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The next morning, they ate breakfast together before making their separate ways. They had each other's numbers, but they both knew it would be for anything casual or platonic rather than anything romantic or sexual.
As the plane taxied out ready to depart, Tim considered what was left. Unknown to him, the ending of his journey would be very much like how it had started.
It was yet another wedding, yet another time where Tim found himself standing around for a ridiculous amount of time, and indeed another time where he found himself stood in the disabled toilets, looking down upon a woman sucking his cock. The difference was that this time it was happening before the wedding.
"Oh fuck," he groaned, his entire shaft taken down her throat, her eyes closed as she concentrated on what was inside of her, "That's... oh fuck."
Looking up at him, the woman's eyes focused upon his, a look of mischief apparent as she bobbed her head back and forth. That was something that hadn't changed, that mischievous grin as she slobbered hungrily on his cock.
Wearing her navy blue bridesmaid dress, she'd hoisted it up so it didn't touch the floor, not wanting to be distracted from her goal as the lens of Tim's camera directed straight down at her. The dress showed off her small but perky breasts, something Tim was avoiding looking at, struggling so hard from reaching his climax.
Dressed in a top hat and tails, his cock protruded from his trousers, and to an outsider, the camera would have looked out of place. It was almost too much to consider that the cock slobberer, the bridesmaid, never the bride, was once again French.
Whether it was the country or the individual, Tim found the accent completely alluring, and it had been his intention from the very beginning to end as he started, so much so, that it was once again Amelie at the end of his cock, and once again as he felt his balls tighten she held him pressed to the side of her face.
What was different this time, was that his prospective wife was knelt next to Amelie, gazing at this woman with her fiance's cock in her mouth with complete lust. She had even started his cock off for her, sucking and wanking on it before letting Amelie finish him off, but here she remained, her dress worth several thousand pounds, kneeling before him on the floor of a disabled toilet as her future husband started emptying his balls over the face of another woman.
Amelie knelt there still happily wanking Tim off as he spurted onto her face and, once again, over her bridesmaid's dress, unable to hide her grin as Tim began taking photos the moment he'd finished, although the grin widened as Tim's fiancee began kissing her, despite the cum that covered her face.
It had been only a small surprise to Amelie when Tim and his fiancee had invited to be a bridesmaid, as she had been in contact with him fairly frequently since the previous wedding over two and a half years ago, and he'd been fairly upfront with his plan for her. It had always been intended to be the last model, yet even she'd been blindsided when she was invited to suck Tim's cock at his and Amal's wedding.
Pictures finished, Tim grinned the happy grin of a man who's just been sucked off by two beautiful women.
"This," he spoke with a completely flat tone, "is already the best day of my life."
The two finally broke from their kiss, cum dripping from between both their lips. Tellingly, Amelie wiped her lips while Amal licked hers clean.
"It's a good start," Amal grinned, having swallowed the last drop.
"I," Amelie spoke cheerfully, "am just happy I could help you on your wedding day."
"Not half," Tim agreed, "In two weeks time these photos will be on display in, of all places, bloody London. I thought I'd have a provincial showing before fading into obscurity but," he he smiled at his fiancee happily, "now I can have my exhibition in the Capital and, when I fade into obscurity, still be rich!"
Amelie laughed while Amal looked guilty.
"I don't want to be considered a sugar mommy..." Amal started, before Tim cut in smoothly, still on a high from his orgasm.
"I'm not marrying you for money," he insisted, "I love you, with all my heart. Now this is over, the final photo completed and taken, I can finally focus purely, only, on you."
Smiling, Amal finished shuffling around her dress, removing the wrinkles. No cum had touched her dress, and even if it had it was unlikely any would have shown up on the creamy whiteness, but she still worried. She didn't speak, but smiled happily, kissing Tim on the cheek.
"No amount of flattery will stop me from loving you," carefully, she began to open the door, peeking outside, she turned her head gently, "I will see you later my love." She shut the door quickly, leaving Tim and Amelie alone.
"Maybe," Amelie said quietly, "I should have left first, in case anyone sees the two of us leaving together and comes to the... well, right conclusion, but for the wrong reasons."
'Maybe," Tim repeated, "but seeing as we're not supposed to see each other before the wedding, some would probably prefer seeing the groom 'cheating' over breaking tradition."
Amelie laughed but moved on to cleaning her face. As much as she had little shame over sexual stuff, it was probably not appropriate to walk into a wedding with cum on her face, be it the groom's or indeed anyone's. They didn't speak as she left first, Tim immediately locking the door behind her, sending her off with a wink. No words needed to be spoken.
About ten minutes later, Tim left the bathroom, the smell of sex washed out by copious amounts of air freshener. He walked through the hall before entering the wedding venue proper. They'd chosen a non-religious venue, considering that giving a facial to anyone in a Church or Mosque would be the most inappropriate thing they could do, even though Amal's father took some convincing. Not that they told him exactly why, obviously, although they had agreed for an Imam to give a small blessing.
"Where have you been," Frank hissed, standing at the front of the venue next to the registrar, "we thought you'd run off?"
"I was having the shits," Tim responded, "nervous stomach."
"That's what Amelie said," Frank nodded, "but I still worried."
"I told him you were probably off shagging Amal," Sam beamed, standing next to his other best friend, "even though it's against tradition. I know my Nan would have had a prolapse even thinking that."
"Tell you what Sam," Tim said as his eyes rolled hard, "you always say the nicest things."
"It's my superpower," Sam beamed, before moving to stand next to Frank.
Sam and Frank had both drawn straws to see who would be the best man, but as neither cut the straws they remained the same size. Therefore they decided to both be the best man, the way fate wanted it.
It was fair to consider the wedding a success, even if Tim's side of the seats only had his close friends and family and barely filled the front three rows. On Amal's side of the family, however, they took up her entire side, filled to the brim with siblings, cousins, extended family and friends.
The reception initially started a bit strained, with Tim's side happily drinking from the open bar like there was no tomorrow, while Amal's family generally sticking to soft drinks. Over time, however, mostly when the band began playing and everyone began dancing and relaxing, things began to thaw, with both sets of parents bonding over a bottle of whisky. Tim even saw Frank disappear in the direction of the toilets with someone, who Amal later informed him was one of her aunties, while Sam struck out with Amelie who, in turn, seemed to be doing pretty well with what appeared to be a gang of Amal's cousins, not that he found out if anything occurred afterwards, or during he considered with a chuckle.
The night ended well, the happy couple disappearing off to their honeymoon suite in the back of a limo which, seeing as the drive was two minutes, seemed somewhat ostentatious to Tim, but as the wedding was mostly paid for by Amal's family he had no plan to complain, instead sitting there happily while his wife draped over his lap, her mouth wrapped around his cock as she did so. Despite the blacked-out windows, Tim covered her with his hat anyway, not wanting the driver to get a peek.
Shortly they were up in their room, where Amal decided to continue her activities from the limo the moment that the door was closed, not even bothering to remove Tim's trousers, she instead just unzipped his fly and whipped his cock out. After a few minutes of this, Tim had had some time to assess the room so, his wife coming up for a breather he led her towards the couch where upon reaching it he bent his wife over, before spending about a minute lifting up layer upon layer of wedding dress before finally reaching her undergarments. Or, where they were meant to be.
"You've had nothing on this whole time?" He grinned.
"Uhuh," she laughed drunkenly, "it's made it much easier to go the toilet."
With that, holding onto her dress with one hand, he slid his cock into her already sopping hole easily, causing Amal to gasp.
Tim might have already cum that day but after a few minutes, upon hearing and feeling his wife have an orgasm, as her pussy clenched hard on his cock while he watched her dusky ass bounce as he thrust, it was quickly too much for him to take.
With one final thrust he spurted deep inside, only then realising he'd forgotten a condom, something that seemed to occur to Amal as well when she relaxed from her orgasm.
"Don't worry," she laughed, smoothing her dress while cum ran down her legs, "I thought this might happen, so I'm on the pill."
As Amal went to undress Tim instead pulled her close towards him, kissing her deeply and passionately.
"I love you, Amal," Tim sighed happily, "so much."
With a dopey little grin on her face, his wife didn't respond, instead giving his now sensitive cock a quick tug, pecking him on the cheek and walking into their room.
Watching after her, Tim felt a feeling of contentment that he'd not previously known. He couldn't wait to fly off to the Caribbean for their honeymoon tomorrow, and then after that, in two weeks, was the opening of his exhibition. He couldn't wait.
Jess had suggested that he and Amal arrived to the gallery by the back entrance and, upon seeing the crowd outside the front, Tim was very glad they'd done so.
Even with the red carpet and official photographers, he could tell that there were much more people present than intended.
"Jess," he greeted her with a warm hug and peck on the cheek as she opened the back entrance of the gallery, a surprisingly tidy alley somewhere in Kensington, "thank you for helping to arrange all this. I don't suppose that crowd out the front are all media or paid fans?"
With a laugh, Jess returned the greeting, repeating the actions with Amal before leading them inside.
"Not quite," she admitted, "we've got probably fifty protestors out there."
"Let me guess," Amal laughed, "they've heard that this is an exhibition showing women with cum on their faces?"
"Oh yes," Jess laughed, rolling her eyes as she did so, "that's a fair assessment. The problem is," her expression turned more serious, "I've already heard from the agents of one of our VIPs, turns out some of the protestors has been calling around and threatening to get people blacklisted if they come in."
Frustration and anger ran through Tim's entire body. He'd spent the last almost three years on this, and now, on the one day he needed to go well, that would decide if he'd be likely to be offered further exhibitions or commissions, some idiots who decided to take everything at face value, which he seethed was the whole point of the fucking exhibition, was close to making it all for nothing. If people believed this, he'd never be able to get work for anything but wedding photography.
"Has anyone gone outside to speak to them?" He spoke calmly, not that he particularly felt it.
"Not yet," Jess admitted, "we thought it would be best coming from you."
"Okay," Tim's brain was working overtime as he considered things, "apart from you two, have any of the other models arrived?"
"A few," Jess spoke, gesturing to an assistant with a clipboard, "here's the list. Who else do you want?"
Scouring the names on the list, Tim saw two that stood out.
"These two," he pointed, "ask if they're willing to come outside after us, and Amal and I will get them warmed up. Sound good?"
With a nod, Jess and her assistant ran off to fetch both names.
"You okay coming with me?" Tim asked Amal nervously.
Pressing her head against his shoulder, she nodded, looking up at him with a smile.
"I wouldn't leave you alone with those vultures."
Together, they walked to the front of the gallery, nodding at those already present. With it being early, it was mainly those who modelled for the photos. Walking through he finally got to see his photo's up on the wall, in their frames, with the stories attached. Everyone here deserved their stories to be told, and he wasn't going to let ignorance and misinformation ruin that.
Opening the front door, Tim was met by a wall of lights and noise, as photographers took pictures, journalists shouted questions and protestors shouted over them.
He stood there, arm in arm with Amal, while he waited for the noise to die down which, eventually, it did, only the noise of traffic and protestors still reverberating through the night.
"Women are not sexual objects!" They chanted. "Women are not sexual objects!"
"Thank you for coming," Tim spoke loudly, "can you hear me in the back?" This was aimed at the protestors, some of whom faltered in their cause at being addressed. "My name is Timothy Smith, and this is my exhibition, 'The Faces of the World.' I called it that because women, daily, are seen only at face value. They, you, are taken advantage of or dismissed due to being who they are. Their sexuality is used against them, independence is considered aggression and any request for assistance is considered weakness. Men are certainly part of the problem, but they are not alone. Women fight against women, be it dismissing their success, complaining about the clothes people were, showing a bit of skin, not showing skin, eating what they want, not eating enough, having kids, not having kids... it's constant."
Tim paused, taking in the silence from those present, the protestors having fallen silent, the clicks of the camera's now audible, as well as the sound of the door behind him opening.
"My intent was to take pictures of women in a vulnerable state, on their knees, sexually used, but the picture is only half the story, because next to the picture is the persons biography and, I am disappointed to tell you that in every single nation in the world, be it the UK and the US, which are considered first world nations, or be it Venezuala and Ethiopia, classed as third world countries, the story is the same. Everywhere, for all women." Looking behind him, he saw Alaya and Layla stood next to Jess, while Amal remained close.
"Every single one of these people have taken part voluntarily," he spoke up, "and their backgrounds vary from being born into a life of privilege," he gestured at Jess and Amal, "or into a life of constant struggle, where people have to flee their own country to avoid rape or death," he pointed out Alaya and Layla, the lastter hanging her head sadly. "Whereve you live, the story is still the goddamn same." His voice cracked, be it from almost shouting or the emotion he felt as he was forced to defend himself and the models he wasn't sure, but it had a positive effect, as those in both the media and protestors appeared affected.
"Taking these photos, having your photo taken, we knew people would immediately focus upon the image, but like it or not," he addressed the prostestors, "you're part of the problem. You have judged me and these people purely on what you can see. I invite you all now to come in and see the exhibition, to see the photos, to read the stories and even to speak to some of the models who, by the way, all benefit if any profits are made from this exhibition, with the rest being donated to womans shelters around the world. But until you have seen who these people are, please don't judge them. Don't judge me. I take umbrage at these accusation that I'm a pervert, I want to help change lives. You want to spend your Friday night stopping me. Thank you."
There was a moment of stunned silence until the noise suddenly rose again, but this was purely from the media, the protestors appeared confused.
"Amal," Tim spoke quietly, "why don't you go invite the protestors in and chat to them. Jess, call your contacts, tell them it's sorted. I'll field the media, but ask Alaya and Layla to stay please."
They didn't argue, instead immediately doing as he asked, Jess looking pleased as punch that something she had put her name too was going well, while Amal was just pleased her husband wasn't going to be hated for no reason.
For the next twenty minutes, Tim fielded questions from a variety of publications, a mixture of high-end and low, some of the questions infuriated him, being either personal or answered by what he'd previously said. He was, however, cheered up the arrival of many of the guests, his biggest smiles saved for those of his models turning up late. Cynthia had turned up with her mother and was wearing a dress in the colours of the Jamaican flag. Well, at the front anyway, the back of it being so skimpy the material wasn't large enough to show details, but she was quite happy giving a twirl and showing off her curvaceous arse.
"Lovely to see you darling," she greeted Tim, interrupting the questions without a thought, "this is me Mum. She's so proud of me, having me photo in a proper gallery and all." Tim smiled at the large black woman next to Cynthia whose smile seemed infectious.
"It is not what imagined," she spoke in a thick accent, "but I am pleased she's got what she wanted."
Ushering them both in, Tim couldn't help but grin. He didn't know if Cynthia would infect any of the protestors with her enthusiasm or rub them up the wrong way, but she'd definitely made him feel better.
Tim's questions soon ended, but before he went in, he informed the media that Alaya and Layla would stay outside to discuss their stories with them, while the photographers started taking some organised photos, requesting certain celebrities and models to come out and, eventually, one member of the press was required to take Cynthia somewhere alone for a 'private interview' just to stop her from getting in the background, and sometimes the foreground, of every photo.
With all this organised and begun, Tim found a quiet corner and was nursing a glass of champagne as he watched everyone mingle, chat and, most importantly, look at the photos and the stories.
While he'd been answering questions from the media, he'd had one question from the media that had pissed him off. Were the photos real? Tim had asked the bloke if he'd meant the photos or the biographies and the journalist, who worked for a right-wing scummy tabloid rag, had said both. How did the people know that he hadn't just taken dirty photos of everyone he'd shagged and then made up the stories?
"Because I've spent almost the last three years of my life, and all my savings to meet real people and find out their real stories," he'd responded coolly, "I would love it that women the world over didn't suffer like everyone involved in the project have, but that's not the world we live in."
Tim had considered his answer succinct, but Mr Scummy obviously thought otherwise.
"Are you going to release any audio and video from your shoots to confirm that?"
