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I never would have bothered to lay Sara, if she hadn’t snubbed me.

Sure she was a looker, tan and lean with long brown hair. She wore a sleek cream evening gown that clove to her body like a second skin. But there were many lookers that summer night by the pool, in the garden of the Carmichael Estate. A few models, that girl from all the action movies, plus countless dolled-up wannabes.

It was the opener for Fairfield Styles, a glossy for the fashion crowd. My friend Bobby and I talked our way in at the door, as we always did. He waved his big old Canon DSLR — fattest lens you ever saw, never mind it didn’t work. I flashed my business card, cool in silver and black — said I was a society blogger, don’t you know.

The house itself was a mansion in faux-French style, big and bold and as fake as the guests. Bar downstairs. Upstairs roped off, with a big dude guarding the way. VIPs only, huh. I moved on to the garden.

That’s where the action was, I saw at once. Girls, girls, girls everywhere you looked.

Plenty of male competition. Bankers, heirs, even a few clowns in shiny bling — gold chains and felt hats and fur coats.

I wasn’t worried. Clownage works, of course — you stand out from the crowd, you get laid. But I had moved on from that. Transcended that shit.

You wouldn’t think it if you saw me. Thirty, a schoolteacher, with a nose on the big side. Gray suit, white shirt, open at the collar. You’d think, fuhgeddaboudit, this guy’s hopeless. But I had my ways.

Bobby and I, we split once in the garden. Time to canvas the grounds. I picked up some wine, made my way around the pool. Met Amy the blonde, read her palm, got her number. Met Janice Too-Hot-For-Accounting, encouraged her to chase that Broadway team, agreed to meet for coffee. Met Ellen No-Shit-From-Anyone, had a nice chat, made no move. That’s what guys don’t get — you’ve got to read girls, pick your battles.

So Ellen, bless her soul, she introduced me Sara. “Here,” she said, pulled Sara over by the arm. “You should meet this guy.”

Sara glanced at me. I looked her over. Nice, I thought, and introduced myself.

Sara didn’t even say hi. Even as we shook hands, she looked away. Her eyes darted from side to side, side to side, side to side. That look, I recognized. SCANNING AREA, it shouted — beep beep, beep beep — SCANNING AREA. Looking for somebody worth her time.

“Excuse me,” she said, and drifted off.

I stared after her.

“Sorry about that,” Ellen said, and she too drifted off.

That’s when I knew — it was Sara or nobody tonight.

I found Bobby back in the house, necking with some Russian model, and bummed his camera off him. You better get this, the camera’s big, I mean, big. Length AND girth, ladies and gentlemen. Makes you look like a pro. Hell, it’s almost big enough to make you a pro, all by itself.

I hung that bad boy around my neck and headed back to the garden.

I spotted Sara at once, talking with some gelled-hair pretty boy. It had gotten dark, and the bluish lights from the pool sent shadows rippling across her face.

I didn’t approach her, of course. Instead, I put myself in her field of view, and worked the crowd. “Can I get your guys’ picture?” “How about a shot for Hampton Happenings? Right, and what’s your name?” “Let’s do a nice group shot, huh, for the cover?”

I worked Sara’s left, Sara’s right, in front of her, behind her. I never looked at her. I never so much as turned my lens in her direction.

Cue three, two, one. . .

A tap on my shoulder. I turned, as if surprised. There she was, rid of pretty boy. She clutched her handbag in white-knuckled fingers. “You wanna take my picture?”

I waited a second, then looked her up and down, slow and steady. Long toned legs. Curvy hips. Meat on her belly, but no flap. Small yet shapely breasts that filled out her gown in braless perfection. “It depends,” I said.

“On what?” she asked.

“The lighting out here, it doesn’t work,” I said. “Not with your dress. Not with your skin.”

She took a short, sudden breath, tried to hide it. “Who are you with?”

I looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “You want the truth?”

“Yeah,” she said, and sidled closer.

“Victoria’s Secret,” I said, canlı bahis şirketleri my voice low.

She hesitated. “So you’re here to. . .”

I gave her a knowing look, and shrugged.

Her eyes went wide. “You mean you’re-“

I put my finger against her lips. They were full lips, and soft, a deep and natural red — I felt no lipstick rubbing off.

For a moment we stood like that. I withdrew before she could, and looked around as if to go.

“Is there,” she began quickly, then slowed. “. . . somewhere else we could take pictures?”

“Well. . .” I tilted my head. “I don’t know.”

“How about inside?” she asked.

“I suppose,” I said, the King of Dubious.

“Let’s try it,” she said.

She made to take my elbow. I stepped away as if I hadn’t noticed.

We went inside. Slowly we made a circuit of the ground floor. People talked in little groups. Here and there, couples lounged chatting or at best necking.

Sara stopped in front of a giant photo of Marilyn Monroe. Black-and-white perfection, shoulders tilted, lips parted orgasmically. “Here?” Sara asked, all hopeful-like.

Yeah, darling. As if.

I turned away. I started walking, didn’t look to see if she followed. Walked straight to the staircase, where that big dude guarded the way.

He started to say something, but I spoke right over him — voice in command tone. “We’re shooting upstairs. Make sure no one busts in.”

“I don’t know. . .” the guy began.

Sara hurried up to us, all puppy eyes. “Don’t you know who this is?” she asked the man. Perfectly imperious — almost as if I’d trained her. “Let’s go,” she said to me.

We stormed the stairs.

It was dark, on the second floor. We walked along a carpeted corridor full of paintings and antique cupboards and stuff. I checked the first door — a small bedroom. The second — some kind of parlor. The third. . .

A room carpeted in white, with a crystal chandelier. Plenty of floor space, and, of course, a massive four post bed. Last but not least — the biggest damn mirror I’d ever seen, framed in gold, on the wall beside the bed.

“Perfect,” I said.

“This?” Sara asked, as we went in. “I’m not sure. . .”

“Perfect,” I said, with finality. I was the photographer here. “Go lean against the bedpost.”

She did.

I started shooting. Bobby’s camera was great for this stuff, lots of zooming clicking clacking noises, lots of moving parts. I had Sara stick her hip out, snap. Kick up her foot, snap. Turn her back, look over her shoulder, snap.

“Can I see?” she asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s film. No preview.”

“Shouldn’t you use flash?” she asked.

I stared at her for a second. Then I said, “lie on the bed.”

She did, snap. She rolled onto her side, snap. She threw back her head, snap. I moved around her, side to side, got every angle. On the bed, in the mirror, both combined.

I absorbed the sight of her smooth tan legs, scissored on the silver bedspread. I drank in the curve of her lips, barely parted, soft and smooth. I hardened at the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her gown. My breathing grew faster and so did hers, I could tell.

At last I stopped. I stood at the foot of the bed and I rested my camera against my chest, and I looked down at her.

“What?” she asked.

And I looked at her.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

And I looked at her.

“Should I do something else?” she asked.

“Strip,” I said.

“What?” She sat up against the pillows, brought up her knees, closed her toned arms around them. “Why?”

And I looked at her.

She met my eyes. And didn’t look away.

Slowly, she straightened her legs. Slowly, her hands traveled to her shoulders. Slowly, she eased down the straps of her dress.

Soft fabric slid across soft skin. Her breasts emerged — first the soft curve of the top, then two small brown nipples, then their entirety, small and firm, and oh, so nice.

I snapped shots when Sara got shy and covered herself. I snapped shots when she let her arms drop, pulled back her shoulders defiantly. Rock hard, I snapped shots as she took hold of her dress and pulled it up over her head.

One easy movement it was, a poem in motion. canlı kaçak iddaa Then she was nude on the bed before me. Smooth belly, no tan-lines, smooth legs. Smooth everything, there between her legs, nude and waxed bare, not so much as a landing strip to cover her.

I worked that camera. Boy, did I. From this angle and that, high and low, struggling to keep my breathing steady.

I moved in sinuous motions around the bed, now closer, now farther — challenging, challenging, challenging her to move with me. To turn and flex and surprise me. And she did. How I wished that damn camera actually worked!

Then came a moment when she moaned. It was a small sound. She made it as she rolled onto her stomach, and she tried to suppress it, round buttocks squeezed tight together. But I heard it. I heard it, and knew it was time.

I took off my camera and put it on the floor. Sara looked back at me over her shoulder. She said nothing, just waited.

I looked back at her, even as I took off my jacket and laid it on a chair nearby. I looked back at her as I undid my shirt, button by button, and slid it off. I never took my eyes from her, even as I got out of my slacks and took off my socks, and at last slid down my boxers.

Her eyes darted to my groin and widened for just a moment, as if my erection were some surprise. I let a smile spread across my lips.

I went to the foot of the bed. For one last moment I savored the sight of her legs, her buttocks, her broad, smooth back. I knew that, in a second, esthetic pleasure would be gone from my mind.

I bent forward, touched the soles of Sara’s feet with my palms. I ran my fingers up her ankles and her calves, her knees and her thighs, tracing muscle and sinew. I got on the bed with my knees, and rubbed the sides of her hips lightly with my knuckles. I spread out my fingers and ran them up her back, to her shoulders, her neck, the back of her skull.

She shuddered.

At once I lay down on top of her. My body covering hers, skin against skin, heat against heat. My erection throbbed, trapped between my body and the small of her back.

I slid my arms under her, caressed her stomach, cupped her breasts. They fit my palms like fruit grown specifically for my pleasure. The nipples slid between my fingers, and I squeezed.

Sara moaned.

I pushed myself up on my hands so I could see her better. I slid back half a foot, positioned myself behind her. Pushed my cock down between her legs, rubbed it against her. Searching for her lips.

Sara shifted against me.

I found the lips. Eased them apart with a practiced motion of my cock. And I shoved myself into her, deep and hard.

Sara cried out, but it was no cry of pain. She was wet, and I sank into her easily. All the way I stroked into her, once and again. Her back flexed up toward me at each stroke, muscles bunching.

I lay down over her, pressed my chest to the hot expanse of that back. I ran my arms under her and gripped her shoulders from below. With each stroke I pulled myself forward and drove myself deeper.

Sara thrashed beneath me as if to escape — but escape I wouldn’t give her. I tightened my grip, drove my hips against her buttocks, and she moaned, oh, how she moaned.

Harder and harder, in violent release I slammed against her. I watched us in the mirror, one flesh writhing together, and I pounded her. I trapped her legs between mine and squeezed them together, and her pussy squeezed down hard on my cock. Her entire body shook in violent shudders.

She cried out, about to come.

Sara — the girl who’d looked away as she shook my hand — about to come?

I slowed, came to a stop inside her. With all the self-control I could muster, I observed as she started, looked from side to side in frantic worry, though she couldn’t turn her head far enough to see me.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, breathless, weak.

I let her cool for a moment longer. Then I eased apart her legs with mine. I slid my hand beneath her belly and lifted. She got the message, rose to all fours. Tilted her beautiful round ass up and down at me, as if to say — get on with it!

I took hold of her hips. I pulled back, so that only the tip of my penis remained inside her. And I slammed forward.

“Aah,” canlı kaçak bahis she muttered.

But I didn’t give her time to get excited again. No, ma’am.

I stroked in and out, in and out, in and out of her. Hard and fast, pressure building up inside me. I yanked back on her hips, pulled her onto me as I shoved inside her, deeper and deeper. Until I couldn’t contain myself.

My body went wild. I stroked into Sara in a frantic paroxysm, and I came inside her. Burst after burst after burst, waves of pleasure racking my whole body. Until I was spent.

I leaned forward, pushed Sara to the bed, lay on top of her, done.

She moaned quietly, once. I knew it was a dissatisfied moan, for all the pleasure that she’d had.

I was glad. Maybe that makes me a bad person, but I was. Karma and all that.

We lay there in silence for some time. Eventually I pulled free of her and rolled on my side. She turned over to her back, got up to her elbows. Her breasts stood up pertly. There was color in her cheeks, and her brown hair was a tangle.

Sara looked at me in wide-eyed expectation.

I said nothing.

“I guess we better go,” she said, in a small voice.

I rolled onto my back. I reached out and grasped the back of her head. I gently pulled her down toward me.

She resisted for a moment — her eyes wide, scandalized. Then she blushed. This girl blushed! I got to say, I didn’t see that coming. That alone got me hard again.

Sara bent down over me. She took me in her mouth.

She was gentle, soft. Her lips slid up and down my length. Within moments I was trembling. She ran her tongue lightly across my head, then sucked, came down hard, took me all the way. Up and down she went, up and down, smooth and wet and lovely.

Her long curtain of hair fell in front of her face. I eased it aside. I wanted to see the blush in her cheeks as she went down on me. I wanted her to feel me see that blush.

She did — the rose tinge of her skin deepened. But she didn’t stop. Unbidden, moans began to escape me.

Then I knew — the end was close. I had planned to let her blow me, then leave, desert her in her time of need. But that blush, it made me cave.

I took hold of Sara’s head, eased her off me gently, shivered at the touch of cool air against my cock. I lay Sara down on her back and got on top of her. In one smooth motion, I slid into her. She groaned — but I wasn’t done.

I grabbed her knees and pushed them forward, in front of my body. I braced her calves against my shoulders, leaned all the way over her. She lay bent double, with me atop her, and gave me a look — half fear, half excitement.

I drove down into her.

Sara’s eyes flew wide. She yelled, a nameless sound.

And I fucked her. Oh, I fucked her. With her legs up, my cock rode hard and deep inside her, all the way to the stem. I pressed down on her and grabbed her head in my hands and hammered my hips down, up and down, up and down.

She was like a contortionist beneath me, folded up, trapped under my weight, helpless to resist. And she didn’t try. She moaned and sighed and groaned, and shuddered, ah, how she shuddered.

My every motion caused a tremor in her. Her tight little breasts rode up and down. Her head rocked against the pillow. Her eyes rolled up in her skull.

I felt her tighten on me, down below. Tighter and tighter she squeezed, and I knew it was the end.

I let myself go, and rammed her, rammed her, rammed her. Until she screamed and I screamed, and she came and I came.

Wave after wave of shuddering release, all blended together.

After, we lay in each other’s arms, hot and sweaty, and exhausted.

A gladness suffused me. I was glad that I’d come tonight. I was glad that she’d snubbed me. And I was glad that I’d got over it, so we could share this moment together.

Not that I got TOO over it, if you know what I mean.

When we got dressed — when I looped the strap of my camera around my neck — Sara took hold of my elbow shyly. “When will I get the pictures?”

“I’ll send them to you,” I said. “Write down your address.”

“And Victoria’s Secret?” she asked. “Do you think there might be something. . .?”

I gave her a mysterious smile. “I might call you.”

Sara grinned, ear to ear. “I’ve got to admit,” she said, as we walked to the door. “This party was a lot better than I expected.”

“That’s how it is with these things,” I said. “You never know who you’re going to meet.”

###

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