The Photographer's Apprentice (Part 1) [MF - dubious consent, rough sex, and orgasm denial] | 2016

This was a request, so I'm not exactly sure of the abbreviations for the kinks included. So my apologies for the long title. And for those that get nervous about the "dubious consent" aspect, I tried to write it with a degree of respect and elegance, yet still with enough edge to satisfy the kink. Hopefully I accomplished the task!

I carry your lenses. I change your lenses. I greet your clients and bring them coffee and champagne. I edit your photos for hours into the night. But most of all...I watch you.

I watch you move through your studio with effortless grace, smiling so believably to those you work with; Hasselblad poised just so on your shoulder under the cascading waterfall of your dark brown hair.

I watch you stare at the monitors in your office, tweaking this color or that for hours, your soft angled face bathed in a blue LCD glow. I see how you rest your chin on your hand. How you chew your lower lip when you're debating something. How sometimes you touch yourself to images I can't see.

I've even watched you change. Stripping down after the Lullemon shoot and walking uncaringly around your office, nude for the better part of an hour.

I know, because I watch you.

"Garrett, I need you on the floor for set up..." you say into your lavaliere mic, saying the words under your breath to not interrupt the clients who are speaking to you. But unbeknownst to you my ear piece is cranked and I can hear every part of your breath round out your words, as if my cock is buried in you, driving them out of your lungs with each and every thrust.

"Garrett, I - need - you. Garrett, I. Need. You. FUCK! Garrett, I fucking need you, fuck me - GOD DAMMIT, I SAID FUCK ME!" You're screaming at me in my mind, but now only static on the mic.

I tuck away the hard-on that plagues me every moment when I'm close to you, every moment that I'm anticipating being close to you. I breath deeply. And calm myself, and strap on my equipment belt, and hustle down the stairs from the loft.

"Garrett, thank you. This is Annabelle Leche from La Perla. She's brought some models to test the light for the shoot next week. Can you set up some 72" rectangles? We can keep it simple today." Her words are like syrup rolling down the rift in my chest, through the hair I keep close shaven there, down my abs until they drip like cum around the base of my cock. It's throbbing madly. Her eyes, staring at me like I'm possessed are making it worse...

"Garrett?"

"Yeah, Kayla - sorry. Tired. I'm on it." I smile best I can to disguise my sexual inebriation. I know my head's not in the right place. I throw myself into work, setting up the softboxes quickly, checking the lights and the batteries. In the distance, Kayla is running her fingers over the camera table, making her choice like an oil painter picking a brush. Beyond her are the models. Annorexic and too young. They look awkward, like scared giraffes. A stylist is coaxing them into things that belong on a woman, not them. Things that belong on you.

"Garrett!" You wave me over. You're smiling. It's your 'business smile' for the benefit of the clients, not for me. But I'll take it. "Give the girls refreshments, then I wanna start shooting. Feel free to shoot while I'm working though. Gotta keep at that portfolio!" Annabelle Leche nods approvingly at this, as if I'm some fucking understudy. To her, maybe I am, but she doesn't understand that I'm only here because I'm addicted to you, stroking myself into oblivion each night crying out your name. Even you don't know this studio shit's beneath me. My portfolio's fine. I'm pulling in way more on weekend shoots than I am here anyway. I'm here until I fuck you. End of story. I'm here until I fix this gravity sucking sexual hole in my brain...

You leave for the equipment room, and I notice the models have their own assistant who's providing them with champagne as you walk away. I nod to Annabelle, and give her my most saccharine, yet believable smile of assurance, and I follow you.

The room used to be a dark room and has the strange circular light-trap doorway that only photographers know of. A tube within a tube, a lightless revolving door. You enter just ahead of me, and not thinking anything of my approach, close the door behind you.

I enter immediately after. Inside the tube it's pitch black and smells of your perfume - Issey Mayake. I take a moment to inhale and breathe you into me. I then remove a roll of black gaffers tape from my belt and rip off a 4" strip, stick it to my shirt, and press on through the other side of the door.

Inside the room is a large steel workbench, and rows of shelves containing camera bodies and lenses, cleaning equipment, blowers, bags; the trappings of a modern studio. You have the florescent lights on, and are busying yourself on the table in front of me. I flip the incandescents off with a flick of a finger and the red developing bulb on in the same motion. The room goes from white to black to red in the flash of an eye. I hear you gasp in fear, about to scream, but in the same moment I'm diving forward, ripping the gaffers tape off my shirt about to slap it onto your mouth.

Your hands leap up and grab my wrist in yours. You're not scared. Your eyes are squinted. You're mouth is set, teeth gritted. You're small, but you've made it in this world on your own. You think - I don't know what you think - but I realize you won't let me do what I was planning. Not easily.

"What are you doing?" You say, slowly; your voice a hiss.

"You know what I'm doing." I say, not breaking eye contact. Knowing that if I do, whatever is happening here will turn on me in an instant. I'm counting on the demeanor you've always known to shine for me right now. I'm counting on you thinking I'm not a threat.

"Are you going to hurt me?" You ask. I feel your nerve turn to iron as you say it, ready for a fight.

The strength in you is too much for me. Your sheer display of fearlessness pushes me over the edge, and I bend down and press my mouth onto yours - hard. Twisting your left arm behind you until I know it hurts - just a little. Your closed lips, fighting me, soften for a second - I feel it, and then your right hand slams across my face, you shocking me again with your surprising strength. My eyes see you on fire in front of me in the red illumination of the room. And I know I can't wait. I need you naked. I need you out of your yoga pants and out of that form fitting shirt and spread across that steel table, ass slapping metal.

You seem to think this pause is one of reconciliation. And you begin to talk. "Look, Garrett, I don't know what's gotten into you. You know we can't. I mean WHAT THE FUCK is this? I have a fucking client right outside." You're shouting in whispers.

"I can't wait anymore. I'm going to fuck on this table, right now. Consequences be damned." I start taking off the belt. You're watching. Finally. You're watching me after all these month.

I take off my shirt. You're still watching. I slide my hands into my loose-fitting pants and pull out my cock, just a bit, just enough for you to see the head which I begin to stroke, letting you see the state you'd caused. You're still watching. You're thinking. You're breathing is becoming hard.

"Ok." you say, and look me in the eyes. "Ok. Fine. But make it fast."

"No." I say. "We're doing this my way."

I actually see a flicker of a smile as I say this, but you bury it immediately.

"How do you want me then?" You ask, stepping back and jockeying your ass onto the edge of the table. You're just a few inches over 5'. The table edge is at just the right height.

"Just like this." I say. And push you fully onto the table. I yank your tight yoga pants off your hips, leaving your skin to touch the cold metal. You gasp, either from the sudden chill, or the ruthlessness with which I pull the spandex down your skin, ripping one leg down after the other until I'm stuck with a mess of fabric around your ankles.

"Slow down," you say, and give me a reproving look. Then you help me remove the tangle from your ankles, your eyes never leaving mine. You seem to have forgotten the others outside for the moment, just as I have. You spread your legs, exposing your bare pussy. It's sensational, cleanly shaved, a thin slit, but your labia slightly spread with a trace of moisture leaking downward. Your thighs are shaking ever so slightly and covered with goosebumps. I stroked myself to the sight, almost unconsciously, and lower my pants completely to the floor, revealing my firm body and aching cock. I see you looking at me, and for just a moment, I see that you underestimated me. That in your business-comes-first-and-you-cum-never life, you realize you might have missed something. But that shadow of realization disappears, and you look angry, and making a perfunctory V gesture with your hands toward your pussy - even wetter now than a second before - and you whisper angrily, "Okay, So is this what you wanted?"

You're brazen, spreading your legs wide as they'll go. "How do you want me?" You ask, leaning back and spreading your legs like you're at the OBGYN. "Oooo. Fucking take me, Garrett. Is that what you want me to say? Fuck you. Just do it, goddamn it, and get it over with. I won't be mad. I promise. We can deal with all this later, but I'm not going to lose an account over you..."

"Shut up." I say and move toward you. "Too much talking." I know what you're seeing. I see it in the mirror. Shoulders broad and rippled, my wide traps tapering up to my powerful neck. The buzzed hairs on my pecs shadowing the cleft between them. Abs, glowing softly in the red light. Even if you hated me you'd want to fuck me, and I can see from your gently opening lips that you far from hate me.

"Garrett...I..." You say as I move closer. Your bravado faltering. You feel the woman in you come alive, allowing her to rise up, for just a second. You shift your parody of a pose into something that could actually receive a man, pulling your body forward so that if I wanted to, my cock could enter. Your legs remain spread wide. Your breathing is becoming shallow and your eyes are trained on my body, and my lips. Your right hand comes out and runs your fingers over my chest...

"Garrett...umm..." I look at you with pity. I know that you just need to be a woman. That you always have. Even the times I caught you masturbating, you did so clinically and efficiently. Quickly so as to move on to the next task. You reach down and touch my cock. Slowly. Almost fearfully. But not afraid of me, afraid of how my cock, how a man's cock, would make you feel.

I know I have you now. That you're mine. That you've succumbed to something far older, and far more human than anything we experience in normal life. I too feel it. This primal need. Biology. I know that if I wanted to, I would cum inside you, and neither of us would worry about birth control, or disease, or children, or mess. That I'm staking claim to you with a liquid flag, and when and if it drips down your inner thigh I won't let you clean yourself. That I'll want it to stick to the spandex of your pants and soak against your pussy throughout the day. And that when you pull your yoga pants off later, you'll have to tear it off your pussy like duct tape. Duct tape. I smile, remembering.

Slowly, gently, I remove your shirt and sports bra, revealing the breasts I'd seen before. Perfect, plump teardrops, suspended like art from your chest. A smooth stomach, riven by a single long furrow. A bellybutton that's just a fold of skin.

"Fuck you." You say, relenting. "I do want this...I do. You. I want you." You say, looking up at me, your eyes wide and excited in the red light. Your brown hair on fire. Your pupils solid black. You reach down and take my cock in your right hand while your eyes are on mine. And you stroke it gently. Slowly. And then with your left hand you reach down and touch yourself. It gives you an almost electric shock and you jump almost imperceptibly. "Holy shit, am I wet." You exclaim, and pull back to look down. Sure enough a puddle has pooled between your legs, branching amoeba-like toward the edge of the table and then cascading in a long silken strand to the floor. It glows red like a laser.

"What aren't you talking?" You say. "Fuck me, dammit. Do something." You're confused. You punch my chest. It amuses me.

"Why are you in a rush?" I say, my voice deep and controlled. "Your pussy weeps to be loved, and yet you hurry." I run my fingers over your right ear, tucking back hair that's become unruly.

"Garrett, don't push it..." You say.

I slam my right fore and middle fingers inside you, not gently, ramming them deep inside your glistening lips in a single motion. No easing. No waiting. No talking. No "waits" and "hold ons". My fingers are inside you, stroking and massaging your g-spot while my thumb kneads your clit before you know what's happening. "Fuuuuuuu...." You start to say, but are gasping and unable to speak. Your hips retreat and attack in the same motion. You wrap your right hand around my neck, and actually pull yourself into the air with one arm and willpower, and are fucking my hand before you're even aware of doing it...

"God, Oh, fucking God. Fucking, fuck!!!..." You're nails are in the skin of my neck now, using my flesh as traction. I feel the tissue give way. Feel the pop as your square cut claws dive beneath the surface. I feel the blood drip. My right forearm hurts from the elaborate motions I'm performing on you. You start seizing at the brink of orgasm and I rip my hand out of you...leaving you panting and panicked and shaking on the table. "Wha...What the fuck?" You ask...then spread your legs needing the rest of me right then and there.

"Fuck me now, Garrett. Oh please, fucking God, now!"

I smile.

"Now, Garrett. Please. Oh, I want you."

I reach down and pull on my pants, smiling.

"What the fuck?" You ask. "You're not going to leave me like this?"

I pull on my shirt, and smile again. Watching you look indignant and angry.

"We have clients outside, Kayla. I'll meet you outside." I say, and lean in and kiss your sweating, angry mouth. You try and use the physical contact to lure me back, to correct my obvious mistake. You pull me down toward you with your hands, but your strength is gone. I've stolen it. I start to walk toward the door, picking up the Hasselblad 80mm on the way out.

"Garrett?" You ask, realizing that you have to get dressed, alone, and unfulfilled.

"Aren't you going to stay with me while I get dressed? Did I disappoint you or something?"

I turn, and face you, looking into your soul and say, "You need time. When you're ready, I'll be here."

And I leave you, incredulous, shocked, desperate, and in need. I smile. And I walk out the door.

To Be Continued...