Not Sister Becomes Brothers Photographic Model
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The Photographer's Model free porn video
The Photographer's Model:
As I stood there with my arms chained above my head I tried to take back
control of this ridiculous situation I now found myself in.
The starting point was not to be a victim. The problem was that nearly
all my life I had been a victim. How could I take back control?
Ok. Firstly I could not think of the fact that I was standing here with
a black wig on my head as being something Andrea had done to me.
She, Andrea, my wife, had put the wig on my head.
No, I had allowed Andrea to put the wig on my head. You see the
difference?
Yes, Ok.
Look assertive, look like you are in control. That's why a pauper makes
a palace a prison and a king makes a prison a palace. Except no one is
going to think of you as a King like this, unless they see your Adam's
apple under the black silk choker round your neck and they will think you
are weird but then you always liked weird, didn't you?
Andrea had plucked my eyebrows and penciled in false eyebrows.
No, remember you are in control! Think of yourself as a Queen or an
Empress. You look like one. Be one.
I had allowed Andrea - STOP!
Why?
You are being too formulaic, you will lose your reader if your narrative
carries on like that!
I was wearing false lashes, which had been lightly brushed with mascara.
At the end of the lashes was a thin line of mascara which hid where the
lashes ended so they blended with my eyelids.
I was wearing my "fuck me" crimson lipstick. My lipstick drew you to my
mouth and then you saw the fangs that had been stuck onto my teeth.
I had my own makeup artist, my wife Andrea and I needed to look good.
That's better, it sounds like you are in control.
I was wearing my favourite black PVC opera gloves which went down to just
below my elbows.
My wrists were chained open above my head so that my chelidons formed
right angles and made a "y" shape of my body.
You are sounding like a victim again, control, control...
I looked down at my pale breasts and stomach. I was wearing my favourite
shiny black PVC bra. My skin had not always been pale, it was almost
like I really was a vampire.
I was also wearing my black PVC waist clincher strapped round my waist
but I could not see my black PVC panties under it. I could see my
suspender straps which went down my pale white thighs to the black lace
tops of my seamed slightly black stockings and my black patent 6 inch
stilettos.
Propped behind me on the wall was my silky black dress which had been
spread across the wall behind me. The red flowers from the hem were
furthest fromme. It looked like my dress had exploded open.
My wife Andrea, who is a photographer showed me a picture of me that she
had just taken. There was no other way of saying this. As the subject of
this photo I simply did not have any control. I could see no way of
dressing up the fact that I was the victim of the photo.
I looked like an insect in a display case.
I looked like a whore.
"You look quite sexy for a boy!" Andrea mocked.
She showed me she had just uploaded the picture to an alternative
lingerie fashion site.
I felt exposed and humiliated. Because I was a man dressed as a woman?
No, I was used to dressing as a woman now, although I was still trying to
make up my mind whether I was a pre-op trans woman or a transvestite, I
thought of the feminine clothes I was wearing as my clothes.
No I felt exposed and humiliated because I had been stripped of my
dress and chained to the wall.
And because I looked like a whore.
So how did this begin? How had I got myself into this situation?
I was never very good at sport at school and would often find myself
playing netball with the girls instead of cricket or football with the
boys. The boys were always a bit rough for me.
Hanging around with the girls as I did I developed certain effeminate
mannerisms and the boys in my year at school noticed this. I used to be
the victim of quite a lot of bullying. For a while they used to call me
names like "gay", "faggot" and "pantywaist". My friends were all girls.
We would complain to each other about the boys' behaviour.
And half the time I would wonder what I was doing that was so
effeminate? If I could have stopped I would have. I wanted to be
accepted by the boys as I was by the girls.
My parents were worried, as they had noticed I was unhappy and they had
me see a psychologist.
I remember he told them not to worry. He said I was more mature than the
boys of my age and also more intelligent. I would go to a good
University but most of the boys in my year would get jobs stacking
shelves in supermarkets or warehouses. I should hang out with the girls.
I was already doing that.
So my parents, having mapped out my future happiness, stopped worrying.
There were a few other boys, Nicholas and Matt, who joined the girls
group at school playing netball but they were both very confident they
were gay. I was not sure if I was gay or not but I knew I was not like
the other boys. I was like Nicholas and Matt. We used to be known
collectively as NME. We would hang around together. Sometimes we were
considered to be more effeminate than the girls!
This was a difficult time for me as I had been brought up in a
conservative Christian family. I don't use conservative in the political
sense - my dad would vote Liberal Democrat and my mum would vote Green.
I use it in the sense of traditional. We did everything at right angles.
Dad had certain views about the way the world was and a man's place in
it. He
couldn't understand why everyone didn't share his views. He felt that he
was pretty tolerant but although he didn't talk to Mum about it any more
he was worried about me and whether I was gay or not. He couldn't help
but notice how I would look at my fingernails and trim my fingernails
with a beautician's nail clipper, how I would sit down with my legs
crossed rather than open like most men. He noticed how I was quite shy
around people and used women's shampoo and conditioner and spent a lot of
time drying my hair and styling it.
Dad felt a man's duty was to be the breadwinner of the family and a
woman's duty was to look sexy, to do the housework and to prepare the
meals.
Mum, however, was different from Dad and more like me. She understood me
where Dad didn't. I understood from Mum that where some women like me
who would say Dad was sexist but it was more that he was from a different
generation from me. So Mum encouraged me to learn to budget and to
prepare meals, to learn to wash my own clothes and to do the washing up.
I would wear an apron when I did the washing up or cooking and Dad would
say it made me look like a girl.
I would blush. It was almost like it was a compliment!
As the psychologist had predicted I had got good grades and got into a
Russell university.
When I got to university I started to evaluate my life and realised how I
was influenced by Dad though, despite his sexism and flaws when it came
to domestic chores. I would go to church at university as Dad had
encouraged me to do as a child and I joined the Christian Union.
Also by the time I got to university I had become quite good at running
(as I had to be able to get away from the bullies somehow) and I realised
running hid my deficiencies as it did not require too much coordination
like cricket or football. So at university I joined the running club.
Shortly after I started the university Christian union there was a split
between us and the charismaniacs. They were largely Pentecostals and
didn't want to be in a society with the Catholics, but they took the
Bible too far. It was one thing telling gays they were going to burn in
hell, it was another looking at your own life. It was easier to throw
stones than build houses.
I was always uncomfortable when they spoke about homosexuality in the
Christian union though, as I thought of my best friends Nick and Matt and
being part of NME. Was I uncomfortable because I too was really gay or
was I a crossdresser?
I was still not sure whether I was gay or not so I decided that I needed
to make an effort to try to look more macho. Was I Christian, gay or a
crossdresser or all three?
I would drink beer with the rugby crowd and talk about how a woman's
place was in the bedroom or in the kitchen, like Dad, but I didn't really
believe it. So whenever I felt someone thought I was a fake I would add
"Hey guys, you are basically right but I feel women could do other things
like for example acting, nursing or modelling." This seemed to put them
off asking me if I was gay or not or taking it even furtherance asking if
I was a crossdresser.
Despite this the lads I was hanging around with still thought me a bit
odd because, whilst I had been outwardly accepted as one of the lads, I
still had the same effeminate mannerisms that had worried my Dad. I
would have loved to be fully accepted but those mannerisms were part of
me and I could no more eliminate them than how I walked and talked. In
fact did the mannerisms include how I walked and talked?
The lads were a "warrior" crowd with no real idea how to behave around
women who were our equals. It was classic hunter/gatherer behaviour.
"Find them, fuck them and flee!" was our motto.
I looked for a woman I thought I could easily dominate.
Andrea, although no idiot, went to one of those universities that used to
be a polytechnic. So I felt intellectually superior and I figured that
came with her being one of the weaker sex. I told myself I was attracted
to her because she was delicate and I felt I could protect her.
Although Andrea was petite, she was actually quite strong and could beat
guys at arm wrestling. Also she knew this trick which meant no one but
me could lift her off the ground because she would position herself in a
certain which stopped people lifting her. I was lying to myself about
protecting her, the truth was I was attracted to her strength and
believed she could protect me.
Andrea was a Goth. She had naturally pale skin and jet black hair. She
was the most beautiful Goth I had ever seen. Andrea wore tattoos of
flowers on her left shoulder and after we had been dating a while she had
a tattoo of me on her right shoulder because she said I was hers. Yes,
she was strong yet delicate.
Part of that strength came from the fact that Andrea practiced yoga. At
the time I was full of bigoted nonsense about how yoga was demonic and I
used to mock her practice saying it was just a group of women stretching.
I tried to encourage her to stop and she pretended that she would,
because Andrea was in love with me.
From time to time I would give Andrea the benefit of my superior
intellect and I would explain religious things like how yoga was demonic
or more mundane things like what a film was about. I enjoyed showing off
my knowledge and Andrea seemed to appreciate my mansplaining.
When we first started dating we would go running together. Once I
remember saying after Andrea finished around a minute behind me on a six
mile run: "Not bad for a girl."
I had meant to inspire her.
"With practice I will be faster than you!" Andrea replied angrily.
I had brought out her competitive streak.
"In your dreams!" I laughed. "The day you are faster than me you can
turn me into a woman!" I think this was the first time the subject of my
feminisation was mentioned by either of us but over the course of time it
was going to become a more frequent subject of conversation between us
until it was no longer necessary to be talked about at all.
One thing that really frustrated me about Andrea was how long she took to
get ready when we went out. Once I remember Andrea said "It's not like
you don't take forever doing your hair but if you were a woman, Edwina,
you would appreciate how quick I actually am."
"But I am not Edwina and I am not a woman am I?"
"Maybe I could turn you into one?" Andrea said and I felt uncomfortable.
I was not sure whether she was actually serious or just trying to wind me
up. Andrea had remembered how I had previously suggested that she
feminised me and noted how I froze as she suggested it. Maybe she could
save me from becoming the sexist pig she felt my father was.
For the first few years of our marriage I had a good job in the City and
Andrea did a bit of freelance photography and did the housework.
Everything was how it should be I felt.
Then came the crash and I lost my job. It's funny how as men our
identity is caught up in our jobs and how the loss of our jobs creates a
sense of lost identity and self esteem. No man ever wants to say he is
unemployed when he is asked about his identity at a party. Things were
not so bad for us, however, as strangely Andrea had
started to become a much sought after photographer. She was commanding
more for a shoot than I was getting per month in the City.
I got a low paid job working at stacking shelves in a supermarket. I
found myself back alongside the boys I knew at school. I knew this job
was intellectually beneath me but it was the only job I could find right
now. It was humiliating.
"Well if it isn't "Miss Better than thou"?" from Roger was all it took to
persuade me to put in a request to transfer from stacking shelves to
being a cashier. I was the only male cashier and the boys from school
made sure everyone thought I was gay.
I decided to play along. I shaved my arms and had studs put in both
ears. What harm would it do? Andrea and I both knew I was a
heterosexual male.
Andrea started calling herself "N'Dria" and started wearing almost
masculine tee shirts which clearly revealed how she had stopped shaving
her armpits. I
think she got that idea from Patti Smith. She said she was an artist and
it was artistic. At about the same time I suddenly found I could not
grow hair under my armpits. I didn't know it then but Andrea was shaving
my armpits whilst
I was sleeping.
Also because I was not exercising, N'Dria or Andrea had also got faster
than me at running and started to tease me and call me "fat girl". So I
was now the physically weaker of the two of us and Andrea suggested I
should be a man of my word and let her dress me.
I was scared but had no intention of becoming a crossdresser.
Andrea said I needed to change my diet and got me eating salads instead
of meat sandwiches and drinking coffee instead of eating chocolate and
drinking beer. She also would put testosterone blockers in my food and
estrogen supplements. I didn't know that the food I was eating was also
rich in estrogen.
Seeing how easily led I was Andrea got me started on yoga too. Yes the
sport that I had mocked and said was demonic. She had been on at me to
start for about a year when I visited her studio for the first time and
saw that there were actually some rather fit and muscular guys coming
out of her class. It was time for me to become a yogi having failed to
get Andrea to stop.
After a few months I noticed that I had lost quite a lot of weight around
my waist and that I needed a new belt. In fact I had to buy ladies belts
as they were the only belts in my size.
Andrea had noticed that I was starting to grow breasts and my hips were
starting to widen. The testosterone blockers and estrogen supplements
were working. They were helped by the yoga exercises which were designed
to expand your chest and hips. The instructor described it as opening up
your chest and hips.
I remember Andrea saying "You are starting to look quite a sexy girl for
a boy. Remember all this exercise is so that you will look good in a
dress, as Shakira says, "Hips don't lie" you know!"
"Very funny," I said.
One day Andrea got home late from a shoot and said she was too tired to
do the housework. Would I mind putting the washing in the machine from
time to time and cleaning the house rather than spending all my time on
the internet? At about the same time I suddenly found I could not grow
hair under my armpits. I didn't know it then but Andrea was shaving my
armpits whilst I was sleeping.
I agreed as I could see the housework would not get done otherwise and
gradually I
had started to become more the househusband than she was the housewife.
I still tried to fool myself into believing I was the breadwinner and
Andrea was still the housewife though.
One day Andrea caught me looking at a picture of a Goth lady in black
lacy panties, fishnet stockings and suspenders and a lace trimmed basque.
I said she looked like a Goth bimbo posing in her lingerie.
"You would look sexy in the same outfit when you do the housework!". I
blurted out.
"You are so sexist Eddie, I sometimes wonder why I stay with you."
Playing with fire I tried to dig myself out from the home that was
opening up under me and I continued "Well, that's because you are a
woman, let me explain it to you in simple terms that even you could
understand - I see a beautiful model in lingerie and suggest you would
look good in the same clothes and you say that's sexist. You know it
isn't."
"Well, gee, let's think Eddie. Let's gloss over the fact that you just
called this woman you have never met a bimbo and compared me with her and
ask was that really all you said or did you also suggest I should only
wear lingerie as I did the housework? Isn't it sexist to say only women
do housework? After all you do the housework in this household, don't
you? Are you saying you are a woman? Isn't it sexist to say only women
look good in lingerie? In fact maybe you would look good in lingerie?
After all who is the photographer, me or you? If you weren't being
sexist you would agree, as my model, to do the housework whilst wearing
the lingerie in question."
I could tell I had dug my own hole. So it was admit I was wrong or man
up or rather woman up?
"I will agree to wear lingerie to do the housework if there is a
unanimous vote of both of us and the first three of our friends to answer
their phones and then look at your attempts to feminise me that I look
just like a woman and if you win you can even do a photoshoot. If I
don't you have to do the housework in only your lingerie and shave that
hair under your armpits."
You see I still thought I looked like a man and if not I believed
democracy would save me.
"Provided you agree I can do what I like to make you look like a woman
you have a deal," Andrea replied.
So first she had me shave my legs and chest. She told me from now on I
was to shave my own armpits. Then she bleached my skin and dyed my brown
hair jet black just like hers. I was already getting worried I was
starting to look like I was her sister. What is it about husbands and
wives and how they start to look like each other?
As Andrea was feminising me she was videoing everything she was doing to
me. She wanted me to learn to do my own makeup.
Next she got to work on plucking my eyebrows. It was a painful
process. After I had no eyebrow hair left Andrea then drew false
eyebrows on. Next Andrea stuck false eyelashes on my eyes and drew a
thin black line over both eyelids just above the lashes.
Then she took the studs out of my ears and put in large gold hoop
earrings.
Smiling at how I looked Andrea got out an eyelash curler and a mascara
brush. By the time Andrea had finished applying crimson lipstick to my
lips I realised that even
before she had got me into my first basque, (which Andrea laced me into
so tightly I could barely breathe and led to me talking like Marilyn
Monroe) my first panties, and my first fishnets and suspenders, that I
was going to have to vote for my own feminisation. There was nothing of
my face that looked even remotely masculine.
Now in my lingerie for the first time I noticed with horror how my
breasts filled the cups of the basque. I had tried to pretend I did not
have tits but there was no getting away from how my chest filled the bra
cups.
Voting for my own feminisation sounded stupid right? Why would I? I mean
I was a keen Anglican and men like me did not engage in deviant
activities like this even though I was considered somewhat effeminate.
This was the realm of the gay community.
At the time I did not really understand there was a difference between
homosexuals,
transvestites and trans women. I now know that it is unlikely that you
would fit into more than two of the three groups.
I also felt that as the man of the house that I should be the head of my
household and Andres was always meant to be subservient to me. But it
was quite clear that our roles had been reversed. So even though being
dressed as a woman felt degrading for a man like me because being a woman
was degrading I was also conscious that I was being intellectually
outwitted by Andrea.
So why would I vote this way? The fact was that I had been brought up
with a high sense of honour and integrity and I could see that I looked
like a woman. Given my struggle with the question of whether I was
homosexual or not maybe being dressed as a woman at last would clear that
up? Besides to vote to save myself would simply be a lie.
I was going to get three of the lads I go drinking with to vote but I
deliberately dialled wrong numbers as I did not want them to see me
dressed like this... I had to hope one of Andrea's friends would save me.
Andrea said she wanted me to be her model so she would obviously be
voting for me to become her "wife".
Next Andrea had her Mum on FaceTime. "I always thought you would look
good in lingerie, Edwina, as you are so sensitive and naturally
effeminate. I have thought of you more as a daughter-in-law in denial
than a son-in-law. You look so sexy. Do you feel sexy?"
This was the first time I had been called Edwina and I was going to say
my name was Edward not Edwina but I looked down at myself and the
erection in my panties.
"Yes, I guess I do," I replied.
"Is this really your first time in lingerie? You look so natural. Are
you enjoying being a woman? Is this who you really are? Will you wear
lingerie again?"
I said I honestly had not crossdressed before but I had to admit I was
enjoying the feeling of the clothes and of being sexy and I was already
thinking about how I would like to wear lingerie again.
"Well my vote is yes, Edwina shall go to the photo shoot," my mother-in-
law said as if she was doing me a favour. With hindsight I now know that
she was but at the time I was not so sure.
Andrea then called her sister Alison. "So you have finally got my girly
brother-in-law into her own lingerie? You are so effeminate, Edwina,
that I have always thought of you as a sister-in-law rather than a
brother-in-law. You are such a girl that all that was missing was the
clothes. I can't wait to go shopping with you." She also voted yes.
Then Andrea called my Mum but she let me speak as she knew I was close
with my Mum.
"Mum, you have to help me. I got into this bet with Andrea and only you
can save me from losing the bet."
Just then my Mum looked at me on the screen. I thought surely my Mum
will save me from being feminised but it seemed like my Mum had let me
down when she said
"Andrea I had always wanted to put my little Edwina in her own lingerie
and as you know the only thing I ever dared get her to wear was her
apron. I am sure little Edwina won't turn out like her Dad now and what
you have done with Edwina here has brought tears to my eyes. She looks
so cute!"
"Mum, I am your son and my name is Edward," I said, struggling to believe
I was a man any more myself.
"Your hourglass figure and your clothing say otherwise, Edwina," my Mum
replied.
"But Mum if you say you think I look like a woman, I your son, will have
to do a photoshoot dressed as a woman. Help me Mummy, I don't want to be
dressed as a woman."
"Well why are you dressed as one then, Edwina? You must be a woman of
your word. It is about time you embraced your feminine side and took it
further than just wearing an apron. Andrea you must send me the
pictures. Edwina I am delighted at last to have a daughter."
"So," Andrea said, "Edwina you get the deciding vote. Do you truthfully
believe you
look like a woman or not?"
"Yes, I do Andrea and I will agree to be your model Edwina."
So I had voted for my own feminisation. A path I had chosen for myself.
I had first suggested she feminise me and I had exercised my deciding
vote to become Edwina. Ultimately I had decided to become a transvestite
model myself.
So having done a lingerie photo shoot Andrea helped me into a black silk
dress with a white lace trim. Initially I didn't realise what I was
putting on until I saw my face in the mirror with a white lace headpiece
in my hair and a white apron and I was told to do the ironing.
Yes, I was wearing a French maid's outfit when there were two women in
the room who would have looked better in it than me.
I told them as much.
And it was time for my French Maid shoot.
Over the next few weeks before the dungeon shoot I began this story with,
I wore beautiful dresses and spoke against the lingerie shoots. I got a
certain amount of media coverage. I said I thought just because a woman
like me is keen on wearing sexy clothes and getting her makeup right and
doesn't have time to read books or much else to say doesn't make her a
bimbo.
I made sure I read Glamour and Cosmopolitan though, as I didn't want to
miss the latest makeup and fashion tips.
So when the dungeon photos were published the press ran stories about me
being a bimbo. I guess I had been turned into a bimbo.
Why, after speaking against lingerie shoots, was I appearing in one? The
Press said I was a hypocrite and that next they expected me to speak
against page 3 of the Sun before doing my own page 3 shots.
So the Press thought of me as a hypocrite and the truth that I was being
exploited like the other models I was trying to protect would never get
out.
I was going to be doing a lot more lingerie shoots.
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