Total Exposure

High Exposure - a CFNM story

'It was lovely to meet you today. We have so much in common.'

I was surprised to receive the message, as it was rare for anyone to reach out in private. I knew who it was from, of course, as I had spent most of the time at my local 'Pain Management Support Group' chatting with one particular lady, and we certainly had plenty in common.

I had been attending the support group for a while, due to my own medical condition, and while it didn't exactly help the pain, it was nice to know I wasn't the only one suffering.

Personally, I felt it was a way for the health service to save money rather than offering proper treatments - but whatever.

This particular lady had arrived, walking with a stick, like me. I'm gregarious by nature, and with her being new, I decided to try to make her welcome.

We started with a general moan about our conditions, which was typical, then moved on to family before talking about ourselves more generally.

"I find photography really helps," she explained, "it's the one time I really get 'in the zone.' I can fit into the role of photographer and just become 'professional,' even though it's not really my job."

I don't know if my eyes widened, or maybe I sat up straighter, but I think she probably realised that I had suddenly perked up.

"I used to be a professional photographer," I said, "but I haven't really done anything for years. My back pain, and problems with my arm got in the way. I've been planning on trying again some time soon, and I've already taken a few shots when we've been out and about. My phone's good, but nothing like using a proper camera."

We moved on to discussing which brand of camera we used, preferred lenses, technical issues - very dull to a disinterested party, I'm sure, but we talked with the true absorption of fanatics.

The meeting finished. The facilitator stood up - boring Shirley, who organised things with the passion of a slug avoiding a descending foot.

"Thanks for coming," she simpered, "next meeting four weeks from today. Any problems, I'll put them in the group chat. Feel free to get in touch through there, or chat with each other, whatever. You can stay if you like, but I'll see you next time."

Lisa (as my companion was called) turned to me. "I should go. My husband's collecting me. Thanks for the chat."

I smiled at her and said my farewells. I never saw it as a potentially romantic situation. I had asked my wife to leave some six months before, when her behaviour finally reached the limits of what I could stand, but I had no desire for a romantic relationship.

The fact was, my estranged wife had done a great job of isolating me from the friends I had, leaving me alone, friendless, with a disabled son and very little money - mainly because she had spent it. I was delighted to have had pleasant company for an hour, but being in my late fifties, I really did not want the hassle of a 'proper' relationship.

Sex, of course, was a different matter. My wife and I had enjoyed a very sexual relationship, up until her drinking became a serious problem - and she gave me chlamydia (can't forget that).

We were swingers for some time, until my health condition became such that I couldn't really cope. I was in huge amounts of pain, on medication that left me like a zombie, and hugely overweight from lack of exercise, as I needed a wheelchair.

I then took a few 'life decisions,' lost a massive amount of weight, managed to walk again, using crutches and started wanting sex. If it's of any interests, I achieved this by cutting back on the meds, dieting and exercise (chair-based at first).

I fell in love with sex again. We started our 'fun photoshoots' with gusto, rejoined our favourite swinger website, made videos of ourselves and generally had a huge amount of fun. More of that later.

It was later the same day, after my son and I had eaten, that I received a message. It was a number I didn't recognise but linked to the group chat for the Pain Management Support Group.

'It was lovely to meet you today. We have so much in common.'

I realised that it was a private message, using my number from the group. This had never happened before.

My first reaction was worry. Was this lovely lady, twenty years younger than me, interested in me romantically? If so, it would soon lead to the rather tricky 'I don't want a relationship, thank you' conversation. If not, this was a fantastic way to make friends with someone I really liked.

I replied immediately:

'Hi. We certainly do. It's lovely to hear from you. I really enjoyed our chat.'

Lisa: 'It's amazing that we're both into photography. I've not done much for a while, because I've not been well enough, but I want to start again. What sort of photography did you do?'

I had a choice. I could tell the truth, and risk putting her off me for good, or I could be honest and see where it led.

'I used to do mainly fashion and glamour, with some boudoir. What do you do?'

Lisa: 'All sorts really. I used to work with quite a few models.'

That was the first barrier crossed. She was not even remotely phased by the fact that I had worked with topless and nude models. She hadn't jumped down my throat for exploiting women or accused me of producing pornography by another name. That was good. We could talk.

Our chat moved away from photography, and on to more general family matters, and I gradually found myself opening up in a way I had never done to anyone (except a counsellor, during a spell of depression). She, in turn, was candid and open.

I don't remember exactly when in the conversation, but she suddenly began to refer to her 'husband,' and at other times, to her 'partner.' I assumed they were one and the same, as some refer to long term partners as if married - however, it soon became clear that they were not. I think she probably realised my confusion, as she suddenly typed:

Lisa: 'Oh. I'm poly'

And that explained it. I'm quite well versed in life choices and sexual and gender identities, so I immediately knew that she was polyamorous - finding love with more than one partner, openly and honestly. Rather like a parent doesn't only find love with one child. It is a lifestyle which I have always found appealing - just difficult to achieve without finding the right partners.

I went on to explain that my ex-wife and I had been swingers - a different lifestyle entirely, based solely on sex rather than any genuine relationship, but which demonstrated that both of us were open-minded sexually.

We moved on, from our mutual acceptance of open-mindedness, to discussions about sex and photography. Actually, I did, I suspect.

'My wife and I often used to pose for each other - or together - in far more intimate poses than I've done with models!'

Lisa: 'Yeah. Done all that. Done all sorts. Not any more. My confidence is really low.'

'I wouldn't mind doing it again. I'm hardly a perfect body, but I enjoyed posing.'

Lisa: 'Really? We should get together for a shoot. What sort of things are you into?'

It was time to see how open-minded she actually was (very, I suspected).

'I always liked CFNM. My ex wasn't that interested. Swinging for her was all about her, but she did organise a fun evening for me with one of her friends once.'

I remembered that evening very, very well. My wife had gone out with one of her friends, the kids were off for sleepovers with their friends, and I was alone for the evening. At about eight o'clock, the phone rang. It was my wife:

"We're coming home. It's really boring, so Sarah might as well come back, and we can both save money. Can you tidy up a bit? We'll be there in about ten minutes."

I suppose I was being naïve, thinking that Claire (my ex) would simply forego a night's drinking - there was clearly an ulterior motive.

To cut a long story short, I was stripped naked by the two women, who proceeded to use me as their naked slave and sex plaything for the entire evening. I had to serve drinks, pose for their photographs, be blindfolded and have ice and hot wax on my body, have a dildo inserted into me, allow them to stroke, suck and spank me before ultimately masturbating into their faces.

The entire time, they remained clothed, and I was not allowed to touch them.

Now - I know this should have been humiliating, embarrassing, degrading - but the fact was, I loved it. I had always liked being naked for a clothed woman and loved feeling their eyes watching as I 'performed' for their pleasure.

Once I was spent, the two women played with each other, and I desperately hoped that, after a rest, I might get to join in. It was not to be. I did, indeed, develop a fine erection while watching them, but was not permitted to participate. In fact, they took themselves off to our marital bed, and I was told to get comfy on the sofa. One more reason why Claire is now my ex.

I had loved being naked with the two clothed women - it brought feelings from many years before when I had been in similar situations, equally erotically charged. I wished the scenario could be repeated - but it never was. I hinted many times, but I suspect Claire was very aware of how I felt and had determined that that particular avenue of pleasure was to be closed off to me.

I should clarify that this was not a desire to be dominated, and pain has never been my thing - it was simply the notion of being naked and told what to do, which excited me. To do this with a friend, relax and enjoy it - then continue as friends afterwards - was what I craved.

Lisa: We could do some nude photos. I haven't modelled for years though, and I'm not very confident. I'd like to start slowly and see how it goes.

That sounds good. I'm happy to do some nude shots - tell me what you want. I'm very open minded.

Lisa: OK. I'll think about it. Shall we set a date?

And that was it. Just like, I was going to model naked. I was totally confident that I would go through with it - although a little, niggling doubt still lurked. I was suddenly aware that I had actually spoken, face to face with this woman on just one occasion. Our only real intimacy had been through text messages. Could I actually trust her enough to get naked for her? And could I trust her enough to keep the pictures to herself?

While I mused on these questions, we kept chatting, sharing family information, exchanging intimacies. We chatted idly about her husband and her partner, about my ex and my past in the swinging lifestyle. We chatted about her being very sub, enjoying bondage, impact play and how she was not really interested in being dom. We shared information about our past sex lives, both having enjoyed a vigorous, active and 'different' experience - she in the world of kinky BDSM, me in the hidden world of swinging.

What became evident, was that our sexual preferences were very diverse. We both preferred to cede control to others. It meant there was no likelihood of any sexual relationship between us - but that was fine. I was happy without a relationship; she had two relationships with which she was content.

Despite this, we were both very capable of separating 'sex' and 'relationship.' Sex was fun - a physical pleasure - while romantic love was a long-term emotional commitment.

We moved from our discussions to sharing photographs - mostly of a professional nature - I shared topless and naked women, she shared various creative and surreal images, some with models - male and female, nude and clothed.

Then we shared more intimate photos - of ourselves. She was topless, in lingerie, while I was nude, with or without an erection (images taken by my ex).

I felt we had reached a point where, quite frankly, she had seen so much of me that being naked with her would hardly be a problem. I determined to go through with it. I knew she was very professional behind a camera - a far cry from the photos taken as part of foreplay with my ex - and that would help. In fact, the notion of being properly directed by a woman, while she had little interest in having sex with me, played into my CFNM fantasy.

As the date approached, we kept messaging. She decided she would do some burlesque style images - no nudity, just stylish and sexy. I, meanwhile, would do some clothed, followed by nudes. I feel we were both testing ourselves, becoming confident in this first phase, so we could move forward to more intense shoots in the future.

I had just one concern:

I'm worried in case I get an erection.

Lisa: If you do, you do. I'll just keep going. Don't worry.

OK. If you're sure. I don't mind you photographing me if I do, but don't want it to spoil the photos.

Lisa: It won't. Don't worry. If it happens, it happens.

I was relieved. I thought I would almost certainly be rock hard, but if she was OK with it, then so was I.

As our conversations progressed, so did my determination to embrace this side of me. I wanted to enjoy CFNM and wanted friends who would be supportive. It was during our discussions that she showed me a possible way into this.

She was a member of a fetish website, and suggested I join. I think I took maybe thirty seconds thinking about it, then signed up.

What was very evident was that my particular interest/fetish/kink was rather niche, and not many would be taking up my offer - mainly because most seemed to be into more intense BDSM than me. Still. If all it meant was that I got a few open-minded friends, that would be enough.

As the day of the shoot neared, I started to think. Each time, I thought, could I really just strip naked for someone, who, in reality, I had only met once for an hour or so? Each time, I got the same answer: Yes. Oddly, I trusted this woman. We had shared a huge amount, we had clearly connected, and so what if she saw me naked? Plenty of women had seen me before.

The day of the shoot arrived, and another concern arose. It was Spring, and while the days had been warm, the evenings had become quite chilly. I knew her studio was, essentially, a garden Summer house, converted into a studio, which had no heating.

It's well known that men tend to 'contract' in cold weather - what if I shrunk to the size of an acorn? I couldn't pretend to be especially well endowed anyway, but now I had decided to use these images on the fetish website, might it tempt those into SPH (small penis humiliation). I knew I wasn't THAT small - definitely average, but on a cold evening...

I sorted out the clothes for my 'clothed' shoot - black t-shirt and jeans, packed all of my camera kit and proceeded to kill time until I collected her. I was unsure if I would actually recognise her. I have a dreadful memory for faces, the photos of herself that she had sent were over twelve years old and her profile pic on the messaging app showed just one eye. However - *calm*. I was collecting her from her home. It would be fine.

I arrived at the agreed time and got out of my car as she came to meet me at the door. She handed over various bags and boxes, all laden with photography kit and a few props, which I put in the boot, along with my own kit.

We had agreed that she would model for me first, and she added assorted items of clothing. She wanted to model in a 'burlesque' style, so I spotted corsets, a long skirt, feather fans and a red boa.

Oddly, I didn't really 'check her out.' Even when we arrived at her friend's house, where the 'studio' was located, I never thought to look her up and down and consider what she would look like. I knew she had modelled before, and I knew she was quite petite, but it was not until we actually entered the studio, laden with kit, that I actually looked.

I looked just as she was bending over to put a box down, so the first thing I saw was her bum. She certainly wasn't overweight, in fact, her backside was quite slim. She had children, I knew, which had caused her to have wider hips than in the photos I had seen, but still, her backside looked firm and well-shaped.

The same was true of her legs. She was short, a good head shorter than me, but her legs were comfortably in proportion, and slim beneath her jeans.

She stood and turned to face me with a smile. I glanced at her t-shirt. Her boobs were small, She had said to me previously that she was not well-endowed. Despite this, she certainly had boobs. There were two very definite swellings, and, I guessed, if exposed, they would fall into a pleasant shape, with the pointed, pert nipples pointing up at a slight angle. At a guess, probably a B cup.

The truth was, she was attractive. The photos of her that I had seen were from when she was much younger, before she had children, and her body had obviously changed. The fact was, however, the changes were those I would associate with a mature woman with children.

She had a softly rounded stomach. She had complained about her stomach being large, but it wasn't. It was just the sort of swelling that might be expected of a mum.

No question. She looked good. A mature woman, certainly, but none the worse for it.

Together, we set up the studio. Black backdrop, lighting, quick test shot and then time for her to change.

Regardless of this being a shoot between two friends, we were also both photographers. We had agreed that we would be professional at all times. That meant we would either change in a separate room or keep our back turned when the other one was changing. Non-photographers find it odd that rules like this apply, especially when the model is going to be nude, but they do, and proper photographers abide by them.

I was to photograph her first, so while she changed, I fiddled with lenses, shutter speeds and apertures. We chatted throughout, and, as I moved around, I certainly caught a glimpse of her sports bra as she fastened her corset. Then I turned back to what I was doing. By the time I finished, she was ready.

We ran through a series of poses, incorporating fans, boas etc - essentially creating freeze frames from typical burlesque striptease, but nothing revealing.

Eventually, we finished.

"Right," she announced, "let's do some in t-shirt and jeans, then we can go on to the nude ones."

The entire process was so casual. We were photographers, working as we would with any other model.

She directed me in a series of poses, emphasising what she required, and I was struck by how clearly she directed, and knew exactly what she wanted. Everything she did was professional.

The problem was, it really played into my fantasy.

Yes, I liked the idea of mutual masturbation, and loved the idea that a clothed woman would touch me, stroking and sucking me, bringing me to the point of orgasm several times before allowing me to jerk off onto her face or wherever she requested.

The idea, however, of being naked, being directed in every way by a clothed woman, who was dispassionate, concerned only with the outcome of the photographs, was an enormous turn on.

I felt a stiffness under my jeans. My cock was beginning to stiffen, and I needed to readjust, allowing room for my full erection.

Shit. I was going to be naked with my new friend. That was no problem. But - naked and obviously sexually excited by her presence - was that right? I know she said it was OK, but in my mind it felt wrong.

Still - it wasn't the first time this had happened with a friend (barring drunken nights when friendship lines got blurred and we ended up fucking).

I had a female friend at University, and we shared an extremely open friendship. We never had sex, nor did we ever touch each other in a sexual way - however, we often shared a bed, sleeping naked, we changed openly in front of each other, and we shared showers and baths. She saw my erection, but only as 'morning glory,' never because we were arousing each other.

Except once. She had a new boyfriend, and at times like that, we 'cooled' our openness somewhat. However, on this occasion, she approached me with a request.

"Can you show me how to do a hand job?"

I knew she had done hand jobs before - we had discussed it - so what was the problem?

"You know Jack's a bit older, and he said he needs to give me hand job lessons. I want to shut him up by giving him the best hand job of his life."

That sounded reasonable - she always liked a challenge.

I was still unsure. We had never done anything sexual together, yet here she was, basically asking me to jerk off for her, with audio description. I considered.

"Er... well... er... I suppose..."

She laughed. My doubt was clearly very evident.

"Tell you what," she said, "I'll help by giving some visual stimulus."

Not much good, really - I'd seen her naked plenty of times. She had a nice body - not a glamour model, certainly - closer to a fashion model with her tiny tits and narrow hips - almost a 5'4 supermodel. It was one factor that worked well for us - we were not really each other's type physically, although we both understood full well that others were attracted to us.

She clearly appreciated this, however, as she continued:

"I'll join you, and I'll show you how to work a woman's body - well - how I like to work mine. Nipple play, pussy touching, finding my clit and my G spot. How does that sound?"

I was momentarily stunned. I had had plenty of girlfriends - probably more than the average nineteen-year-old - but never such clear and open guidance. It would be amazing to get such an intimate guided tour. Frankly, all lovers should do this (and I did a few times with girlfriends afterwards, and I totally recommend it).

I nodded, dumbly, before finding my voice.

"Sure."

"Cool," she smiled, "I'll come to your room tomorrow afternoon. Maybe a couple of beers to help us relax."

And off she went to a different group of friends, while I turned back to my football buddies.

'A couple of beers?' Fuck, I'd need an entire vat to feel relaxed enough to teach Wanking 101.

The following afternoon, she appeared, smiling, apparently relaxed and ready for our consultation. When I opened the door, she laughed.

"Why so nervous? It's only me, not like I haven't seen it all before."

She had a point. She had seen it all before. What she hadn't seen was me stroking myself until I shot my load. Mind you, I suppose she was showing even more. All I had seen of her before was a slit. Now she would be opening that slit for me to show me what she usually kept hidden.

The one difference, of course, was that she had a lower risk of failure. I had lain awake the night before, imagining myself working away at my flaccid dick, while she giggled.

We went inside, and she handed me a beer from her bag. We opened the cans and started drinking.

"OK. How are we going to do this?" She asked. "Just strip off and get down to it? Or do you want to make it a bit less clinical?"

I considered this, and realised I didn't really care. The stripping was hardly the issue - it was what came next. However, I needed to get hard, so maybe some kind of sexy approach to getting naked was needed - I just couldn't think of one.

There was silence between us, until a slow smirk spread across her face.

"Let's undress each other. That way, it'll feel a bit naughtier than usual and be a bit of a turn on."

I wasn't in the mood to disagree, so just nodded.

She slithered across the floor and grabbed the bottom of my t-shirt, lifting it up, over my head.

"I like your chest and stomach," she whispered, "not all hard muscly, just smooth. Better still, not hairy. Just those few little hairs round your nipple."

I lifted her t-shirt over her head, unsurprised to see that she wore no bra. I hadn't planned to comment, but she seemed determined to talk.

"What do you think of my boobs? I know there's not much to them, and nineteen seems a bit late for a growth spurt, so I guess I'm stuck with them for life, but are they OK?"

I've always been a 'boobs' guy, so I replied honestly.

"They're nice. Boobs don't have to be all floppy flesh and huge soft pillows. That nice, swelling and pretty, pink nipples look great - and yours look good when they're erect - like now. They poke through your t-shirt and stand out so nicely. Good to play with and suck on, without moving around all the time."

She smiled and brought her fingers up to touch her hard points. She rolled them in her fingers and then pinched them, harder than I would ever dare squeeze any girl's nipple.

"Mmm..." she sighed. "First lesson. A lot of girls like them pinched much harder than guys think. Don't pull, flatten, squeeze, flick, roll. That's what I like. Ask first, of course, but don't be afraid to go in harder than you might think. I'm really sensitive and just doing this is making me wet."

I became conscious of my own body as she mentioned her own excitement. As her hands reached out to undo my jeans, I realised that I was semi-hard. It was quite a relief.

She worked on the button, finally undoing it, then drew down my zip. All the time, I was acutely aware that her hand was brushing over my semi-erect cock, and that she could not fail to miss it.

As she drew away the two halves of my zip, she looked up - and I became aware that her face was less than a foot from my almost fully erect cock.

She drew the denim over my hips, sliding my jeans off and down, her head dipping closer to my crotch as she did so. When my jeans reached my knees, her face was maybe three inches from my obvious erection.

She paused and looked up at me, still smiling.

"That's a relief. I was worried you might get stage fright," she smirked, "my bit of nipple play seems to have worked for both of us. I was worried too. I've even got some lube in my bag."

She said this as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, not withdrawing her head, but leaving it so I could feel her warm breath on me. At this point, friends or not, had she leaned forward and taken me in her mouth, I would not have resisted - in fact, I suspect I would have been shooting strings of hot cum down her throat in seconds.

The thought seemed to have occurred to her as well.

"Some time, we should talk about what guys want from blow jobs. I've never made a guy cum, just with my mouth - though plenty have jerked off into it or on my face. I'd love to make that happen all by myself - drain a guy and swallow all on my own. So much less messy."

"You swallow, then?" I asked.

"Of course. It's hardly polite, or sexy to spit it out. It's not the greatest taste - a bit like oysters. Just swallow, rather than role it round your mouth - and don't let it get cold. Oh - and guys that eat sweet stuff and don't smoke have better tasting cum. You should try it - your own, I mean, or someone else's if you want, of course. I think... sorry. I'm prattling."

She sat back and looked at the obvious erection in my briefs.

"Your cock's nice. A little bit longer than average, and quite 'girthy.' Believe me, girls prefer girth over length. That little upward bend helps too. I'll explain that in a bit."

I was not used to getting appraisal on my penis - however, I appreciated her comments and felt better.

I grabbed her mid-thigh length skirt and pulled it over her slim hips. Beneath, she wore semi-transparent, lacy underwear. I glanced down, as this was clearly a time when we were looking at each other and evaluating. That, in itself, was odd, as when we were naked together, we tended not to look at each other's 'private areas.' We glanced, but we were friends and had no real wish to make things sexual.

I say that but I had, obviously, glanced at her boobs, and had also looked to her neatly trimmed pubic hair, generally about a centimetre long and short enough that I could see her pussy lips. I always felt, however, it was a bit like naturism. Of course, people glanced, but it was more out of interest than sexual desire. Clearly, she did the same, as she evaluated my cock before it was revealed.

"I like how your hips are so slim," I commented, "and your bum's quite... pert. It's slim, but curves nicely."

She turned, showing her bum and wiggled it at me. Then she spun round, smiling.

She reached forward, grabbed my boxers and lowered them, not bothering to lift them over my rock-hard dick, but pulling it downwards, and saying "boing" as it sprung back up. She giggled. "I love it when they do that," she stated, looking directly into my face.

My turn. I grabbed the waistband and slipped her panties down. I only got them to the top of her thighs, when I blurted:

"You've shaved your pubes," as I looked at her bald mound, and the exposed lips underneath.

Nowadays, shaving is commonplace. It is, perhaps, almost surprising to find a woman with pubic hair - especially a young one. However, in those days, while trimming was unsurprising, a totally bald pussy was unheard of.

"She put her head on one side coquettishly. "Well, I figured that if I was going to show you literally everything, I might as well give you a good view."

I was unsure whether I liked it or not. Obviously, it was a huge turn on to see a pussy in such detail, but it also bothered me a little that it made her look pre-pubescent - and girls of that age really did not interest me. I balanced the two perspectives and remained uncertain.

She knew me well enough to recognise my uncertainty and spoke again. "I like it. It's so much easier feels more hygienic - I don't think it actually is, but it feels it to me. Especially on my period. I'm going to do it for me from now on. I like that you think like that though."

I felt satisfied by this. If it was her choice, that was fine. Her body, her choice.

We looked each other in the eye.

"Er..." I started, "how are we doing this? One at a time? If so, who's first? Or both together?"

"Both together," she stated, and I guessed from her certainty that she had already planned this in her head, "and, I don't know about you, but I think it's going to be really hard to talk all the way through, so I suggest we tell each other what we're going to do first, then do it as a demonstration, then questions after."

It felt like the most bizarre 'show and tell' ever, but I nodded my agreement.

She grabbed a bean bag and lay back against it, ensuring her head was propped up, so she could see me, but her back lay on the floor, so she had easy access to her pussy. She spread her legs wide, and I saw the shining wetness on her labia. I had an instant urge to bend forward and lick away the moisture, as her scent reached my nostrils - musky, but sweet and delicate. I wondered if being shaved made a difference to that as well - after all, being soaked into pubes could hardly be a good thing.

"So, who goes first?" I asked.

She shrugged, making her small breasts bounce prettily. "I can, if you like - then you talk to me - then we can demonstrate together."

That sounded good. Both masturbating together would be a huge turn on - not that being watched by her wouldn't be good, but cumming together would be perfect.

She smiled - as if what were about to do was the most natural thing in the world - which, on reflection - I suppose it was.

"I always start," she began, "by fingering my nipples. They're really sensitive, and I love having them touched. Most guys tend to be a bit gentle for my liking - I like them squeezed quite hard, so it makes me draw breath and hurts a bit. Most of my girlfriends like that.

"Then I reach down and open my pussy lips. Sometimes I stroke them a bit first, especially if I'm not too wet. I use a bit of lube, or lotion sometimes. I've got some in my bag now, just in case I needed some help - but... well... look."

She opened her legs wider, inviting me to look at her pussy, which was obviously very wet. Then she ran her hand over her vulva, letting one finger slip in between, coating it in her juice. She held it up to show me, then popped it in her mouth and sucked it clean.

My amazement must have shown on my face, because she giggled looking at me.

"Oops. Sorry - it's just what I do. I like the taste. I think I'm probably bi. I've not been with another girl yet, but I'd love to try it. I often imagine a girl going down on me when I play with myself. Have you tasted your cum?"

In my shocked state, I nearly didn't reply. "Er.. no."

She looked amazed. "Well, today you can. I will if you will."

I just nodded dumbly. I had no objection to tasting my semen - I'd often been curious about it, especially with girlfriends who swallowed willingly.

"OK. Where were we?" She reflected briefly. "Oh yes. After that, I go for my clit. I follow my lips up, then around as they curve down, and when I get to where they meet - there she is. Look."

She dropped her hands between her thighs, and began to stroke her labia, following them round with her fingers, inside her pussy and reaching a visible nub, and obvious swelling deep between her pussy lips, which she highlighted by placing her fingers either side and squeezing.

I was entranced. I had never examined a pussy like this. It was so lovely and intricate - not something to be hidden away under cover of darkness, like so many girls had done with me before.

"Sometimes I just rub it until I cum. I'll show you in a minute. Other times, I like something inside me. I brought something with me for that."

She leaned across to her bag and pulled out a tube, with a tapered end, which resembled a missile. I had never seen a dildo before (though I'd heard of them) - and this was the 90s, of course. Sex toys weren't an essential feature of every woman's bedside cabinet. By modern standards, it was very basic - plastic, no attempt at shaping it like a penis - just a tube.

She offered her sweet smile once more. "I got it by mail order from a magazine. I used to use anything that was the right shape - bottles, vegetables - even a broom handle once. They're all ok, but this is easy to carry around."

She placed it beside her. "If I use that, it gets my other sensitive bits inside. My G spot. That's just inside my pussy, at the front. It's a sort of spongy bit." She paused, thinking. "I can't exactly show you. You need to put your fingers in and bend them towards the front, then rub. Would you... I know we said no touching, but would you like to use your finger, so you can feel it?"

Well - I mean - what sort of stupid question was that? I nodded, my face serious, making it clear that I would, in the interests of science - and nothing else. My cock twitched and my stomach fluttered as she took my hand and guided my middle finger inside her.

It slipped in quite easily, as her juices were flowing freely, lubricating her to an extent which I found quite surprising. Following her direction, I slid another finger in, enveloping myself in the intense warmth of her body.

"Now, bend your fingers up a bit. D'you feel it? And rub." She sighed as I rubbed and advised on the correct speed (quicker than I thought) and pressure (harder than I thought), before suddenly stopping.

"I'd love to let you keep going, but we agreed it was a demonstration. Maybe... we could put our skills into practice, once we've been 'trained'." The thought was brief. "No. We'd end up fucking. That'd ruin our friendship."

I almost jumped in and told her that it wouldn't, and in the name of research, I would happily finger her and lick her pussy - and if I needed to let her stroke my cock and perform a blow job on me, I would submit to it. The things we have to do to further our knowledge.

I knew she was right though and was not about to destroy what we had by arguing over it.

"And that's about it," she announced. "Oh - and I sometimes finger my bum. That feels nice too. How about you? Men have a... what's it called? Prostrate?"

"Prostate," I corrected, "and I've never actually tried it. I keep thinking I should, but it all seems a bit tight."

"Vaseline." She announced, confidently, "Or lube. You should try it some time."

I did try it, and later in life had several anal experiences. It was never my favourite thing, but I was comfortable with it, if my partner was into it.

I realised it was my turn, feeling rather guilty that I was leaving her wet and ready, needing to maintain her aroused state while I went over my preferences for hand jobs.

"First," I began, "there's two basic mistakes I've come across. One is those who only stroke the shaft, usually too slowly. The other's the opposite - those who go really quick across the head. One way, I'm never going to cum, and there's not much stimulation, the other, there's a risk of finishing so quick there's no chance of anything else - unless that's what you want, of course."

I took my cock in hand. "What's best is a mix. If it's just building up, focus on the shaft and stroke quite slowly, but let your fingers roll over the head."

I demonstrated, then, catching the eager look in her eye, guided her hand to my erection and showed her the best movements for foreplay.

"You have to be a bit careful," I continued, enjoying my role as lecturer, "you can start chafing or catch the foreskin. If you've got hand cream, it's great. Or, if not, spit on it. That's a real turn on for me."

She nodded wisely, as if I had imparted some deep knowledge.

"Don't forget to play with balls as well. Just don't hurt them. Gentle jiggling or 'cupping.' I suppose, seeing as we mentioned it, some guys might like a finger up their bum. Ask first, if you want to do it. Penetration isn't very nice."

She looked at me in disbelief, and I realised that I was making a rather major faux pas. I blushed.

"S.. sorry," I stammered, "I mean, some guys have quite a thing about it. I suppose for women... well... er... maybe guys should, just to be fair."

I drew a deep breath. "For a blowjob, same thing. Focus on the head and plenty of tongue. Licking along the shaft is nice, and mouthing balls. I like it when a girl goes even lower, between my balls and bum.

"When you get to the head, don't just suck. Plenty of tongue, Bob your head up and down and back and forth, as if you're fucking." I paused for thought. "Oh - and if he comes in your mouth, don't act all disgusted. Either take it and swallow or take it on your face. Nothing worse than someone who takes it in their mouth, then dashes off to find somewhere to spit it out."

She nodded. "I don't mind. Swallow or facial. Seems rude to let a guy cum then jump off the bed and run to the bathroom or find something to spit in. Spoils the moment."

She must have noticed me looking as she spoke, because she smiled secretly.

"OK," she grinned, "you take it slow while you watch me and then when I'm done, you can cum on my face."

My cock twitched, and, if anything, got even harder. I had assumed I would just cum on a towel, or a sock, as I usually did. The thought of seeing her face coated in my cum was just mind-blowing.

"What about deep-throating?" She wondered.

I thought for a minute. "I don't know much about it," I replied, honestly, "but the one person I know who did it was amazing. She said it was all down to practice and suppressing the gag reflex. She used her toothbrush at first and gradually worked up using anything the right shape. That's all I know - but it's so worth it."

We fell silent, neither wanting to move on to the next part. As expected, it was she who finally spoke.

"Shall we get on with it then?"

I nodded.

She lay back and began playing with her nipples.

At first, I just watched, holding my erect member in my hand. She stopped and looked at me.

"Get on with it then. It's mutual masturbation, not just voyeurism."

I jumped and curled my fingers round my shaft, stroking gently.

Her nipples were rock hard, long enough, I thought, to hang my jacket on. Then she squeezed - hard - much harder than I would. As she did so, her buttocks tightened, and her legs tensed. I saw her juices running freely down her inner thigh - one small trickle running down the crack of her arse.

I rubbed my hand slowly up and down, catching my swollen, purple head. I reached across and applied a small amount of lube - partly to avoid catching my skin, but also to avoid over-stimulating myself - I didn't want to cum too soon and miss the chance to cover her face.

She moaned quietly, pulling her nipples so hard, they were becoming distended and mis-shapen.

Her hand wandered between her legs, fingers sliding smoothly across her labia, running up and along each side, to the top, sliding on her natural lubricant.

She parted her lips with her first and ring fingers, allowing her middle finger to drop to her clitoris.

She rubbed the small nub that had appeared between fleshy coverings, at first rubbing it round, then up and down, before tapping vigorously and firmly.

Her eyes were closed, and she sighed deeply between short, rapid breaths.

I wondered if she would scream or squeal. My sexual partners had ranged from those who made virtually no noise at all, to very vocal - either shouting "OOHH" very loudly, or yelling words like "Oh my god" and so on. I preferred quieter ones. Less off-putting and annoying.

With her eyes still closed, she groped for the dildo which she had placed to one side, eventually locating it. She picked it up, and while still teasing her clitoris, slid it inside her, tipping it slightly upwards.

Then she started to thrust it in and out, still working with her other hand.

She flexed her back still further, and the moans changed to whimpers of sheer pleasure.

She continued to thrust, rub and tap, her vocalisation becoming more intense, occasionally saying "yes, yes." I knew she had to be close, as her breathing hit the rhythm of her thrusts, her body shaking, pelvis pushing down towards where the dildo thrust in and out, a blur it was so quick.

The speed of her thrusting surprised me. Again, I had known partners who liked it long and slow, while others were happy with just steady, rhythmic fucking. I was reminded, once again, how important it is to talk about these things.

Suddenly, her buttocks clenched, she forced her dripping pussy onto her hands, and gave a long, low moan. Liquid gushed over her hand, pouring over the cleft of her buttocks, like a waterfall in a stream.

Her entire body was wracked with tremors, and her face flushed red. She removed the dildo, or it was pushed out (I had experienced this with other partners), and her vagina winked at me as it expanded and contracted, pulsing and gushing.

I was entranced by her orgasm and knew this was something I wanted to watch over and over again. The female orgasm was something I wanted to study and research, something I wanted to cause, and have caused for me, as a voyeur. It was hypnotic, and I simply gazed as her sighs and moans subsided, her seemingly endless flow of liquid slowed, and her tremors became shivers.

"Ahem!"

I looked up, embarrassed that she had caught my total fascination. She was looking at me, eyes finally open and vibrant, her face glowing. She clenched her body again, closing her eyes tightly.

She giggled. "Aftershocks." She stated, breathlessly.

I wanted nothing more than to push my head between her legs and lap those liquids as they flowed, or dripped between her legs, and my eyes darted from her face to her cunt.

"I enjoyed that," she commented, "so much more fun being watched. I'd love to do it more often."

Was she hinting that this might be a regular thing? That we could masturbate together sometimes? Perhaps every day?

"Your turn," she reminded me.

I looked at my massively engorged penis, the head now so swollen, that the skin looked stretched. I was a little worried that it might explode the second I touched it, giving a really poor example of how to perform a hand job. If that happened, I decided, I would offer to give a repeat performance, just for her benefit. I would offer a repeat performance anyway - as often as she wanted to see it.

"Come up here, where I can see," she requested, "I haven't forgotten what I said earlier. If you want to cum on my face, it's fine."

I moved round beside her, perhaps two feet from her face, and knelt up. The thought of her flushed, pretty face, splattered with streams of my semen, filled my mind, and I knew I had to see it.

I took my shaft in hand and began to stroke - slowly at first but now allowing myself to run my hand onto the sensitive head.

I was busy staring at my hand, circling my member, when it suddenly disappeared, blocked out by the back of her head. I felt a wetness on my glans, and as she leaned back, saw that she had deposited saliva just where I was rubbing.

"Sorry," she shrugged, "had to try it. Thought it might help."

Then her hand snaked over, between my legs, fist cupping my balls, then allowing a finger to slide between my buttocks and press up towards my anus. I knelt up to give her better access, and felt her push against the small, tight hole. I relaxed as best I could, allowing her to push in, and feeling that heady moment of pleasure as she found my prostate.

I began wanking more quickly, desperate to finish now,

Her eyes flicked from the dribbling hole of my cock to my eyes, desperate to see both my semen erupting and my 'cum face.'

I felt the tension rise, my buttocks clench and my stomach muscles tighten. I pushed my thighs forward, feeling my balls tighten. This was it.

I gave an involuntary moan, a sigh of sheer pleasure, and closed my eyes as my climax overtook me, forcing them open again as I felt my cum rush towards the pulsing head of my cock and release.

I looked as first one string, then another erupted, directly onto her face, splattering her eyes, nose and cheek, then her slightly open lips and chin, entering her mouth. She looked up, and I will never forget her look as she made eye contact, through a haze of creamy cum, her expression soft, welcoming as she looked into my glazed, desperate eyes.

My pulsings eased, falling short of her face now, and dribbling down my length, over my fingers.

She ran her tongue over her lips, cleaning up what she could reach, then using her finger to push what she could into her mouth, swallowing my juices in a wanton, yet sensuous manner.

"Yes," she smiled, "we should do that again."

I thought, at that moment, that her semen spattered face must be one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

To my disappointment, she leaned over and pulled the towel from under her bum and wiped her face. She then reached across and began wiping me clean. I jerked back instinctively.

"Sorry," I grinned, "sensitive, It's like that after."

She nodded wisely. "Yeah. Me too. If someone touches my clit just after, it's just too intense."

She gave me the towel, and I wiped myself clean.

We lay back next to each other, arms and shoulders touching, her head cocked to the side, touching mine.

"Would you really want to do it again?" I asked, maybe a little too hopefully.

She nodded. "Fuck, yes. It was so intense. I'd be up for it tonight, if I wasn't seeing Jack. Tomorrow, maybe?"

I nodded.

Mutual masturbation became part of our friendship after that. We would just get together and masturbate. Sometimes we used our hands on each other, sometimes our mouths. Occasionally, she would let a friend join us, which I loved. They would compare pussies and clits, show different techniques and have different orgasms. I learned so much.

She would not allow me to bring a friend - and I didn't want to. She always felt that she would be too vulnerable. There would be demands for her to give hand jobs and blow jobs, rather than the natural, casual way we had evolved.

We never fucked. We had no desire for a romantic relationship. It was what it was - a friendship so open and trusting that we could share our most vulnerable moments. It was ethereal, transcending social boundaries and setting a new standard of closeness.

It stopped when we left University, and she moved away. For a while, she would come and visit, and we would masturbate together. Then we both found partners, and shared homes with them. Still, on occasions, we would find somewhere to indulge our secret pleasure, but it became increasingly difficult. Once children arrived, it stopped. We emailed from time to time but never arranged to meet.

"Are you OK?" Lisa asked.

I snapped back to the present. "Er. Yes. Sorry. I was just... remembering something."

Her smile suggested that she knew it was something sexual.

"Shall we do some nude photos then?" She asked. "If you still want to."

I nodded. After all, I wanted to - but... "Yes, sure, but er... I'm a bit - y'know."

Lisa smiled. "If you've got an erection, I'm not bothered if you're not. I'll just do the same as I would without. It's just about photography."

I shrugged, mentally. What the hell. I stripped off my t-shirt, unbuttoned my jeans and slipped them, and my socks, off together. I looked at my boxers, the outline of my hard cock evident. Then I glanced at her. Her back was to me as she fiddled with her camera, then adjusted the lights.

I slipped off my shorts, allowing my rigid dick to spring free. This was it.

"OK. Ready."

She turned and appraised me briefly. Did her eyes linger on my cock? Or did I just imagine it?

"A couple of test shots first," she announced.

And that was it. I modelled for her, stark naked, as agreed, with a raging hard on. She was entirely professional, directing me into poses, moving me around. My erection made no difference whatsoever. Steadily, it dwindled. It was pointless. I wasn't about to wank, wasn't about to fuck, and my dick, ever with a mind of its own, recognised that being erect was just pointless.

By the end of the shoot, I was flaccid. Neither of us commented. Apart from her directions and my helpful guidance about lighting, nothing needed saying.

The images were great. She had, indeed, continued as if nothing made any difference. We shared the photos in appropriate places, not as porn, but as art. Shadows often discreetly hid my genitals anyway, reducing my penis to a silhouette. It was fine. If I wanted dick pics, I could do them myself.

And that was the first time. Not the last, however - and things changed.