over her head. As suspected, she’s not wearing a bra. When she drops her skirt, she reveals she’s not wearing any underwear.

“No knickers?”

“I thought they’d get in the way. Sir, can you keep your shirt on, and unbuckle your trousers, and have your cock out.”

You arrange yourself as she wants you, flies undone, pants pushed down, cock resting on the cotton.

“Oh, it needs to be bigger and harder.”

It’s still semi-erect.

“You’ve only just got naked. It is responding to that.”

“I think I need to encourage it.”