“Click-wish, click-whoosh,” the shutter of Marilyn’s Nikon snapped rapidly in staccato bursts. Her impromptu subject pursed her blood-red, pouting lips, her hands squeezing her taut, erect nipples through the thin fabric of her top as she posed, loving being the center of attention in the art gallery. The onlookers—art collectors, critics, reporters, patrons, and the artsy crowd—watched in hushed dismay, their faces masks of emotions ranging from awe to open lust.

Marilyn Gentry, sometimes referred to as Miss Gentry, was known to be a reclusive artist. Hailed as the female Mapplethorpe of the twenty-first century, she was shy, timid, sexually repressed, and quite the introvert. Her camera’s lens, however, was the polar opposite.

Her photographs, in stark black and white, played with light and shadow, making the lighting and emotionally evocative mood as much the subject as her models. The portraits and shots she produced captured the primal sexuality of humankind in all its guises. Gay or straight, lithe or rotund, Marilyn’s conservative and stifling upbringing rebelled through her camera’s eye by capturing wanton sexuality, erotically artistic.

During her gallery shows, such as this one, she tended to sulk in the shadows, avoiding the spotlight. The patrons would come in, commenting on subtext, paying thousands for a nude picture depicting sexuality to hang on their office wall, and discuss her brilliance. Polarizing, she was either hailed as a genius or condemned and protested as a smut peddler. Even at that very moment, as she frenziedly photographed a complete stranger amid her art show, Bible-thumping zealots picketed.

In her more than fifty years, Marilyn had few lovers, even fewer friends. Her life of hermitage was considered a mysterious affection, typical of those touched with the spark of genius. The truth was that Miss Gentry was terrified of social interactions due to her strict and sheltered upbringing, so it was extremely out of character for her to grab her camera, wade into the throngs of people, and start photographing a total stranger.

The stranger’s name was Amber, although Marilyn didn’t know that, yet. As she stayed out of the fray, pretending to sip a glass of champagne, Amber had caught Marilyn’s attention, captivating and mesmerizing her. Overcome with the lusty muse of creation, Marilyn forgot her agoraphobia and grabbed her camera, enthralled by Amber’s sexual aura and passion-inducing charisma.

Amber was a nobody as far as the art world was concerned. Her now ex-boyfriend, as of a few minutes prior, had wanted to see Miss Gentry’s show to see what all the hype was about. He did not approve of Amber’s choice of clothing. When Marilyn first spied her, they were standing in front of one of her pictures, a nude woman grasping a man’s penis, with diagonal stripes of light and shadow playing over their bodies, arguing.

To him, the tie-dyed tights beneath her frayed, tartan micro-miniskirt and backless halter that exposed more than half of her breasts on either side were too slutty, drawing unwanted attention. Her stark crimson lips, matching the red ends of her multicolored hair, made her look like a whore, according to him. Amber’s mocking laughter, sounding like a succubus’ promise to Marilyn’s ears, consumed the notorious photographer, and the first clicks of her Nikon captured the uninhibited woman grabbing two flutes of champagne from the table, downing one, staining its rim with her scarlet lipstick while hurling the contents of the second into her boyfriend’s face.

“Get the fuck out of my sight and out of my life,” Amber insisted. Though she stamped her foot and pointed to the door, her tone held amusement more than ire.

The young woman shook out her long, wavy hair, the black velvet tresses that faded into brilliant, fiery reds cascading over her bare back, as she turned toward the table to place the now-empty champagne flute as her humiliated date forlornly exited. Seeing Marilyn, the camera in her frenetic, possessed hands, Amber smiled seductively and began playing for the camera.

At first, she posed playfully, Amber’s lack of inhibitions spurring her to more and more seductive, sultry, then lusty poses. She stuck her shapely ass out, the few inches of her skirt riding up to accentuate her curvy hips. Her pussy stuck out between her curvy thighs, swelling the fabric of her leggings.

“Stick out your chest. You’re too sexy to hide such perfection,” Marilyn urged. The onlookers stared, a running commentary washing over the gallery attendees in hushed whispers.

Amber laughed and plucked a glass of red wine from an art connoisseur, then poured it over her wispy halter. Her perfect, round breasts proudly stood out, the vino-stained fabric clinging to their contours, somehow seeming more erotic and sexier than if she’d been merely topless.

Marilyn, overcome with a creative passion, stripped the ever-present bandanna from her long, dark blond hair and tossed the paisley square of cloth to her model. Amber held it before her as the shutter clicked continuously, then stripped off her body-molding leggings and stood, brazenly, in only the miniskirt and soaked top, the bandanna clenched between her teeth.

As the crowd oohed and awed, Amber felt the fires of passion ignite in her core. In the center of the gallery was a stylized, modern art sculpture. Cast in gleaming steel, the flowing, bulbous design roughly resembled a centaur or horse in liquid form. Inspired by horny lust and the constant clicking of Marilyn’s photographing, Amber stuck out her long, pink tongue and licked the objet d’art as she tore off her flimsy, gossamer thong and fingered her overheated cunt.

“Straddle it.” Marilyn was in her groove. Her camera was both her armor and shield, its lens capturing her innermost desires, turning her pent-up sexual urges into erotic art.

Swinging her legs over the glistening, amorphic steel, Amber humped the sculpture, tearing her wine-stained top from her chest, moaning and grunting in horny release. Still, the shutter clicked and whooshed; Marilyn felt the lusty zeal consume her as she stopped giving her new model instructions and simply let Amber cavort in front of her hungry lens.

Screaming in orgasm, Amber stared at a lone patron, an avant-garde-looking man with black-dyed hair and wearing leather pants. “Give me your cock,” she commanded. “Fuck my face.”

The man put down his hipster drink and approached as if in a daze. The slutty Amber ripped his pants down to his ankles, wrapped her flaming hair around his turgid shaft, and shoved her open, eager mouth down its length. The crowd gasped and applauded, though Marilyn paid them no heed. She was in a trace of creative bliss, recording the horny acts unfolding during her art show in her signature, stark style.

“Blow your load all over my face while Miss Gentry shoots you shooting,” Amber urged the stranger. She furiously sucked his cock and pumped the shaft, her spit-covered hair adding extra sensation.

When the man reached orgasm, he came in geyser-like spurts, shooting long tendrils all over Amber’s face, hair, chin, and neck. The sultry young vixen played with it, running her fingers through the hot, sticky cum, then rubbed it into her tits, chest, and lips.

That was how Marilyn met her new friend and muse, Amber.

The papers, the next morning, were aglow with responses to the prior evening’s debauchery. The artsy crowd lauded it as a masterpiece of performance art, citing how “meta” it was for the erotic genius, Miss Gentry, to debut her “performance art” integrated into her headlining show. Others accused her of being a smut peddler, nothing more than a porn monger, disguising her disgusting filth as art.

Nonetheless, that evening did many things for Marilyn, as well as her agent and Amber. Marilyn’s agent was immediately flooded with calls for bookings, more pictures, and a constant barrage of threatening calls of boycotting and protests. All of those were great for business, as there’s no such thing as bad press.

Amber was immediately raised from the depths of anonymity to local celebrity status. She went from being the hot cashier at a fast-food restaurant to being propositioned by the rich and famous. She refused all offers but fucked several of them if she was in that sort of mood.

Marilyn Gentry, on the other hand, went from an up-and-coming photographer to an artiste. Notoriety followed on the heels of her newly-acquired fame. Still sheepish and introverted, disbelieving in her popularity, she continued doing what she loved. This made her seem even more aloof and mysterious, which increased demand. Where her photos had previously sold for a pittance, but sometimes a few thousand dollars, she had reached the level that galleries offered her five figures just to display her works. None of this mattered to her; the fact that she and Amber had somehow bonded, becoming fast friends, warmed her soul.

Furthermore, Amber, although thirty years her junior, had become Marilyn’s mentor.

“I wish I could be more like you,” Marilyn told her one night as they sat in her home studio, going through another batch of pictures. The next show was scheduled for the coming weekend, and the “Meta” shoot, as it was already being called, was the centerpiece.

“What? You mean a slut, Mary?” Amber always called Miss Gentry “Mary.”

“Not exactly. You’re so bold and brazen; you embrace your sexuality. I could never.”

“A slut,” Amber giggled, sipping more wine. “That’s just because I don’t give a fuck.”

“How do you do it? What about what people think?”

“I do what I want, kind of like you behind the camera. And fuck what people think.”

“I’ll teach you if you want. You neither look nor act your age; I’m surprised you're not beating off men and ladies with a stick.”

“You keep using me for your muse, and I’ll teach you how to go crazy and enjoy life. Deal?”

“Sure, Amber; that sounds lovely.”

Amber and Marilyn were inseparable after that. Miss Gentry continued to photograph her lusty muse, and Amber worked on bringing the woman out of her stunted shell. Two weeks went by with them both happier than they’d been in their entire lives. All the while, Amber teased, instructed, and coaxed her photographer into and through her transformation.

A few days after that, Marilyn was physically transformed by hairdressers, a complete makeover, and an entirely new wardrobe. The remnants of her stymied, socially conservative personality objected at every instance.

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“You’re a famous, artistic photographer. Your hair needs to scream, ‘fuck me.’”

“I like how I dress; it’s comfortable.”

“Too frumpy, too concealing, too blasé. You need to show off what the Goddess gave you. Free your boobs a little, show off your ass.”

“I don’t need all this eyeshadow; I look like a streetwalker.”

“You look fucking hot. You make my cunt drip just from looking at you.”

“Amber, what are you doing?”

“Cutting off your granny panties—not sexy. The maximum allowable cunt-coverage is a flimsy thong.”

“Are we done, now? I feel foolish.”

“Yes, Mary,” Amber eyed her up and down. “Women less than half your age would kill to look like you! Let's go to lunch before the show, so we can work on how you talk to potential lovers.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my diction.”

“It’s what you say, not how you say it, but we should work on your tone, as well. Be a butterfly; break out of your cocoon.”

At lunch, Amber, her breasts practically on display, hard nipples advertising her being braless, instructed Miss Gentry, now blond and wrapped in a sexy, figure-showing dress, in the fine art of talking like a slut.

“More wine?” their hovering waiter queried, his eyes riveted to Amber’s perfectly round tits.

“Sure thing, stud,” she smiled at him. “Is your cock as big as it looks? Write your phone number on the check, and maybe we can hook up.”

“Um,” he stuttered. “I have a girlfriend.”

“Bring her, too.”

The blushing waiter went to fetch more wine, and Amber laughed, enjoying her brazenness as well as the effect it had on those around her.

“Lesson one, Mary, be bold and let them know flat-out what you want. Men are dense and women beat around the bush too much. Take the lead.”

“I could never be so bold.”

“Sure, you can. Repeat after me. I want your hard, throbbing cock in my hot, wet cunt.”

“I can’t say that!”

“Which part?”

“Any of it. Proper ladies don’t use those words.”

“You take pictures of people fucking, and you can’t say ‘cunt?’ Pull out Mrs. Hyde and go wild. Live a little.”

“Missus Hyde? Oh, my.”

“Come on, just say it. Hot, wet cunt.”

Marilyn stuttered. “Hot…wet…c-…”

“Cunt. Say it.”

She tried once more. “Hot, wet….cu…CU…CUPCAKE; I just can’t.”

“Maybe another word for it, then?”

“Vagina?”

Amber laughed, loudly, ignoring the people staring at her. “Too clinical. You’re trying to convey arousal and horniness, not a clinical description.”

The waiter approached as Amber continued.

“Cunt, slit, twat, beaver, fuck-hole, gash, quim, velvet-lined glove, the man-eating cave of lust…”

“Cunt!” Marilyn blurted out, her face more crimson than Amber’s lipstick. “Put your cock in my hot, wet cunt.” The waiter blushed, nearly spilling the wine decanter.

“Fill mine, sexy,” Amber said to him, reaching out to pat his hard-on. Turning to Marilyn, she asked, “there, how did that feel?”

“Liberating,” she confessed. “I feel so dirty. I love it.”

The two friends, a study in contrasts, whiled away the hours until the opening of Marilyn’s new show. Multiple galleries competed to host the Meta Gala, the media was coming, and the protesters had been picketing since before noon. Miss Gentry’s agent was beside herself with glee.

“Now,” Amber lectured as they traveled to the location, “you know how to act, what to say, how to say it, and you look like one hot piece of fuck-meat. One last lesson for you.”

“Now? We don’t have the time. I need to be professional.

"Absolutely not, you don’t,” she countered. “You’re an artist, and I’m your model muse. Act like what you capture in your camera, forget the haters, and enjoy yourself.”

“I always have fun when I’m with you.”

“Thank you, but that’s not what I meant. Pretend that you are both your camera and one of your models.”

“I think I understand.”

“Good,” she laughed. “Your final lesson for tonight, my young apprentice, is to get yourself fucked.”

“You mean have sex with somebody?”

“No. I said get fucked. Fuck, hump, screw, do the beast with two backs, dance the nude tango, get multiple orgasms…”

“Multiple orgasms? Women really have those?”

“Oh, you poor dear.”

Amber ceased speaking, her hand shooting up Marilyn’s dress. The older woman gasped in shock when the manicured nails brushed against her thong panties, but she didn’t remove Amber’s hand. They gazed into each other’s eyes, a languid smile crossing Marilyn’s brilliantly-colored lips.

“How, how did you know I’m attracted to you?”

“I didn’t, Mary. I just wanted you, and I’m taking what I want, provided it’s freely given. Consider it a lesson. Just relax and I’ll make you cum hard.”

“I am the camera; I am the camera,” Marilyn Gentry softly repeated. It had become her mantra due to Amber’s constant mentioning of how fearless she is when armed with her Nikon.

Her chanting dissipated into moaning sighs when Amber moved her very sexy, barely there thong to the side and stroked her clit. Amber mewed in passion, loving the act of giving pleasure as much as she adored receiving. One of her supple fingers found its way into Mary’s dripping hole and penetrated it, lightly.

“Mmm, unnng,” was all Marilyn could manage. Her breathing became labored, the intensity of the horny passion filling her soul.

“What are you?” Amber challenged. Her free hand dipped under the waistband of her tights, fingering her own clit with impassioned fury.

“A…a slut.”

“What, umm, I’m going to cum with you. What kind of slut?” Her finger buried itself, knuckle-deep, into Gentry’s pulsing cunt, her fingers flicking and rolling over her swollen, very sensitive clit.

“I’m a...” the older woman paused, this time to moan rather than out of embarrassment. “I’m a horny slut.”

“Swear. Add ‘fucking’ into it.”

“I’m your horny, fucking slut, and I’m going to cum on your fingers. Oh, shit.”

“Me, too.”

The ride-share driver swerved, not paying attention to the road as the two women, one young and slutty, the other older and sultry, kissed passionately, orgasming together as they moaned into each other’s mouths.

“That’s one,” Amber proudly stated, licking Marilyn’s juices from her finger. “Your mission is to have at least two more, one by fucking.”

“I’m ready,” Marilyn affirmed. “Let’s wave at the protesters for drumming up business, sell some pictures, and find a nice hard, um, cock—there, I said it—to, err, fuck my hot, wet cunt.”

Their car arrived at the gallery, and it looked like a Hollywood premiere. Row upon row of new fans lined the sidewalks, the gallery was overfilled, beyond capacity, and every offended zealot in the tri-state area had come to protest.

“Porn’s not art; sane not smut,” they were screeching.

“At least they thought up a new chant,” Amber giggled.

“Whore!” They jeered at Amber when they emerged from the ride-share. “Cover your sin.”

“This sin?” she taunted. Standing boldly in the middle of the crowd, Amber pulled up her shirt, exposing her succulent, round tits. Some gasped, some condemned, but others cheered and several snapped pictures.

“Let’s go be famous,” she laughed, taking Marilyn’s arm and leading her into the Meta Gala exhibit.

The show was the event of the season. Marilyn was stunned. The crowd consisted of Bohemians, aficionados, the horny crowd, and art buyers; bidding wars erupted. Her agent, with her girlfriend in tow, scampered back and forth, her face glowing with sated greed. Marilyn surprised herself by going wild, which consisted of two champagne flutes, and conversing with the patrons and fans; she found herself bemused that she was having a good time.

Amber was a sexy ball of horny, picture-selling fury. She tackled the reporters and news persons with charismatic confidence. Her black and red hair bobbed delightfully as she talked about Marilyn’s genius and art. The vixen mooned the protesters and had no qualms candidly discussing the previous, impromptu shoot in the gallery.

“No, it wasn’t planned at all,” she told the crowd of microphones in front of her. “We just wordlessly connected at the moment, and it was game on.”

“Oh, that,” she continued as another question was shouted. “No, we didn’t orchestrate anything at all. Just look at the expression on my face,” she gestured to a surprisingly well-captured picture of her grinding her exposed pussy against the steely sculpture. “You can’t plan or act something like that. I just felt like humping the horsey statue until I came all over it. That’s art; that’s life, impulsive, unrestrained, and laying your soul bare for all to appreciate.”

Marilyn Gentry had hit the big time. She was neither aware nor concerned with that. Her focus was on Amber, her muse and friend. During the festivities, Amber approached her friend. She was pulling a demure and handsome man, obviously rich from the looks of his suit, along with her.

“Mary, this is Franklin, and he’s not only a fan, but he wants to fuck you.”

Marilyn just stared. Despite her recent training, she was terrified to admit that she felt a strong, physical attraction to the man.

“Um, pleased to meet you, Franklin.” she held out her hand to shake. She melted when he delicately grasped her hand, bent forward, and kissed the back of her hand in an erotic display of chivalry.

“Say it,” Amber instructed.

“I, uh, I can’t.”

“Remember what happened on the way here? If you don’t, I’ll never do that, again. But,” she paused, “if you do, I’ll do it with my tongue.”

“I want to feel your hard, throbbing cock deep inside my hot, wet cunt,” Marilyn blurted out.

Franklin just smiled, nodding.

“I have a new idea for some photos,” she said to Amber as she took Franklin’s arm and began leading him to the back room of the art gallery. “How about tomorrow I put on a low-cut top and shorts, and you photograph me in the woods? That will be a fun addition to our next show.”

The introverted, shy, agoraphobic photographer was cured of her social and sexual fears, and all it took was Amber’s influence. She was going to get some, and she loved it.