Photographs
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12 Photographs free porn video
12 Photographs
by Aimee 2
Photograph 1
I'm wearing red lace panties and a matching push-up bra. He has me put
my hands over my head, thrust my titties out, and strut around the
imaginary stage on my very real, very treacherous fuck-me red pumps.
"They're huge," he suggests, "big as melons, with erect nipples like
ripe strawberries." I can see them in my mind's eye. I can sense, too,
the guys around strip club bar, their attention riveted on me,
salivating, their eyes popping, their cocks hardening. They throw dollar
bills at my feet, shouting, reaching out to cop a feel, lewdly
propositioning me. I spin and dance just beyond their feverish, grasping
fingers. They laugh and curse and coax me back. Their voice is the
photographer's voice telling me to bend over, shake my ass, lick my
lips, feel myself up for the audience. I feel the damp spot forming on
the front of my panties. My own genitals are locked securely away in a
pink chastity tube to prevent any "accidental appearances." No one wants
to be reminded of that little birth defect I call a penis, least of all
me. "That's it baby, get into it, now hold that pose, hold it hold it."
The camera whines as the photographer presses the automatic shutter.
"Beautiful!" he declares. "Just lovely. Baby, you're a natural."
* * *
How did I manage to get myself into this mess? How could I have been so
blinded by...by what, exactly? At first, I told myself it was a harmless
sexual fantasy. Then I told myself I was just exploring my feminine
side. Every man has a feminine, right? Everyone says so. All the books
and magazines. All the experts. It's common knowledge. Still, every man
doesn't go so far as to dress up in women's clothes. Every man doesn't
go online to seek out chatrooms in order to role-play as a member of the
opposite sex. Every man doesn't imagine himself to be a woman even when
he is having sex with his wife.
And every man doesn't answer a Craigslist ad from a photographer
offering his professional services to "transform you into the girl of
your dreams." A collaborative portfolio, that's what he called it. He
was an admirer of girls like me, that's what he wrote back when I
answered his ad. He wanted to help. He wanted no payment. All he wanted
was the photographs of the beautiful girl I'd become in the eye of his
camera. Of course, he would give me a copy of the portfolio, as well. So
I could revisit whenever I wanted the parallel world of what could
have/should have been. The world in which I was a sexy girl.
How could I have fallen so helplessly, so hopelessly into such a
stupidly obvious trap?
* * *
Photograph 2
I'm bending over again (I do that an awful lot for the camera, it seems.
"But baby," the photographer laughs when I point this out, "it's your
best side!" ), but this time I'm bending over with my hands grasping my
ankles. I'm wearing six-inch stiletto sandals. I've painted my toenails
"kimono red" for this shoot. They're peeking back at me from the black
fishnet stockings I'm wearing. I'm concentrating so hard on keeping my
balance that I hardly have enough attention left over to feel self-
conscious. It isn't easy staying upright on these narrow heels; it's
kind of like being perched on two delicate icicles. I think my left calf
is starting to cramp up a little. I feel like I want to cry. I'm wearing
a pair of black thong panties. The strip of material disappears between
the cheeks of my upraised ass. I must look like I'm begging to be
fucked. I am begging to be fucked. How many pictures does he need of me,
anyway, with that vibrator shoved so deep into my sissypuss? Why does he
have to get so damn close? Can't anything be left to the imagination?
Gosh, even in spite of the chastity tube making it impossible for me to
cum, I'm leaking so much fluid it's soaked clear through my tiny
panties. It's formed a long, saliva-like string glistening in the lights
the photographer has set up for this shot. He takes pictures of this
long glistening string. No, apparently nothing can be left to the
imagination.
Photograph 3
I'm kneeling on the bed and wearing a white baby doll trimmed in pink.
The nightie is made out of some kind of white diaphanous material that
you can see right through. I've got a large black dildo half in my
mouth. My eyes are closed as if swooning with pleasure. My lips are
generously painted with a red waxy lipstick. I can see traces of this
lipstick smeared along the dildo. "Swallow it sweetheart," he says.
"Come on, a little more, a little more. You can do it," the photographer
encourages. I don't think I can take any more of it without gagging
which would ruin the whole shot. But I do my best to follow his
instructions, to respond to his enthusiastic encouragement. He has such
faith in me! I'd hate to disappoint him. That's how I am. I'm a people-
pleaser, essentially. As it turns out, he's right. I can swallow more
than I would have thought possible. A whole lot more.
Photograph 4
I'm lying bent over the arm of a red velvet chair--a divan, I guess you'd
call it. If I knew more about antique furniture I could probably say
exactly what kind and from what period. As it is, I'm sure it's only a
reproduction, a mere prop. But in the photograph it will look perfectly
authentic. And so will I. That's what has brought me here in the first
place. I want to look like a real girl, even if only in a photograph.
Today, I'm wearing heels and the thigh-high fishnet stocks as before,
but this time my panties are pulled down around my ankles. The straps
from my corset dangle down. I've apparently been a very naughty girl;
that is the theme of this particular shoot. I can't see them but I can
still feel them: six horizontal slash marks across the bare white globes
of my naked ass. The photographer had an assistant administer them just
moments ago with a short leather riding whip. I caught a glimpse of him.
An unsmiling, well-built black man with a shaved head. He administered
the blows. God it hurt so badly. I couldn't help but cry out and kick my
legs up, even though I was ordered not to make a sound and keep my
"pretty little toes" on the floor. The photographer came in close to get
the marks at their freshest. Then he scooted around to take close-ups of
my face. I can tell you, the tears on my cheeks were 100% real.
* * *
Oh he was a sweet-talker, alright. He made me believe. He did this with
shocking ease mainly by telling me what I wanted most to hear. That,
through the device of his camera, he could make me a woman.
He showed me samples of his work. They were beyond impressive. It was
frankly hard to believe that the girls in the pictures that opened onto
my screen had once been boys. But he assured me that they had been. When
I continued to express doubt. He sent me proof. I was still hesitant;
using editing software you could, after all, cut-and-past male genitals
on a beautiful woman. It wouldn't be difficult, even for a non-
professional.
Still, I was suspicious. I was afraid. I was full of self-doubt. I
assured him that there was no way I could do this for real. He wasn't
discouraged. Why? Why did he seem so interested in me? His interest, his
persistence, made me even more suspicious, more afraid. He said he
sensed something in me, some quality. He hadn't even seen my picture
yet, nevertheless me in the flesh. I wanted to believe him in spite of
my doubts and fears. In the end, I relented to his persistent request
and sent him a photograph of myself--a casual screen shot . I was still
too cautious to send him one where I was fully dressed. Instead I sent
one where I made an effort to look and dress as androgynous as possible
without showing my cards. This was safe, I reasoned. I couldn't get
myself in trouble this way.
Besides, I hated the picture. I didn't look anything like girly enough.
I was sure he'd realize his mistake and I'd never hear from him again.
I would be disappointed, of course, but I would then face the grim
reality. I could put the fantasy behind me once and for all. I could get
on with the life I'd been given.
* * *
Photograph 5
A really embarrassing shoot, the worst of the lot so far. I'm squatting
down over a large black dildo glistening with lube and lowering myself
onto it a little at a time at the photographer's direction. As with the
earlier shot, when I was "sucking it off," I don't think I can get more
than a couple of inches inside me. But with a little encouragement and
under threat of another lashing, I surprise myself yet again. I lower
myself all the way to the floor, taking all seven inches of fat black
rubber inside me. Even more humiliating is the effect it has on my poor
little sissyclit. The chastity tube has been removed for the special
event. My clittie looks shrunken and atrophied, but it has managed to
get semi-hard in response to the penetration of the dildo and is leaking
a long pearly string of cum. All of this the camera mercilessly
captures, including the look on my face, which, when I see the proofs,
shocks me: it's one of near ecstasy. I want to tell myself that I'm
acting for the camera, but I can't fool myself. Not even Charlize Theron
could put on a performance like this.
Photograph 6
This shoot takes place outside. I'm standing in front of a graffiti-
bombed wall in a derelict part of the city. I'm wearing a plaid pink
schoolgirl skirt that flashes my pantied crotch and a halter top tied
above my naked belly. I'm wearing big white platform sandals. My hair is
done in two long streaming pigtails. My face is made-up to look ultra-
sluttish. There's no question what I'm doing on the street dressed the
way I'm dressed. If there is, the sign I'm holding removes any lingering
doubt. It says, "My name is Kimmi. I'm a sissy and I'm 4-rent."
Photograph 7
I guess you could see this one coming. I'm on my knees, wearing the
outfit from the previous photograph, by the side of a bed. I'm kneeling
between a man's bare legs. The legs are fat, white, and hairy and I have
his cock in my painted mouth. From what you can see of the background,
you can deduce that we are in a hot sheets motel room. It's all pretty
sordid: a typical hotsheets motel. The man has one hand around my head,
pulling me towards his crotch. The other hand, resting on his knee,
holds the twenty dollar bill he will use to pay me when he shoots his
load into my mouth. My training with the dildo from the earlier
photograph has obviously paid off: I've swallowed his entire cock. My
two hands are massaging his large, heavy ball sack. It's all too obvious
that no one is forcing me to do this. I look like I'm enjoying my work
too much.
* * *
I thought I'd never hear from the photographer again.
But I was wrong.
He still wanted to meet me.
I was shocked, thrilled, terrified, mystified. What now?
I should have put a stop to it then. I should have sensed the trap ready
to snap shut, the ring of predators closing in around me. Instead, I
agreed to a meeting.
We set up a time, a place.
This was my big chance, maybe my only chance to live out my most secret
fantasy. You only live once, right?
I didn't mention that I was married.
But why should that matter? I wasn't actually going to do anything. I
wasn't going to cheat on my wife. I wasn't intending to have sex with
anyone This wasn't about sex, really. It wasn't something my wife would
ever understand, that I already knew whenever I talked cautiously around
the subject with her. But it was something very much a part of me.
Didn't I owe it to myself to explore it, if only on my own? I'd spare my
wife the discomfort and distaste this side of me would certainly cause
her. She'd never have to know and my own conscience wouldn't be too
aggrieved. Maybe I could even put this transgender fantasy of mine to
bed, so to speak, once and for all. I would then be a better, more fully
engaged husband. I would be the real man that she wanted and needed. Our
marriage would be stronger. That's how I reasoned, that's how I
convinced myself.
That's how I fooled myself.
* * *
Photograph 8
A companion piece, you might say, to photograph seven. Together, they
form a kind of diptych. This photograph seems to be taken in someone's
apartment. There is the usual clutter: magazines strewn about, wires and
cables snaking across the floor, dirty glasses, colorless broken-backed
couch--a typical bachelor's "paradise." I'm wearing one of those silly
frilly French maid's outfit from a sex costume shop. I'm sitting in the
lap of a black man, his legs splayed out wide, my own legs, clad in pink
fishnets, draped over his thighs. The focus of the shot is on his thick,
black, piston-like cock, which is buried to the hilt in my stretched-out
sissypuss. On either side of me, stand two more black men, their heads
cut off by the framing of the shot, which focuses more to the point on
their massive erections. I have one in each hand. The one in my left
hand I'm sucking. The one in my right is awaiting its turn in my mouth.
The implication is clear. While I'm being fucked in the ass by one man,
I'm sucking off the other two. The look on my face would be worth a
thousand words if this weren't already a picture.
Photograph 9
A tattoo parlor. I look so tiny beside the big, burly biker type with
the gun. He's finished his handiwork and I'm showing it off for the
camera. I'm wearing teen-tiny denim cutoffs and nothing else except for
red-glitter platform sandals. I suppose the extra nudity was necessary
to show off the rings now piercing my nipples. There's a rhinestone
dangling from a delicate little chain which is in turn dependent upon
the stud piercing my navel. A tiny ring through my right nostril. Around
my slender neck, a locked collar of stainless steel: a leash is attached
to it and holding the other end is yet another black man. He sneers
threateningly at the camera. So this is how it is now: I'm owned. I'm a
slave. Between these two well-built men I look so weak, so vulnerable,
so negligible. I'm nothing but property. I can be passed around. I can
be bought and sold. I haven't any say. I am a sex-object. But it's the
tattoo inked into my flesh that is the main subject here. A delicate
pink script--you wouldn't have thought the big bearded brute in the
leather vest capable of such artistic finesse--that spells out the word
"sissy" on my lower abdomen. A little pink heart dots the "i." I look
into the spaced-out eyes of the girl in photograph 9 and wonder what she
was thinking at the time. Maybe she was thinking that she could always
get the tattoo removed later. Maybe she drew comfort from the thought.
Maybe she already knew she was just fooling herself. Maybe she was
thinking nothing at all. How did she think she could possibly hide the
tattoo and all these piercings from the wife? They probably slipped some
kind of drug into the can of Diet Pepsi she is sipping through a straw.
I look down at my tummy: the tattoo is still there. Sissy.
Photograph 10
A medical office. I'm wearing a short red-and-white gingham skirt and a
red Hello Kitty tank top that reveals my tummy, my navel piercing, most
of my new tattoo. I'm not wearing a bra. If you look closely, you can
see the outline of the nipple rings against the tightly stretched fabric
of the tank top. Is it possible that I actually have real titties
already? There seems to be a definite girly swelling in the area. Maybe
it's just a Photoshop touch-up. My hair is in pigtails again. The doctor
is a tall, dark-haired, mix-raced woman. Is she really a doctor? There
are certificates on the wall behind her. Are they just stage-props, too?
She's preparing a syringe for injection. A black man--a different one
yet!--is looking on approvingly from the side. There seem to be so many
people in charge of me. Who do I belong to, anyway? Whatever the shot
is, whatever the treatment, I seem to be going along willingly. I'm
holding the hem of my skirt up in the back. My panties are pulled down
to under the cheeks of my plump little ass. Actually, it seems fairly
obvious what the shot contains. If you were to enlarge the photograph
several times you could easily read the name of the medication on the
bottle from which the doctor draws the syringe: Estradiol. Is it really
any surprise? Female hormones.
* * *
Now, as I sit here in this crummy two room walk-up over a Chinese greasy
spoon, which is all that I can afford under the terms of the temporary
settlement the judge imposed until the divorce is finalized, I
understand just how badly I've been played. I've got the promised
portfolio here on the card table that I use for my meals and everything
else for that matter spread out before me. A dozen photographs. Just as
promised. Beautiful professional work. I look quite gorgeous, better
than I could ever have imagined I could look.
There's only one problem.
The portfolio wasn't sent to me by the photographer.
It was sent to me by my wife's attorney. The twelve photographs are
copies of the identical portfolio in their possession. And they've made
it crystal clear what they intend to do with this "evidence" if I don't
immediately and without caveat or reserve agree to each and every one of
the draconian terms of their proposal.
Of course, you don't have to be Clarence Darrow, you don't have to read
between the lines to understand that it's not a proposal at all, really.
It's the terms of my unconditional surrender.
And I have already signed it. I've just put the pen down. I've signed it
with the name of a dead man. The name I will never use again.
You could call this a suicide note and you wouldn't be entirely wrong.
I've signed my name to a document that has ended one life and started
another.
My new life as a slave.
* * *
Photograph 11
The setting is murky, but it appears to be some kind of stage. There is
drapery in the background, indirect lighting. I'm standing on a small
platform wearing what can best be described as a kind of harem outfit. A
short diaphanous wrap-around skirt, more like a veil really, of a very
thin purple material decorated with glitter dust. My belly is bare,
showing off my navel piercing. A tiny bra of a slightly more opaque
material covers my titties. Yes, I do have real titties now, though
modest in size, a tidy handful. Both bra and skirt are fringed with
silver artificial silver coins, designed to jangle with my slightest
movement. I am wearing many bracelets as well as anklets which are
similarly festooned with tiny bells.
I am barefoot, my toes painted and decorated with cheap rings connected
by rhinestone-covered cords that give the illusion that I'm wearing
sparkly sandals. As it is, all I can make are slight movements because
my wrists are cuffed together in leather and raised over my head by a
heavy chain that vanishes somewhere beyond the upper frame of the
photograph. The chain has pulled me upward so that my body is held taut
in suspension, my ribcage prominent, and my tummy stretched tight in
what I have to concede is an appealing way. The diet I was put on really
has worked wonders! Still, you can see the discomfort I'm in from the
way I'm forced to stand on my very tippy toes; it registers clearly on
my heavily made-up face. What you can't see is that to keep my balance I
have to do a tiny little dance in place, the bells all jingling most
pleasantly. You'll have to use your imagination to reproduce the full
effect, but I can recall it vividly from memory. As well as the
humiliation that I experienced during the inspection that is the purpose
of this display.
I am surrounded by three men, one, appearing to be of Arabic persuasion,
wearing a keffiyeh. They are all openly appraising my nearly naked,
feminized body. One of them has lifted my skirt to expose my genitals,
which are securely enclosed in the pink chastity tube again and
decorated with a pretty pink sissy bow. Another is testing the heft of
my tittie in the palm of his hand, his long elegant fingers squeezing
the pierced nipple. The third is examining my ass. You can't see what he
is doing from the angle of the shot but I'll never forget the rude shock
of his unlubricated finger forcing it's way into my tight sissypuss. In
the picture I'd regained my composure, but only moments before I had
gasped, nearly stumbling forward off the platform, my bells wildly
jangling. Ironically, it was the same finger inside me that had upset my
balance that now steadied me, helping me to regain my footing on the
platform, and that's when the photo was taken.
On either side of me, you can just make out other small plinths and on
them other girls like me put on display. The question that has persisted
through the first ten photographs--who do I belong to?--seems to be
answered at last. I don't belong to anyone yet. This photograph is the
record of an auction at which this question will at last be answered. In
other words, I'm for sale. Will it be one of the trio of these
expensively dressed men who will buy me?
Photograph 12
This is the most disturbing photograph in the series. At the time, I
didn't understand it. Was it meant to frighten me? If so, it surely did.
Now, of course, I realize that it wasn't so much a photograph as a
prophecy. It recorded in advance the choice I would come to make. In it,
I have been put into a sturdy wooden shipping crate. I realize it's a
shipping crate now. When the photograph was taken I was frightened by
the crate's resemblance to a casket. You can see this fear on my face,
which looks lost and pleading. I have been put into a semi-sitting
position and bound, the crate being outfitted with restraints for my
wrists and ankles. I am dressed scantily, wearing a gold bikini, and,
quite unnecessarily since I won't be walking anywhere, severely arched
high-heeled sandals of transparent plastic, a kind of pornographic
version of Cinderella's glass slippers. There is a small sip bottle, the
kind you put in tanks for small mammals, positioned within reach of my
lips, which have been painted a very dark red. My hair has been dyed
blonde and falls around my face in loose ringlets. Perhaps most
disturbingly, the bottom of this box is covered in wood chips, which can
only be meant to absorb the mess I might otherwise make if I had to pee.
How long will I be inside this box? Where am I going? These are details
I'm not privileged to know. The cover of the box is standing close by.
If there is a shipping label on it then it must be on the reverse side.
There are air holes drilled in the cover and in the sides of the box.
They wouldn't drill air holes in a casket, I'm thinking, relieved. They
wouldn't supply water. I am comforted by all these small details. On the
other hand, they wouldn't leave me ungagged if they thought anyone could
hear me crying out for help.
* * *
So now I sit here waiting, waiting as instructed. I'm waiting for the
car to come and pick me up. I've dialed the number the photographer gave
me. It's clear to me now that he is more than just a photographer, that
he was looking for more than just a model. I can't say that I'm
completely surprised. I sort of sauntered into this situation with my
eyes half-closed. I can't honestly say that I didn't want something like
this to happen to me all along. I can truthfully say that it was just a
fantasy, but that was because there didn't seem a chance in a billion of
it ever becoming reality.
Now that it has can I honestly say I regret it?
What I can honestly say is that I'm scared.
I am dressed the way I've been instructed to dress. All you have to do
is look at photograph 12 and you'll "see" exactly how I'm dressed. This
is what I meant about that picture being more a prophecy than a
photograph. I don't have any doubt that the rest of it will come true as
well. That I will be bound inside that shipping crate, that the top will
be screwed into place, and that I will be sent off to my new life. Where
that new life will be I don't know, nor do I have any right to know. My
life does not belong to me anymore. But then, did it ever?
Someone, I realize now, has bought me. Soon, I won't have to ask who I
belong. I will see his face, I will take his cock inside me. I have a
Master. He will own me. Who it is, I'll find out soon enough. But
whoever he or she may be, I'll do my best to please.
As for my old life--that is over now. These photographs, aside from going
to my wife and her attorney, have also gone out to everyone else I know.
They've been very thorough. My family, friends, employers...they have
all received copies. I'm through, to put it succinctly. I can only
imagine their reaction. Thank god I will only have to imagine it. I'd
rather die than experience it first hand.
Needless to say, perhaps, but my disappearance will trouble none of them
overmuch. No one will come looking for me. I'm doing them a favor by
vanishing from their lives. I would only be an embarrassment otherwise.
They will be glad to accept the brief note I've written explaining that
I've gone away to start my life over. Besides, it is the truth. Even if
they were inclined to look for me, I've been assured that no one will
find me where I'll be going.
It could have been worse. It could have been suicide. There are plenty
of girls like me who have no other choice.
Which is why I consider myself lucky--lucky to have a new life far
waiting for me far away from here. Even as a slave, I will be freer than
I ever was living within the confines of a false identity. Living, in
other words, as a man.
Was it just a matter of chance that Craigslist ad? Or was it a case of
entrapment? Were the photographer and my wife--soon to be ex-wife--working
together all along? It hardly matters.
I haven't any more time to talk. I've heard the car pull up outside.
Sure enough, my cell phone rings three times.
They're here.
I'm going to cross over to the other side. Wherever it is, when I get
there I'll be a girl.
They say that in real life there are no happy endings. Maybe they're
right. But for a girl like me, this maybe just be about as close as it
comes to a happy ending.
Good bye...
*************************************************
For more of my writing, artwork, real-life musings & photos please visit
my blog Sissypop! at
sissyforlife(dot)blogspot(dot)com
Annalisa
- 15.02.2021
- 8
- 0
