I’d heard from some friends about a photographer who specialized in glamour shots—risqué, but not outright porn, if you catch my drift. My girlfriends swore that when they gave the photos to their husbands, the men turned into giddy teenagers again. I thought it would be fun to surprise Paul with a set and see his reaction.

A little background: Paul is my second husband, the absolute love of my life, and we’ve lived a very free-spirited lifestyle since long before we married.
Anyway, I got the photographer’s number from a friend and called to book a session. The moment he answered, that deep, velvety voice sent a shiver through me. I told him I was interested in glamour shots; he flipped through his calendar and said he had an opening in four days—the next one after that was three weeks away. Clearly, he was in demand. I snatched the earlier slot. We chatted about outfits. His only guidance: “Think sexy, sweet, or slutty—bring whatever makes you feel irresistible.” I hung up buzzing with anticipation.

The day of the shoot I was a bundle of nerves and excitement. The appointment was at 2 p.m. and could run anywhere from two to four hours, depending on how many looks we did. Keeping it secret from Paul had been easy; I told him I was meeting girlfriends for shopping and dinner, so he was on his own for the evening.

I arrived a few minutes early, grabbed my bags, and walked into the studio. The moment I saw the photographer in person I understood his popularity. He was stunning. Instead of a handshake he pulled me into a warm, lingering hug and said how thrilled he was that I’d come and how excited he was to create some magic together. He gave me the tour—sofas, chairs, beds, plush carpets everywhere—then led me to the dressing room. It wasn’t some cramped closet; it was luxurious: a sofa, lighted vanity, locker, and even a queen bed “in case you need to rest between sets.” The whole atmosphere had my skin tingling. I was pretty sure my nipples wouldn’t need any ice cubes today.

He suggested we ease into things with calmer looks and work our way up. Perfect.

I changed, he shot, I changed again—each time I stepped out he’d murmur, “My goodness” or “You look incredible.” The compliments, the lighting, the vibe—it was intoxicating. With every outfit change the looks grew bolder. Eventually I was down to bra, panties, hold-ups, and heels. I fanned myself dramatically and said, “Damn, it’s gotten hot in here.”
Without missing a beat, he peeled off his shirt. Dear God. Smooth, hard, glistening like he’d been lightly oiled for a magazine cover.

Things escalated quickly after that. My nipples were straining against the lace; I was soaked. During one set I finally blurted, “Do you mind if I lose the bra?” He smiled, stepped close, and said, “Here, let me help.”
He guided me to a chair draped in white fur, told me to relax and enjoy. I tried to focus on the camera, but my eyes kept dropping to the growing bulge in his pants. I’m not exaggerating—it looked enormous, at least eight inches even through the fabric.

Modesty evaporated. I started teasing my breasts, giving him every signal I could. He got the message. He set the camera on a tripod for a few shots, then excused himself. When he returned, he was wearing only a very filled-out thong.

He knelt, eased my thighs apart, and dragged his tongue over my panties. I was desperate for more. “Take them off,” I begged. “Fuck me with your tongue.” Instead of pulling them down, he produced a knife and sliced the sides clean. The sharp sound and sudden exposure sent me over the edge—I’d never had anyone do that before.

I was completely his. I locked my stockinged legs around his shoulders and pulled his face into me. He licked and sucked like a man possessed; I ground against his mouth and came hard, screaming. He didn’t stop—kept his tongue buried and nose on my clit until I came a second time.

When I finally released him, he stood. His cock had escaped the thong entirely; the head glistened with precum. I snatched the knife from his hand, cut the thong away, and there it was: thick, hard, perfect eight inches. I dropped to my knees, took him as deep as I could, and worshiped him with my mouth while I stroked and played with his smooth balls. He groaned, threaded fingers through my hair, and soon roared as he flooded my mouth—so much it spilled down my chin. We played, touched, tasted, and rested together for another hour, bodies tangled and slick. Eventually he kissed me and said, “We still need to finish the shoot. How about we give your husband something really special—just you in garter, stockings, and heels. I’ll be waiting exactly like this.”

I slipped into the final look and walked out. I arranged myself on the bed, one leg high in the air, pussy open and glistening for the camera… except we both knew I was really offering myself to him. The “photo session” lasted another two hours and several mind-blowing orgasms. When I finally glanced at the clock it was 9 p.m.—over seven hours. Paul was definitely panicking by now. I called and told him I was fine and on my way home with one hell of a story.

I got home, sat Paul down, and told him everything—every detail except the original plan of it being a surprise gift for him. When he heard what had happened he dragged me to the kitchen, had me strip, slid his fingers through my folds and felt the photographer’s cum still inside me. Grinning like a wolf, he led me to the bedroom, pushed my legs open, and licked me clean before giving me the second cock of the day.