Chrissy's Photo Op Ch. 01

It started as a bit of a mutual joke, I suppose, but as the realization that we were both talking about the possibility became more and more frequent, there grew an underlying, sexual tension that was palpable.

Christina was a bartender at one of my favorite recreational stops, the Turf Club at one of the prominent casinos in Atlantic City. For those unacquainted with the Turf Club moniker, it is simply a small haven inside of a casino where a patron can watch and bet upon simulcast thoroughbred races from across the country.

I was more than simply a 'punter', I used to own a stable of thoroughbreds in the late 1990's, and had two successful fillies, including one who won a number of graded stakes races in California, and her winnings provided me with enough of a windfall profit that I was able to take an early retirement from my real estate career and buy a beach house in Ocean City. I never thought that the retirement would last forever, after all, one can only play so much golf. Yet at age fifty-one, I was enjoying some quality post-divorce free time after busting my nuts working for the past thirty years.

My latest girlfriend, Stephanie, was a recent divorcee herself at thirty-seven, and came down to visit and 'play' on weekends. She sold real estate and was a part-time fitness trainer outside of Philadelphia, and she had, shall we say, an open mind when it came to all carnal activities. However, our relationship was limited to weekends when her school-age kids spent time with their dad, so most weeks, I had five days by my lonesome. Hence, my trips to the Turf Club. It was a pleasant, relaxing way to pass some afternoons, maybe make a few bucks, and it didn't hurt that Christina was behind the bar to add some aesthetic flavor.

Christina, or Chrissy, as I began to call her in a paternal manner, was twenty-four years old and already divorced. She had married some military guy stationed at Fort Dix at the tender age of nineteen (WHY do youngsters DO that!?), and from what I could ascertain from our conversations, the allure was basically limited to the fact that he was the first male she knew to get a tattoo with her name on it. Regardless of the reasons for the foolish and ill-fated attempt at matrimony, by the time she reached the age of twenty-two, she ran away from the abusive alcoholic Marine, her self-esteem in tatters, and enrolled in the local community college. She held a variety of jobs to support herself, determined to do it on her own, and on weekday afternoons, she worked behind the bar.

Chrissy was an absolute sweetheart, and I have no doubt that her comfort level with me was due to my age, more than old enough to be her father, and I was an aberration from most of her customers. First of all, I never hit on her, unlike ninety percent of the drunks who wandered in and out of the casino, but most important, at least to Chrissy, I think, was merely the fact that I listened to her.

When you get older, you talk less and listen more. It takes less energy, and you learn a lot, about people, about things. About things that happen to people. And what people like about certain things. Mostly, though, you learn just from observing human behavior.

For instance, I discovered that Chrissy never wore a hint of make-up during her shifts, unlike almost all of the silicone-chested cocktail waitresses in the casino who looked like they had cakes for faces. By her own admission, she didn't want to give the impression that she was interested in any male advances whatsoever. She had straight, light brown hair that she usually had up in a ponytail, and dressed in mostly loose clothing, conservative blouses and slacks. However, on these warm Spring days when her clothing became a bit tighter and unwittingly revealing, it was apparent that she had a killer body.

Chrissy was petite, about five-feet-two, perhaps a shade taller, and couldn't have weighed more than one hundred and ten pounds. On her particular frame, though, no matter how hard she tried to conceal them, a pair of disproportionately huge breasts poked out from beneath her generally unflattering attire. On the first April day that reached eighty degrees, she wore a pair of khaki shorts that not only clung to two tight little buns, but showed that her legs were slim and surprisingly long on such a compact frame. For the first time that day, I couldn't help but to complement her in the most paternal, gentlemanly way I could muster, and she blushed and mumbled a bashful, "Thank you, John."

That was also the day I got my first hard-on when thinking of Chrissy in less than a gentlemanly way, and when Stephanie arrived on Friday night for her weekend stay, she was the unwitting recipient of a hard, eager, enthusiastic fuck before she barely made it through the front door. Steph didn't know then that it was mainly due to my growing fervor for the young bartender. In my mind, I called out Chrissy's name as Steph spread her legs and begged for more cock. I heard only Chrissy's sweet, soft voice in my imagination, and I exploded the biggest torrent of cum that I'd let loose in ages on Stephanie's taut tummy. Steph left for home that Sunday a well-fucked and thoroughly sated woman.

I didn't know it at the time, either, but Chrissy told me later that my simple compliment caused her, for the first time, to think of me in a way other than as a friend or father figure. She hadn't been with any man sexually in almost two years since she separated from the evil Mr. Semper Fi, yet she went home that evening and masturbated herself into a frenzy, fantasizing about what it might be like to have a mature and caring man make love to her. She came like a waterfall from the caresses of her fingers, and a metamorphic transformation had begun.

With each passing day, Chrissy came into work dressed more and more revealingly. An extra loose button here, a skirt an inch more above the knees there, and a higher heel now and then, illustrating the shapely curves of her athletic calves. Her attire was by no means provocative, not yet at least, but I decided to test the waters myself and let her know of my approval and appreciation.

After about two weeks, I finally proffered the question I'd been pondering since the young butterfly had begun to spread her wings. "Ya know, Chrissy, if you really want to make some serious money to keep yourself afloat, you should consider modeling. You'd make a fortune with that naturally pretty, All-American look of yours."

She blushed furiously again, almost hiding her face in the locks of her hair, which she increasingly wore without restraints, below her shoulders, the locks cascading down onto her firm, gravity-defying perky tits. Every time I succeeded in evoking a blush, my cock got diamond-hard, it was a Pavlovian-dog involuntary response.

She tried to brush it off as folly, but I detected a gleam of interest in her eye that gave me encouragement despite her attempt at pooh-poohing the idea. "Yeah, right, John, sure. I'd be the most famous supermodel on the runway, all five-feet-nothing of me."

I tried to downplay the self-effacing remark with one of my own. "Hey, I realize you probably don't want an old man like me to take any profile pics of you, but if you'd like, I'd at least let you see some pics I've taken of my girlfriend. It's sort of a hobby of mine, and if I don't mind saying so myself, they're not half-bad."

Chrissy scrunched up her freckled nose in a cute grimace. "You have a girlfriend? You've never said anything about a girlfriend." She paused, assessing the situation. "Really, you take pics of her? Wow. That's kinda sexy. Sure, I'd love to see them."

It proved once again the age-old adage. No matter what age they are, women simply cannot resist the challenge of comparing themselves to another woman, they're each competitive little vixens in that way. More so, if they know you already have a woman, it instantly makes you exponentially more attractive to them.

Chrissy didn't necessarily need to know at that particular time that the majority of the portfolio that I compiled with Steph either had a dildo stuffed snugly up her twat or my rather prominent cock stuffed deeply in her mouth.

However, we also had quite a few PG-rated photos, too. On my porch, on the boardwalk, and best yet, some nice pictures of Steph canoeing and jogging at a local national park about a half-hour away named Batsto State Park. Chrissy needn't know, also, that the innocent outdoor photo session ended with Steph and I fucking surreptitiously inside of one of the log cabins nestled in the forest.

I didn't show up at the Turf Club for a few days in a row after that conversation, designed specifically to tease and induce heightened anticipation on Chrissy's part. It must have worked because when I showed up on Thursday with a small binder of black-and-white eight-by-elevens of Stephanie in a small binder, I couldn't help but notice that Chrissy had on the tightest blouse that I had ever seen her wear. When she bent over the bar to inspect the photos anxiously, her ample tits spilled from the lacy bra, barely concealing pearl-sized and very aroused nipples. I had strategically included a few photos of Stephanie on the beach in which she was wearing a very sexy lavender two-piece.

"That's your girlfriend? My God, she's gorgeous." Chrissy was truly impressed and gave me an approving stare that stirred my own loins once again. "Who knew you were such a stud? Her body is amazing, how old is she, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Yeah, she's gorgeous, but she's very far-sighted, she's only interested in the size of my wallet", I clucked, trying to minimize my own desire to get Chrissy in front of the lens while I was behind the shutter. "She's thirty-seven, but she lives in Philly, we only see each other on weekends, which leaves me plenty of time all week to fight off young beauties like you and stay loyal."

The look in Chrissy's chocolate-brown eyes was now one I hadn't seen before, a smoldering glare. "Yep, if she only knew how I'd been coming on to you all this time, I'm such a flirt, just interested in you for your big wallet, too." She paused. "And maybe your big.......camera....."

I purposely avoided her gaze, though if she had seen my cock struggling to burst free beneath the bar, she would have known that my own interest was certainly anything but paternal. I turned the conversation back to Stephanie's pictures. "See these right here? These were taken at Batsto Park not too long ago," I said, trying to remain casual, while peeking at Chrissy's freckled mounds leaning over the bar into my line of vision. Geezus, were those some huge fucking tits!

I let my next words hang in the air as I closed the binder. "If you're interested, maybe we could drive up there ourselves and do a few outdoor test shots of you...."

Chrissy didn't hesitate. "I've been thinking about this ever since you brought it up." Was it my imagination, or did her eyes glance downward to my crotch as she said that? "I think it would be fun, and God knows, I need some fun in my life."

I nodded as if I was only half-interested, trying to feign coyness, while my cock throbbed like a below-the-waist Judas, in blatant betrayal. Her next sentence threatened to spill my seed right then and there. "I even bought a new outfit or two, I confess. Do you think a few bikini shots would be OK, too? I've been going to the beach on the weekend, working on my tan. I really want to do this, I'm excited."

I gulped, hoping that the beads of sweat I felt forming on my brow weren't evident.

She purred softly in a "please, daddy" tone of voice. "When can we go, John? Soon?"

TO BE CONTINUED.

(Feedback always welcome.)