Soft Box free porn video

Mrs Parslow was good with the clovers, she always seemed to find the fleshy part of my bosom. ‘That’s the key to wearing them,’ she offered, sliding a silver clamp onto my distended areola, ‘Otherwise, they can get quite uncomfortable.’

Quite uncomfortable?

Really?

I’d have gone with fucking agonising, personally. Mrs Parslow’s take was a bit like describing childbirth as a subtle ache that briefly lingers. But she’d had three kids, so I guessed her nipples were probably as numb as an Eskimo's bollocks - whereas my youthful teenage teats were virgins to the slaughter.

‘And the soft box isn’t anything you need to be nervous about,’ she explained, deftly pulling on my nipple so as to stretch my tit between her fingers, ‘It’ll help bring out that pretty complexion of yours, that’s all sweetie.’

I nodded and watched her husband darting to and fro around the bedroom. He looked rather like an albino Pepperami, but one that happened to have a huge cock swinging from between a pair of Twiglet sized legs.

He’d just cum on my face. A sliver of semen swung from the end of his wrinkled foreskin as he tinkered with the position of a light stand he’d placed off to my left. It was mesmerising to watch, mostly because the jizz had begun to elasticise between the tip of his willy and his inner thigh as he moved hurriedly around the luxurious boudoir. I fixated. Things like that are always so fascinating when stoned. How far would it stretch? When would the lolloping loop of ejaculate finally snap?

‘Man goo is seriously springy, isn’t it,’ I ruminated, ‘There has to be some kind of ethical use for it, like maybe it could replace plastic or something.’

Mrs Parslow chuckled patronisingly and tugged on my other tit. ‘You’ve such a quirky mind, sweetheart!’ She declared, pincering my nipple. It was faux mumsy, the sort a practise nurse offers to an excitable patient as she stands over them with a needle in her hand.

I gave her my best teethy-teen grin and then flinched as she eased the second clamp onto my boob. She ignored the pain reaction and looked back at me jubilantly.

‘All done! Now that didn’t hurt at all, did it!’

It fucking did, actually.

I’d have asked for a Lolli-pop, but I’d kinda just had that from her husband.

I couldn’t deny the art aspect to wearing the clamps though. There was something oddly beautiful in how the gleaming silver contrasted against the soft pinkish hue of my areola. The grinning chain was the coup de grace.

‘They always look best on the chesty ones,’ Mr Parslow mused, camera voguing with his hands as he squatted in front of me. His cock was so long that it brushed across the carpet like an elephant dipping its trunk into the Zambezi.

When he stood up, the jizz had departed for pastures new, morphing from sticky post-ejaculate foreskin goo to a gleaming snail trail on an otherwise immaculate cream shagpile. It was a moment deserving of Attenborough’s voice-over, so I gave it one in my head.

Mrs Parslow spruced up my hair and took a draw on a Pall-Mall that had been drizzling smoke from an ashtray nestled beside us on the bed. She’d been saying something about how perfect I was, because they both adored curvaceous types, but it was mostly mumbled into a glass of Cinzano, so I couldn’t be entirely sure of the gist.

‘Shapely sluts, buxom wenches, that’s our thing,’ Mr Parslow grunted in acknowledgment, which sounded all the more degrading when delivered in such a plum-throated drawl.

‘Pretty pieces of fuck meat with big, firm titties - just like yours,’ Mrs Parslow added, as if the two of them were revving themselves back up again.

I blushed and thanked them for the compliments.

It was our first session together.

‘Is she nervous? Are you nervous?’ Mr Parslow asked, his focus fluctuating between his wife and I, before he immediately reiterated that I needn’t be, not with such an ‘effortlessly profound erotic persona’.

He was charming, in a pompous, dirty old man sort of way, which kinda alleviated the pain of having two metal grinders chomping on my bosoms. I can be highly amenable for gentlemen of a certain persuasion.

I could see he took his photography very seriously. I liked that about him. Men are often lost without a proper hobby. His just happened to be sharing nubile nineteen-year-olds with his wife, and documenting it. That’s a great fucking hobby if you can get it.

‘There’s a jolly good reason for all this sudden urgency,’ He elucidated, fiddling with the knobs on his camera, ‘We mustn’t let all that lovely cum dry on your face.’

‘It needs to look fresh,’ Mrs Parslow explained, squeezing my hand encouragingly.

I imagined Mr Parslow carrying the same stoically prepared demeanour into the many legal battles he must have fought as a barrister. I bet he looked right splendid with one of those peculiar wigs on his head. Oh to have witnessed him at his pomp. Intellectual men are so sexy.

The Parslow’s had a mansion on the far side of the village. I’d been brought up to sneer at them, principally because they weren’t slumming it in a council house like the rest of us.

I’d asked Dad about them a few times, but all he’d say was that Mr Parslow was a posh twat who sat on the parish council. Mum added that his wife was a snotty cow who organised the village fete every year.

‘Bossy bitch, too.’

‘Tossers,’ Dad agreed, and lit another cigarette.

It wasn’t much of a critique. Dad sneered at anyone who had more money than we did. Unless they played for Sheffield United - for only those who graced the hallowed turf of Bramall Lane could do no wrong.

Brian Deane - I’d let him fuck my wife!

Might as well, Dad - everyone else has.

My parent’s disdain for the Parslow’s wasn’t enough to parlay my interest - so the following Saturday I cycled across the village, mountaineered over their towering back wall, and ensconced myself behind the abundance of flora and fauna that nestled on the periphery of their football pitch sized garden.

And there I sat, toking on a pre-rolled spliff whilst PJ Harvey serenaded me through the fluffy lobes of my Walkman. I’d even brought a packet of Frazzles for sustenance. I felt like Julia Sawalha in an episode of Press Gang (what a show, what a woman!). There was a story to the reclusive eccentrics, I felt certain of it. Search it out girl, search it out!

Mr Parslow was mowing the lawn in the buff, save for a pair of argyles he was sporting beneath some Gandhi sandals.

His wife was on the patio, keenly working a pair of secateurs over a plethora of resplendent roses. She had a bouffant perm that added about five inches to her diminutive stature and a bush between her legs that could’ve won her a role in Hair.

She finished with the roses and sashayed across the patio in a pair of Gucci heels, her unfastened, silk chiffon gown billowing behind her like the Bond theme had just kicked in. I doubled down on the notion when she grasped a Martini from atop a white trestle table, lit up a smoke, and regaled herself on one of the four ornate chairs.

I guessed Mr Parslow was somewhere in his mid-sixties. His wife looked a touch younger, though affluence and a good pair of false tits can take ten years off a woman.

Hers were fucking huge.

But it was hard to get beyond her husband’s sandals. Or those socks. I never once saw him wearing one without the other, which always seemed like such a fashion faux pas for a nudist. He was the sort of man that could get away with it. The rich, confident ones always can.

I’d been contemplating the style inclinations of men who match Jerusalem Cruisers with socks as Mr Parslow keenly set up his amateur photo studio around me.

‘He’s got a thing for feet,’ Mrs Parlsow explained, perhaps noticing my fascination with her husband’s eccentric choice of footwear.

‘It’s true. I can’t deny it,’ Mr Parslow acknowledged, holding his hands up in faux defence, ‘You’ve no idea the agony I went through in deciding whether to cum on your face or between those pretty little toes.’

He could have done both, bearing in mind the amount of thick, gooey spunk he’d just unloaded all over my face. I’d always thought that older men were supposed to be less virile. But Mr Parslow had a nut sack the size of a Friesian bull and evidently, the production continued to match the storage capacity. Willis Fairclough looked like two trickles and an apology by comparison. But that’s teenage wankers for you.

‘We’ve had other girls join us,’ Mrs Parslow explained, gesturing to a series of framed portraits that hung in symmetry above a gleaming credenza dresser, ‘That’s Gemma, and that one there is Trudy, lovely tits.’

Both girls grinned back at me in perfect monochrome from beneath a monsoon of gentleman’s relish.

‘Gemma’s at university now, up in Durham, if memory serves, and Trudy’s off backpacking around Australia,’ Mrs Parslow offered, her words trailing off as she peered whimsically at the two photographs.

‘Splendid fillies, both, though neither had the youthful precocity or enquiring mind you display,’ Mr Parslow added, briefly looking up at me from behind his enormous camera, ‘I’ll wager you can be the best we’ve had - if you work hard and properly explore yourself, because the talent’s there.’

I swooned and flashed him a virgin whore grin. Just because.

There was even a framed portrait of Mrs Parslow.

‘The original and still the best,’ Mr Parslow decreed with a boundless grin. Mrs Parslow visibly blushed and I melted just a little inside. Loving couples in good marriages are so hard to find.

It was a belter of a portrait too - an ironic caricature of a lifelong Women’s Institute devotee, what with her smirking sluttily beneath the deluge of semen slithering across her face.

Mr Parslow was right. Hers was the masterpiece. There was something awe-inspiring about the thick streaks of spooge that clung to the top of her immaculately coiffed skyscraper perm like spiders’ webs on a dewey early morning.

‘You look stunning. Truly. It’s an honour to know my portrait will soon be hanging beside such amazing women,’ I offered, ‘And I’ll give everything I have to meet your expectations of me.’

I could’ve told them I’d got a place at Oxbridge and they’d not have looked prouder.

I’d sucked Mr Parslow for about half an hour. We started in the garden with me on my knees as he stood gallantly beside his lawn mower, then did a bit more whilst I sat, spread legged at the patio dining table with Mrs Parslow voraciously tonguing my pussy, before retiring indoors for the finale. 

They both liked to be thorough with their girls, he explained, about twenty minutes in.

‘Especially one’s with such enticing young cunts,’ Mrs Parslow hummed, forcing a fourth finger inside my tight purse as she nibbled my nips.

‘And such pretty brown eyes too…’

‘The little bitch wants a place in our bed, darling,’ Mrs Parslow whinnied, revving her husband to new heights as he lustily face-fucked me with the mower still humming in neutral somewhere near the Azaleas.

Retiring to the comforts awaiting indoors felt a bit like getting an all-access tour around Buck Palace. We wandered past an indoor swimming pool, which I was free to use anytime, they explained, then up a lavish spiral staircase overlooking a marble entrance hall, before scuttling along an upper hallway filled with bookshelves and a chaise longue, until we reached the master bedroom - which, on its own was definitely larger than our council house.

I wasn’t sure how much more my jaw could take when Mrs Parslow finally stepped in, stuck a finger up her husband’s ass, grabbed his cock, and pumped it like a shotgun all over my face.

What had suggested itself as the denouement, suddenly felt like it was never going to end. When it finally did, I barely dared open my eyes, but feared if I didn’t they’d end up glued shut. 

Breathing wasn’t any less fraught - a strand of cock sauce kept leaping up my nostril with each inhalation I forgot not to make, and whenever I opened my mouth it felt like I was wearing Lecter’s bite-guard, but one constructed from numerous strings of sticky jizz (see above thoughts on eco-friendly uses for male ejaculate).

It’s great for the skin though, isn’t it? I’m amazed Olay hasn’t brought out a range of overpriced, tiny-sized receptacles full of the stuff - Because we’re worth it.

Mr Parslow told me what a good girl I was.

‘Wasn’t she!’ Mrs Parslow added gleefully.

I aim to please, or in this case, she aimed him, after I’d done the pleasing.

But let’s get back, for a moment, to Mr Parslow’s comment about how he had a thing for my ‘pretty little toes’ - because nobody had ever called my toes little before, or pretty, for that matter. 

Uncle Fred had actually called them ‘hideously gigantic’ once. The evisceration remains seared to my brain. It was a Saturday afternoon, about four years earlier. I’d just had my fifteenth birthday. Dad had invited a ton of friends and family around for a get-together. It was a typical affair, the sort where all the men passive-aggressively jostle for control of the barbecue, whilst the women slouch in deckchairs swigging Liebfraumilch.

I remember Mum saying something about how weird it was that her husband only ever showed an interest in cooking appliances designed for the outdoors. ‘It’s like you can put a stove in a field and every man in a twenty-mile radius has to be the one standing over it with a turning fork in his hand - but stick the same concept inside four walls and it’s like the Mary fucking Celeste.’

The assembled female contingent clinked wine glasses and cackled like hysterical hyenas.

‘Uh huh, ain’t that the fucking truth!’

The men shifted uncomfortably and fiddled with their budgie smugglers, only for Kevin to step brazenly forward with a theatrical wave of his cigar and a wobble of his sunburnt beer belly, ‘You’s ladies wouldn’t have us any other way and ya know it!’

The riposte stirred the chastened baritone’s into a tub-thumping roar of testosterone-fuelled support.

‘He’s right, ya’s like to complain, but what ya’s really want is us being men and you’s being women!’

The revolt had been quashed. Equilibrium was restored. The women tittered and topped up their glasses, whilst the men shared high fives and engaged in a unanimous swigging of Hofmeister.

Uncle Fred was Irish, and he wasn’t really an uncle. I’m not sure what he was, to be honest. He drank, mostly whisky, perpetually smoked a pipe and was never without a Racing Post. He always seemed to wear tweed trousers with a stain around the crotch.

It was one of those giddy summer afternoons where kids are larking about with water pistols and everyone’s talking about the unbearable heat, having spent the previous seven months moaning about the cold.

But isn’t it glorious, Val!

Hotter than Magaluf, they say…

I’d been scampering through the garden sprinkler in my new tie-sided bikini when it happened. One of the boys, Michael, I think, had tugged on the hosepipe and it caught my foot. It shouldn’t have been the surprise that it was. He’d spent the afternoon punching me in the arm and pulling my ponytail. Mum said it was horseplay. ‘It’s how boys flirt,’ she explained.

Yanking the sprinkler’s rubber cord and sending me ass over tit in front of most everyone I knew was just another liberal smattering of grandiose affection, apparently.

Go figure.

I’d been trying to be balletic, but Michael’s tripwire flirtation had me besting Defoe’s death scene in Platoon. I closed out with a tit jiggling slide across the soggy grass with half a boob spewing out of my prized new two-piece. Not even Daz was getting those grass stains out.

Everyone burst out laughing.

Except Uncle Fred, who chose to channel his inner Dez Lynam instead.

‘That’s surely a penalty! It’s those hideously gigantic toes, monstrosities to be sure, and she’s gone down ‘cause of ‘em!’

I burst into tears.

Mum clambered drunkenly from her deckchair, spilt her ‘Milch on the patio, swore, and then lambasted Uncle Fred for his insensitivity.

‘She’s just a teenager. They’re vulnerable to that sort of criticism when it comes to their bodies.’ She seethed furiously, as Dad hurriedly topped up her wine glass.

Uncle Fred looked utterly bemused, more so when he was told to apologise.

‘She’s got huge tits and a waist the width of a lamppost, I can’t see why she’d be fretting over the size of her feet.’ He retorted, gesturing to my frontal area with his paper as I lay in a heap trying desperately to squeeze my bosom back from whence it came.

Stunned silence.

Except for Michael, who sniggered, and then Dad announced that the sausages were ready.

I can’t remember Uncle Fred coming round again after that.

But my self-loathing towards my feet has remained ever since. I’d not paid them any notice prior to that - now all I ever see is ten fat stumps extending grotesquely from an oversized base. I’m a size seven. There are men with smaller feet than me.

Mr Parslow idolised those hideous digits, particularly if I lay back and spread my toes as wide as I could. It looked ghastly to me, a freak show, but his cock was always standing proud and happy whenever I did it. He’d often masturbate over them and have Mrs Parslow suck them clean afterwards. It just goes to prove there’s something for everyone in this mad world of ours.

Climbing over the Parslow’s back rampart wasn’t hard, per se, but it did involve making some minor alterations to the brickwork with the tip of my Cherry Red’s. By the time I’d finished carving footholds, their previously immaculate parapet looked more like the indoor climbing wall at a Butlin’s holiday camp. Oops.

Going with a colour block t-shirt wasn’t the smartest choice for skulking in someone’s bushes. Puffing on a joint might have drawn unwanted attention too. But hindsight’s twenty-twenty, and I never went anywhere without a reefer back in the day. Come to think of it, not a lot’s changed in that respect.

It took about two minutes for Mrs Parslow to clock me from the relative horizons of her patio, and another two before her husband had unceremoniously dragged me out from behind the Pieris Japonica. I’d been too busy watching his pasty white posterior jiggling back and forth as he clutched his mower to notice I’d been rumbled.

It wasn’t at all elegant, in fact, there was something of a kerfuffle.

‘I say, you there. What on earth do you think you’re playing at?'

‘Who, me?’

‘Well of course I mean you, or are there more of you in there?’

I shook my head. All I could see as I peered through the bushes was the silhouette of a life-sized Pepperami leering menacingly into the foliage with its huge phallus swinging back and forth in the glorious summer sun.

‘The bloody impertinence! I’ve a good mind to call the Police!’

I moved to flee, but Mr Parslow had peculiarly long arms that seemed to slither forward like the suckered tentacles of a prehistoric sea beast.

His hands grabbed forcefully at my wrists and despite my staunchest efforts at digging my heels in, he somehow managed to drag me through the hedge backwards - literally.

A spiteful branch stabbed my thigh and then probed viciously at the clip holding my personal stereo to the top of my tie-dyed hippy skirt. I watched in horror as my most prized possession catapulted free and disappeared into the darkest depths of the undergrowth’s murky belly.

My skirt swiftly followed.

But ‘Sheela-Na-Gig’ played on, and fittingly so, all things considered.

Then silence. The cord was severed. My stricken Walkman had ejaculated the lead from the sponge red headphones somehow still clinging to my ears. Grunge wonderment instantly found itself replaced by the whirring monotony of a motionless lawnmower in neutral.

There was an ungainly thud as I hit the grass on the far side of the hedge. Mr Parslow paused briefly, wheezing as he stood over me like a drunken cohort helping an inebriated friend at last orders.

‘You naughty little tease,’ he grunted, his eyes suddenly noticing the slogan sprawled cheekily across my white cotton briefs, ‘So you’ve come to play, have you?’

The answer was grinning back at him in bubblegum pink - Hello, Daddy.

As choices go, those panties were properly prophetic. I’d acquired them when we’d done Scunthorpe for Auntie Val’s hen do. We’d had a riot in some poor chap’s back street sex shop during a late afternoon pub crawl. Val had stumbled on the knickers whilst assaulting a blow-up doll - ‘They’re so you!’ she’d shrieked as Sheila chased me around a dildo stand with a black mamba in her hand. The manager offered up the knickers in exchange for a civilised exit. Then Vera suggested we all give him a blow job, so he threw us out. But I kept the knickers.

Mr Parslow had got his breath back. There was a sharp tug on my arms and my body lurched forward. I managed to just about keep my head up high enough to stop my skull from smacking back and forth on the lawn as the retired barrister dragged me up his garden.

Freshly cut grass whooshed passed in a blur. A wasp buzz-fizzed at my ear, somehow evading my cheek before eloping beyond my Doctor Martin’s as they shunted in a series of ungainly bounces across a lawn that would have shamed Wimbledon’s Centre Court on first Monday.

It was a sweltering afternoon, and I was hurtling into the unknown, partially naked and taking in the scents and sounds of an English summer in the most peculiar manner, circa August 1992.

‘How old do you suppose she is?’ Mr Parslow pondered, unceremoniously dropping my arms as I lay in a half-dead star shape at his feet.

‘Eighteen or so, give or take a few months,’ Mrs Parslow replied, striding elegantly across the garden towards me, ‘Pretty little thing, isn’t she.’

‘Quite.’

‘How old are you sweetheart?’ Mrs Parslow asked.

‘Nineteen,’ I mumbled, peering forlornly up at her.

‘She’s nineteen,’ Mrs Parslow reiterated, as if her husband preferred a go-between, and drew serenely from her cigarette.

Mr Parslow wiped the sweat from his brow and finger-combed the thin strands of unruly grey hair that had gone rogue atop his balding head.

‘What do you suppose we do with her?’ he mused.

‘What do you suppose we should do with you?’ Mrs Parslow immediately enquired, leaning over me with her huge falsies swinging back and forth like Freud’s take on a Newton’s Cradle.

‘I didn’t mean any harm,’ I whimpered, ‘I was just fascinated. I’ve never met any rich people before. I’m sorry, truly I am. Please don’t call the police.’

‘Humph.’

The Lord and Lady of the Manor stepped briefly aside and conversed in hushed tones, one from under bushy, furrowed brows the size of rainforests and the other from beneath a perm that a force ten gale would have struggled to make a dint in. It took about five minutes.

We re-convened for sentencing. 

‘We have decided to take pity on you. Come, join us,’ Mrs Parslow explained, before gesturing towards the patio. It was more of an order than a suggestion, and came laced with a warning that I must prove them right in having gone against their better judgement.

I’d like to think that desperately pleading for her to ride my face went some way to making amends. But that happened a bit later.

We took drinks at the trestle table. The conversation was surprisingly cordial. It was all the usual stuff, where are you from? Do we know your parents? How’s about you take off that t-shirt and get naked with us - that sort of thing.

Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome or something, but I found myself in eager compliance. I even stood up and cavorted back and forth as I heaved my t-shirt over my head and tossed it aside.

‘Look, no bra - Ta-dah!’

I’m a shameless exhibitionist, given half a chance.

The applause was fevered and delirious, so I provided an encore with a sultry disrobing of my knickers.

‘Would you like them?’ I giggled, twirling the smut shop smalls atop my finger before hurling them at Mr Parslow with a bosomy shimmy, ‘For you, by way of an apology.’

‘Oh my - aren’t you splendid!’ Mr Parslow guffawed and poured himself another sherry. Mrs Parslow looked positively agog and remarked upon the beautiful sight of my bald pubis. It took me a moment to realise she was talking about my cunt.

Mr Parslow wanted to photograph me.

‘Would I mind?’ he enquired, ‘You’re the very essence of everything feminine and I simply must capture you!’

I didn’t mind at all. On the contrary, I explained, blushing and batting my eyes lashes, I was extremely flattered to have garnered the intrigue of a more mature, educated couple (again, see Freud et al). My reply was akin to having fired a starting pistol and Mr Parslow dashed ‘Orrf’ to fetch his camera like Linford Christie blazing from the blocks in Barcelona.

Mrs Parslow took the opportunity to ask if I’d ever enjoyed ‘coitus’ with a woman.

‘Sex, dear. Have you ever been intimate with another of the fairer gender?’ she expounded, when I’d stared blankly back at her.

‘Oh, right, well I wanted to, last year with Stacey Corrigan, but her brother came home and we stopped in case he heard us and told their Mam.’ I replied, ‘She got knocked up by Brian Kepples just after that, so we never got a chance to try it again.’

Mrs Parslow nodded understandingly and agreed that boys can be such shits. But not Mr Parslow, he was a man who understood the needs and wants of a woman. I needn’t worry about that with him.

‘He does seem nice,’ I enthused, and sat myself on Mrs Parslow’s knee at her suggestion.

Mr Parslow returned clutching a rather large camera.

‘For posterity,’ he explained, and promptly took several shots of his wife and I at the table. The one of her cupping my boobs from behind as I sat spread legged on her knee seemed to particularly stir the elderly Silk. I found it all rather exciting. One might even say it was brazenly erotic. I posed many times for him after that.

We had another Martini and then played a game.

‘It’s actually more of a challenge,’ Mr Parslow explained after tying me to a sun lounger that he’d procured from the pool house, ‘You have to make Mrs Parslow cum before I finish cutting the lawn.’

‘Oh yes! What jolly fun! I’m up for that!’ Mrs Parslow cooed, watching her husband as he applied a fierce rope binding to my milk-white tits, which swiftly turned them a gaudy shade of purple.

But it did feel lovely, and I’ve since come to revel in the feeling of vulnerability and restriction that being tied can offer. They taught me a lot, the Parslow’s - and it all began with me strapped to the burnt orange canvas of that kitsch lounger with my legs spread and my wrists bound above my head.

Mr Parslow took a few snaps, naturally, and then explained that he wanted a close-up of my tits, but with Mrs Parslow astride my face. 

‘You can only truss up tits that are a proper handful - and you’ve an abundance to work with, young lady,’ he eulogised as his wife threw a leg over my kisser the way one does when climbing into a saddle. What a beautiful eclipse that was.

Click, click, click.

It was shortly thereafter that I begged Mrs Parslow to ride my face, though it was muffled and largely incoherent, owing to the abundance of labia I had crammed into my mouth.

She’d big tits and big lips, that lady.

Mr Parslow had tied her similarly, many times, she explained, grinding on my face whilst leaning forward and softly rubbing my clit with her finger, but it was nice to taste a different fruit occasionally. They’d been married forever, after all, and there was nothing wrong with being naughty occasionally. Did I like being naughty with them?

I’d been taught not to talk with my mouth full, but I offered a stifled ‘Uh huh’ nonetheless.

We 69’d on the lounger as her husband’s mower played out in cahoots to our muffled moans. I guess we must have won the challenge - because Mrs Parslow nearly drowned me with her lady gush and then her husband had me sucking his cock on the lawn about a half-hour later. I felt so proud of the rope marks adorning my chalky skin in streaks of beautiful vermillion.

‘Isn’t it lovely, to have made such splendid new friends,’ Mr Parslow enthused, pushing his thick trunk to the back of my throat as I looked up at him adoringly.

It was a miracle we made it to the bedroom, but Mr Parslow was a man of discipline, and nothing was going to prevent him from his desired finale.

He’d fuck me like a barbarian less than an hour later - but not until he’d unloaded his precious cargo all over my face, just so he could add to his assemblage of portraiture.

I sat upright on the edge of the bed as his cum clung to my cheeks, scuttled off my nose, and swung from my eyebrows with giddy merriment. I’ll always remember Mr Parslow as a genius, and a pleasure to work with, but he ruined facials for me - because I’ve yet to encounter another who could deliver quite such a torrid explosion of jellied tadpoles. Maybe that’s why some chap thought up bukkake. Whadda ya know - men can be considerate, after all.

‘She’s ready for her close-up,’ Mrs Parslow chortled and stepped aside with her Cinzano in one hand and the nigh on defunct Pall Mall in the other.

‘Excellent!’ Mr Parslow grinned, his camera suddenly veering closer as he crouched in front me with legs slightly bent, ‘Big smiles!’

I thought of Dad, and of how he’d react if he knew the local toff had just defiled his daughter. It was more than enough to have me beaming like a Cheshire that had just got the cream. The soft box flashed brightly, Mrs Parslow shrieked with excitement, and Mr Parslow had his next portrait to hang.

© Gnarly Quim