Picture Perfect
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Picture Perfect free porn video
Picture Perfect
By Cal Y. Pygia
"What do you mean, you won't?" Carlos demanded, squinting into the sun.
"Just what I said," I replied.
Carlos was a gorgeous guy, with dark, wavy hair; a deep, tropical tan;
even teeth, as white Chicklets; broad shoulders; a deep chest; a flat,
firm belly; strong arms and legs; and firm, compact buttocks. He had
quite a lovely cock, too, over seven inches erect and circumcised, with
a big mushroom head and the biggest balls I've ever had the pleasure to
behold - or hold. We'd been lovers, sure - what model hasn't made love
to her photographer? In fact, for the last couple of years, we'd been a
couple. I'd have thought he'd understand my decision not to strap my
own cock and balls down between my thighs, the glans pointed past my
anus, but he didn't understand. He didn't understand at all, and he was
anything but supportive.
"You have to," he insisted.
"No, I don't," I countered. "I read my contract. There's nothing in it
that says I have to emasculate myself to model Va-Va-Va-Voom Bikinis."
"No one's asking you to emasculate yourself, Barbie."
"Tucking my cock and balls under my perineum is the same thing, isn't
it, symbolically?"
Carlos sighed. "No. Now, come on, please. Be reasonable. There's only
another hour of sunlight left."
Behind us, the waves rolled in, high and green, crested with foam and
smelling of the sea. We'd arrived later in Tahiti than we'd
anticipated, but Carlos wanted to get whatever pictures he could.
Superstitious, he believed that a photo session's success or failure
was determined by how things went the first day. He was nuts that way.
All artists have their peculiarities, I suppose. Maybe mine was my
refusal, this time out, to tuck my genitals "out of the way," as Carlos
often expressed his request to hide my cock and balls between the lower
cheeks of my most decidedly round, feminine bottom.
"You're right; the light is fading - fast. You'd better make the best
use of it."
"Barbie, I am not kidding!"
"I'm not, either."
"Damn it! For a shemale, you have a huge cock - and big balls, too.
Their outline is clearly visible through your bikini bottom; the bulge
will ruin any shots I take of you..."
I shrugged, listening to the crash and roar of the waves tumbling upon
the golden sands. "Just shoot me from the waist up," I offered.
"You know I can't."
"Well, then, I don't know what to tell you."
"You've never protested before."
"Maybe I've developed a little self-respect."
"I'm just asking you to pose. What's disrespectful about that?"
"I'm a shemale, Carlos. A chick with a dick. That's who and what I am,
and I 'm not going to deny the truth about myself to anyone any longer.
I'm not going to be a photo eunuch anymore."
"Your career's over," he predicted, looking at me with a mixture of
pity and annoyance. "Mine probably is, too." He made a few adjustments
to his tripod and his camera. He glared at me over the instruments of
his art. "Could you manage a fucking smile, at least?"
I didn't much feel like smiling at the moment, but I did. After all, I
am a professional.
An hour later, Carlos had taken all the photos the waning sunlight
would allow, and we drove back to our hotel in his van. Not a word
passed between us. We rode the elevator together, but acted as if we
were strangers. As the doors slid apart, I touched his hand with mine.
"If you want to talk - "
"I don't," he said angrily, jerking his hand away.
We walked in opposite directions down the hall to our respective rooms.
I hoped to hear a knock on my door that night. Angry, Carlos might be,
but he was also a passionate man who appreciated the thrills that only
a transsexual could offer him. The fact that the knock never came
underscored just how perturbed he must have been.
The next morning, the scene of the previous evening repeated itself,
with Carlos demanding that I tuck my cock and balls between my legs
like a whipped dog and my insisting that I would never again be a
"photo eunuch." He'd have to accept me just the way I am.
Finally, he saw that I meant what I said, and he filmed me in an
assortment of bikinis and in various poses. I wore a hot-pink string
bikini, sitting on the beach, the waves rushing around my ass and
thighs, with my hands flat on the sand and my back arched. I wore a red
suit, sat atop a mound of rocks, with the sea crashing around and below
me as I stretched my arms toward the cloudless azure sky, smiling
dreamily in the sun. I wore a bra and bottom set printed with a lovely
floral pattern, my genitals a clear bulge among the flowers. We took
many other pictures, of course - hundreds of them.
Carlos never said a word except to bark commands as to how to position
my arms or legs or which way to hold my head. He was colder than the
sea, which brought gooseflesh to my arms and legs and bottom. At the
end of the day, he repeated his dire prophecy concerning our future
careers. They were over, he predicted. I'd ruined both my own future
modeling prospects and his continued career as a photographer by my
asinine insistence on "exhibiting" my cock and balls while "pretending"
to be a woman. His words hurt worse than I can say; they also showed
me, again, as if I needed the reminder, the depth of his anger.
I wanted to kiss away his frustration and fear. I wanted to hug him to
me and whisper away his anxieties and concerns. I wanted to lick and
kiss and suck his thick, hard prick. I wanted to make wild, passionate
love to him, to feel his cock deep in my ass. I wanted to feel the warm
flood of his semen over my bare buttocks and my naked back. I wanted
him thrusting deep and fast and hard inside me, so that I was rocked
and hammered and pounded before him, my tits jiggling and bobbing and
my genitals shaking and swaying. I wanted him to take revenge on me,
brutally and savagely, through sex. I wanted him to know that, despite
my refusal to acquiesce to his demands that I castrate myself, even
symbolically and temporarily, he was the decision-maker in regard to
everything else. In our personal lives, and especially in the bedroom,
Carlos was the man; he was the person in charge, and I would submit to
his will, whatever it might be. By taking me brutally in the ass,
Carlos could reassert his dominance over me, and things would be well
between us again.
Instead, he remained stern and taciturn all the way back to the States,
and, let me tell you, it's a long, long way from Tahiti to L. A. when a
girl's seated next to a pissed-off, dominant man like Carlos!
A week later, we were on the verge of breaking up when Carlos received
a telephone call from Lou Letterman, the photo editor for Va-Va-Va Voom
Bikini 's summer catalogue. With a look of doom on his face, Carlos
indicated that I should pick up the extension.
With a huge feeling of foreboding and trepidation, I did as Carlos
directed.
"Carlos?" Lou bellowed. "You still there?"
"I'm here, Lou."
"These photos you shot - they're - "
Carlos shot me a look of pure rage. Here it comes, I thought.
" - fantastic!" Lou finished. "Better than I'd expected. They're
picture perfect! In fact, Barbie's the cover girl for our summer
catalogue!"
"I don't understand," Carlos mumbled. "I thought you'd be pissed. I
thought my career was over."
Lou laughed. "Over? My boy, it's just begun!"
Carlos looked stunned.
"Just this morning, Emily told me she wanted to broaden the company's
client base by appealing to the transgendered market, which, as you
might not know, has become huge. She loves the photos you took of
Barbie, especially the shots of her in that floral bikini, where her
cock and balls are clearly defined. Why didn't you tell us she's a
transsexual?"
Emily Patterson was the company's chief executive officer. If she liked
the pictures, Lou would like them, too.
If Lou liked them, shouldn't Carlos? I looked at him, hoping he would.
"I didn't know how you'd respond to such news," Carlos answered Lou's
question.
"Are you kidding? Male, female, or shemale, she's sexier than hell!"
Carlos grinned at me; all the worry and fear were banished from his
tanned, handsome face as he displayed his bright, even smile. He said
goodbye to Lou, sprinted across the living room, and planted a kiss on
my lips, squeezing my ass in his strong, firm hand. My heart leaped.
"Let's make love," Carlos invited, his eyes bright.
"Promise to be rough?"
His grin widened. "If you insist."
"I like a lot of man in my man," I said.
He kissed me again, cupping my cock and balls in his hand. His fist
closed around my genitals, gripping them firmly, almost painfully. "And
I like a woman with the balls to be herself," he answered.
The sex was brutal - and wonderful.
Jerri
- 09.03.2021
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