I realize I'm grinding my teeth a little in frustration after the erotic display you've put on. Several different temptations leap to the fore of my mind. I could switch the flash drives while you're out of view. I could roofie your drink. I could quickly release my granite-hard dick and stroke myself to orgasm in, I'm sure, seconds. But in the end I'm just not that sort of asshole, the kind who'd break agreed-upon rules, never mind the flaunting of legalities or basic mores. I've agreed to the rules of the day, and this is what I've paid handsomely for. It seems to be going pretty well so far, so I'll see where this leads.
As if you can hear what I'm thinking, your voice calls out again from the bathroom amidst the rustle of hangars. "So Jay, tell me... why would you pay some girl on the internet to come and pose for you? Can't you get a girl on your own to do this? Or are they chicken?"
"I've got a thing for exhibitionists. Somebody secure enough, sexual enough, to get off on guys seeing them naked, that turns me on. That seems to fit you pretty well, judging from how often you put pictures up on reddit. Plus you wear glasses a fair bit, which also turns me on, since I dig intelligence, or at least the appearance of it. Since you actually seem to have a brain to go with the specs, well, I'm pretty much done for where you're concerned."
"You already have me here putting on sexy underwear for you, y'know... there's no need to flatter me any more."
"Eh, well, you asked. I also like lingerie -- picking it out, imagining what it'll look like when it's on, then seeing it on in person... Every stage of that is exciting to me. Add on to that the idea of directing a photoshoot to get the shots I've always thought about taking myself, in person... A shoot like this is a long-time fantasy I've had, so I splurged and got exactly what I wanted, all the way around."
"But don't you have a wife or a girlfriend you could do this with? You're not hideously ugly or anything."
"Gee, thanks."
"Ha ha... You know what I mean, though. Can't you get a girl on your own to do this, without having to pay her?"
I frown, and pause before answering. "Remember when you told me I couldn't ask you whether you had a boyfriend, or who takes those pictures you post, or your name? No questions?"
"Yeah, I do. Alright, point taken. But you still have a hard-on, right?"
I hadn't expected that question so my answer is a fairly sputtered, "What do you think?"
You giggle. "I think you're still fucking horny, that's what I think. I'm almost done, I'll be out in a sec."
You're getting off on this as much as I am, I think. I am lost again in reverie as you dress for me. Having a guy pay to photograph you in lingerie he bought just for you has to be a turn-on, I'm sure. Except you're gonna walk out the door with all these pictures, all these clothes I bought, and a bunch of my money; I'm gonna walk out with memories. You are getting the better of this deal, surely. But as I told you, a long-time fantasy fulfilled is worth splurging on if it's fulfilled in the right way, to the utmost.
Opening the bathroom door, you emerge without a word, letting the image speak for itself. The oversized man's flannel shirt covers your torso completely; your bare thighs are a tease and a promise. Your hair is still pinned up tightly but you've added your glasses. I can tell you feel sexy by the way you slink to the spot between bed and camera and stand at attention, your hands clasped behind you with head held high, jutting your chest out confidently. That sly smirk is back and you're staring the camera down as if daring it to attack.
After an introductory shot I speak up. "Let down your hair, please." I feel as though I'm trying to regain some measure of control over the situation, control that I likely never had in the first place; still, I'd like to feel as though I'm not completely at your mercy here. Lie to myself, in other words.
Deliberately and slowly, your hands come up to remove the bobbypins holding your hair up. Gradually your curls fall to your shoulders as you shake your head a bit; the effect is exquisite, and I snap a couple at random. Your eyes never leave the camera lens, knowing you're looking right at whoever shall see these pictures, and knowing what they're thinking as they do: that you are dead sexy and don't care who knows.
"Unbutton the shirt. Slowly."
Your smile creeps up a notch for half a second but then disappears, replaced by an earnest seriousness. Just as I asked you take your time with it, but as I catch tiny glimpses of what's underneath I grow impatient. "Maybe not that slowly." With a slight shrug you unbutton the rest and let your hands fall to your sides, content (for the moment) to let me direct.