WARNING:
The following story is for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY, and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an adult, or reading sex stories upset you, or you are offended by subjects of a sexual nature - do not read any further!
This story is for entertainment only. It contains adult oriented material. This is a work of fiction. The acts and characters contained within are figments of my imagination and have no basis in fact. I do not practice, advocate, condone or encourage acts portrayed here. The characters in the story are entirely fictional. You need to believe that all of the characters are over the age of eighteen.
This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author. This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached.
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Sorry to have taken so long in delivering this prose, but I had to juggle significant complexities. In many ways, this chapter documents a key moment in my sexual timeline. I won't spoil your reading by telling you any of the juicy details in advance. Suffice it to say, Mr. Marcus tries to improve his photographer skills.
However, there appears a new character who will show up periodically in many of my forthcoming tales. Too many times, my experiences are "slippery slopes" where I go from "Hell no, there won't be any sex" to "Oh God, I'm cumming in her pussy" in the span of two paragraphs. This new character developed a longer, more gradual, relationship with me, incrementally over time.
As you read this story, try to figure out how many subsequent stories branch off of this one. Big hint: you'll need to take off your socks.
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I had a deep craving for pizza when I got back from Nebraska. As a resident of the Chicago area, I should have been loyal to deep-dish style. But over time, I've found that the extra bread fills me, and I'd prefer more cheese and sausage toppings than sweet cornmeal crust. A glossy flyer on the kitchen table stack of mail reminded me of a new pizza joint, A Hot Piece, just a few blocks away. It occupied a narrow storefront, with a thin counter along one side. With no stools, the place was not designed for eat-in. If the store was going to survive, it would have to depend on carryout and delivery.
Some of the up-tight residents of my community had circulated a petition, asking them to change their name, claiming A Hot Piece was provocative and fostered lewd thoughts. The freedom of speech-ers supported by the ACLU won, of course, when they used another local eatery, Snappy's Taco, as a precedent. Funny, I'd never thought of Snappy's Taco as suggestive, but after I read about the lawsuit, the image of Juli the flight attendant's pussy decorated with lettuce jumped into my brain.
After deciding I would treat myself to delivery, I called the number. "This is Louie, you want a hot piece?" The owner wasn't the most suave businessman I'd ever spoken to on the phone. Not even close. After I ordered a medium cheese, sausage and mushroom, thin crust, I provided my name, address and phone without being prompted. However, when I offered him my credit card number, he barked, "Pay the driver" and hung up.
I put my feet up to relax and consider what beverage should accompany my feast. A beer? Maybe a cold cream soda, but the local generic in the fridge would pale compared to the fancy stuff on Webb's private plane. Maybe an original Coke, but all we had in the house was Diet Coke with Vanilla.
The ash-colored wall phone rang. Even though the bundle of calling features on my landline phone included caller ID, all of the instruments in the house were old style Western Electric models, designed to last over one hundred years in normal use. Since ours were only about forty years old, it was way too soon to replace them. So, every phone call coming into the Marcus residence was an anonymous gift until I lifted the receiver and spoke that one provocative question. "Hello?"
"Oh, thank goodness, I've been trying to reach you for days!"
The voice was familiar, but my brain was too tired to make the connection. "Who is this?"
"Vonna. You remember taking pictures of me, don't you? Annie and I went to school together."
Ah yes, Annie's friend who wanted photos for her boyfriend. They'd shared a common birthday, he dumped her over the phone in the middle of the shoot, and she subsequently shared her body with me. That Vonna. "Who could forget?" The sex had been ball-draining spectacular. [AUTHOR: See story DOUBLE BIRTHDAY]
"I haven't forgotten either." Her breathing was heavy. Was this her version of phone sex? "I've been leaving you messages."
Sure enough, the red light blinked on the answering machine, the kind that used two cassette tapes. I explained that I'd been out of town. "What can I do for you?" Or to you?
"I've got a chance to submit my portfolio of photos for a spokes-model position. They liked the pictures you did, but now they want specific outfits and poses. This could be my big break, and I'll only trust you to do the layout. But we have to meet a deadline."
So Vonna had used my pictures to get a shot at a real modeling gig? Maybe I was better behind the lens than I thought. "Of course, I'd be happy to. But wouldn't you'd be better off with a professional photographer who knows lighting and such? I'm still quite an amateur."
"Don't be silly. You know plenty. Your photos got me through the preliminary round. And I trust you. Isn't that important, the relationship between the photographer and the subject?"
Ours was more sexual relations than a relationship. "If you insist. How soon are these pictures due?"
"This week, at the latest."
"I'll need to check my calendar at work, since I just got back in town." I took her number on a scrap of paper and told her I'd call her back.
If I was going to take photos of Vonna for a professional gig, then I needed lessons to shoot more like a pro. I checked the local adult education catalog but there were no photography classes offered. I didn't know any professional portrait photographers who could give me a quick lesson.
A quick review of the phone messages was in order, before the pizza arrived. Just like she'd said, Vonna had called twice, more anxious with each call. The next message was from Smith, one of my bowling buddies, wanting to know if I was available. [AUTHOR: See story DITZ THE BABYSITTER] I called his number from memory.
"Hey, Marcus, welcome back. We miss you, man. Bowling with just Jone-sie was boring so we stopped."
Boring, like no one to tease. Jones doesn't react to Smith's barbs, but I do. "You must miss the competition." I wasn't that much better than him.
"You really go to Goat's funeral?"
I told him bits and pieces of the trip, the private jet, the funeral service, and the Webb family, leaving out the sex parts. It was bad enough he knew I'd fucked Ditz, the babysitter he'd recommended. "Say, do you know any professional photographers?"
"Why? You got some event coming up?"
"No, I just want a few tips."
