You find the camera and start taking a few shots.

As Randall sashayed up the stairs in search of the camera, you followed a few steps behind. Your eyes were drawn to the shorts drawn snugly over the shapely feminine backside. It seemed that for the foreseeable future your life was going to be peppered with surreal moments. As the weeks continued to slip away to the passage of time, your friendship with Randall had endured, but it always felt odd to stop and think about the hard truth at any given moment. You were marching upstairs to find a camera to sexy photos of your gorgeous history teacher who just so happened to be dressed as a video game sex symbol. What would people say? you mused. When you added the fact that said history teacher was also your lifelong best friend and had the brain of a teenage boy, things made more sense. More sense, perhaps, but it didn't stop your time with Randall feeling like a waking fantasy gone awry.

You followed Randall into his bedroom as he searched through the drawers looking for the camera. At first you thought he had meant the video camera, but thinking back to the contents of the device, you knew that there was simply no way he would hand that over. It did put some pieces in place though, especially concerning last night. Randall had written off his Miss Card performance on your fantasy of your teacher, but his display on the camera made you think that it might have been more personal than he let on. It seemed strange that YOU could somehow be a part of Randall's fantasy. There was no need to embarrass him about it. After all, you still couldn't believe your dumb luck that you actually got to have sex with anyone who looked like Miss Card. Staring at the impressive figure, you only hoped that it would continue.

As Randall looked about the room, you couldn't keep yourself from drinking in his curvaceous form. His clothes were practically painted on. You knew that Randall wasn't short on complaints about his weight gain, but you actually approved of it. Miss Card's breasts were practically supernatural in the way they defied gravity, having no real sag for being so large. A trend that did not seem to be reversing as they slowly grew. It was astonishing that he had ordered HH cup bras. One H was so big already. Similarly, Miss Card's perfect heart shaped ass was high and round. You attributed that to the exercise regime she undertook. In Randall's care however, it was taking on a softer, less toned bubble. While Miss Card's waist seemed not to suffer for Randall's lack of care, her flat stomach was all but gone. You actually found the light curve of Randall's stomach sexier comparatively. It seemed to actually accentuate his figure.

"Ha! Finally found the bugger!" Randall exclaimed, camera in hand.

"Dude, you know you wouldn't have that problem if you just kept your shit organized," you chastised. While on the surface, the house had airs of an organized, professional thirty something, it was very clear to you that it was a house lived in by Randall. "You sure you don't have some of Miss Card's latent organizational skills laying around?"

Randall chuckled. "Fuck you, Tim! I just moved. Jeez..." he retorted. "Besides, there's already too much of Miss Card already floating around in here," he said, tapping the side of his head. "At least this way, you still know it's me in here." Randall looked away, his expression forlorn. It only lasted a second before he was back, jovially leading you down the hall to the adjacent bedroom. You'd seen that look before, whenever he was lamenting his condition or saying something cryptic about his role as Miss Card. You were certain that there was something he wasn't telling you. Randall was never very good at expressing his need for help. Here in the spare bedroom with a Lara Croft photo session about to take place, it wasn't the time. You weren't going to forget though. Perhaps it was the sex talking, but you felt closer to Randall than ever. You were determined to not let him suffer in silence.

"I'm ready for my close up, Mister DeMille," cooed Randall, suggestively, handing you the camera.

"What exactly do you want me to do?" you asked, unsure of what Randall was planning.

"I'm not exactly an expert, Tim. I'll pose, you shoot. If the shot looks weird or something, we can try to take it again." You shrugged your shoulders, seemed easy enough. "We'll check 'em out afterwards."

Randall backed up against the wall. The room was completely bare. The walls were white, the carpet a basic beige. He made a confident smirk and then started to repeat some of his actions from earlier. He posed, rolled, twirled, and dove, banana guns blazing. Despite his rudimentary efforts at creating a costume, highlighted by his fruit-based firearms, Randall continued to give a stellar performance as Lara. He knelt, carefully taking aim. Next, he turned his back to you, smiling coyly over his shoulder. Pose after pose, he was not only a stunning Lara, but a capable model.

As you continued to snap picture after picture, you lost yourself in the vision of the beautiful woman before you. Her smile, her confidence, her beauty. Nothing suggested that she wasn't exactly who she appeared to be: your model. You began to move around as well, turning the camera this way and that, creating angles, snapping shots. This was the most talent your office had seen in months. She was born to be a star... Minutes passed before you realized you were kneed deep in another fantasy. Randall was striking some pretty feminine poses, pulling his shoulders back and thrusting his chest out. Whenever he was playing at being a woman, it became difficult for your to remember that under all the curves and girlish body language, it was really Randall.

You felt a little self conscious at your indulgence. Overcompensating, you adopted a cheesy accent, acting like the sleazy photography you had fantasized about being. "Yes. Yeeeess. That's it! Make love to the camera!"

Randall broke his modeling act. Laughing, he asked, "What the fuck are you doing with your voice?"

"Whaaaaat? You don't like?"

"It's like George's bastardized Italian accent had a love child with a French pornographer. Is that what you were going for?"

"Um, I don't really know," you said, starting to chuckle yourself. "You're not the only one who can do terrible accents!" Randall's laughter was as infectious as ever; the two of you were stuck cackling at your terrible voice work. After you'd gotten that out of your system and regained some of your composure, you asked, "So, ready for another round of photos or do you want to call it quits?"

"If anything, I think this bra needs to call it quits." He winced, rubbing at his shoulders. "My tits are fucking killing me."

"So...?"

"So, give me a minute." Randall dazzled you with his perfect smile. "I'll be right back." He trotted back out of the room and you could hear his bedroom door close.

Ten minutes later, you heard the door open. You could hear a faint whistling, the tune sounded familiar. Randall entered the room covered in Miss Card's large, fluffy, pink bathrobe. Incongruently, he seemed to have touched up his appearance, despite appearing to have dressed down. He was wearing makeup again. His red locks were free about his shoulders, wavy from being in the Lara-braid. Large hoop earrings dangled from his ears and he was perched on a set of silver platform high heels.

"Uh, Randall, are you whistling 'I Know What Boys Like'?"

"Hey," he joked dryly, "I know what guys want."

"And just what does that happen to be?" you asked, playing along.

"I'm assuming something like this," he said, removing the robe slowly. Your eyes went wide. It was a bathing suit. A blue, sling bathing suit. Two long straps draped over his shoulders, perfectly positioned to mask his nipples, eventually converging as it pulled tight against his crotch. Randall had looked sensational in the white one piece at your family barbeque, but comparatively, he may as well have been a soccer mom. Randall smiled proudly and twirled slowly. The straps were a couple of inches wide in the front, but in back, it was little more than a string running the length of his back, disappearing between the perfect spheres of his ass cheeks. "You can thank Amanda and Carla. They thought Miss Card's swimsuit collection was a little, uh, conservative and that I needed to spice things up."

"It's really, um, sexy," you said, redfaced. You could feel yourself starting to harden just looking at him.

"Thanks," Randall chirped, clearly pleased by your reaction. "Picture time?" You nodded.

The session had become a decidedly different beast. Dressed as Lara, Randall had been suggestive, playful, bashful. Now, he was overtly sexual. Randall arched his back, a lustful look on his face. It was weird to think it, but he looked... slutty. The heavy eyeshadow and mascara made his eyes pop. He toyed with the straps, teasing the sight of his large nipples. He squatted, crawled, and strutted about the room. You took picture after picture, but the way Randall acted, it was if you weren't even there. His mouth opened suggestively, he licked his lips. He moaned softly. You tried to focus on the pictures, but watching Randall's sensuous form writhe on the floor and pose provocatively was making your balls ache. It was actually too much to take. You lowered the camera. Randall noticed immediately.

"Everything okay?" he asked sweetly.

"Um, I don't really know how to say this, but you're killing me..."

Randall smiled, arched his back, putting his hands on the tops of his breasts. "You don't like me like this, Timmy? No more sweatpants. Posing for you..."

You took a deep breath. "I love it, but it's too much of a tease. I feel like I'm ready to explode!"