Frolicking on the Fifth: Photoshoot

This story follows the events of "Unleashed By Nair" and "Boned on the Fourth of July."

***

The girl-on-girl action happening in my tub was a sudsy affair.

A slender, leggy blonde traced soapy circles with her hands over the pliant ass of a slim, fair-skinned, even longer-legged brunette.

"Dammit, hon," said my wife, breaking my reverie, "you already had an ass like a 19-year-old girl. How did it get tighter and more bubbly?"

I'd been running daily on the track at our neighborhood high school since losing my job some months previously.

My wife (who had been on her college cross-country team) had joined me for my run this afternoon.

Now, we were in the shower together, running our soapy hands over each other's bodies.

I had happened to glance toward the mirrored wall opposite the tub, and been transfixed by the sight our entwined bodies presented.

My wife looked where I'd been gazing, then grinned at me and pulled me closer.

"Why, hon!" she purred, "What naughty thoughts are you thinking? Are you imagining me with my hands on some young girl's ass?"

She squeezed my cream-colored ass cheeks with her long fingers as her hands wandered from my slim thighs to my sacral dimples.

"That Eurasian girl has such as sweet, lovely body, don't you think?" my wife murmurred, her eyes fixed on the mirror. "What would she think if I did this?"

My wife slid her middle finger along the valley between the globes of my ass, found my hairless asshole, and caressed it gently.

I gasped, and gaped at my wife. She had never done anything remotely like this before.

A soft "ohhh" escaped my lips as she continued to swizzle her finger around my tight little pucker.

"I saw you wiggling your sweet ass at Tim yesterday," she crooned. "Were you wishing he could do this, hon?"

"Yesterday" was the 4th of July. My wife and I had gone to a picnic hosted by one of her school chums. I had cross-dressed in plain sight, in a pair of women's CKs with the label removed, and a long-sleeved women's running shirt, with a pair of Speedos on underneath.

I'd been playing doubles volleyball with Tim, the spouse of one of my wife's classmates. We started calling each other "hon" to echo the compliments that our wives were calling out. I had wiggled my ass at Tim a time or two as I signalled plays, and he in turn had slapped my butt a few times while saying, "Nice play, hon."

After volleyball, Tim and I had raced each other, ahead of the group, to a a nearby swimming hole, and I had 'accidentally' bared my ass by pulling down my Speedos while undressing. While hanging up my clothes, I'd given Tim a long look at my slender, feminized body before jumping off the bluff into the water.

While we were swimming, Tim told me I had a great body, and wished he could take a longer look. I obliged by climbing onto a ledge of shoreline that was hidden from the main path, where I removed my Speedos, and pressed myself against the rock face, presenting my backside in as feminine a manner as possible.

Tim had responded by avidly fondling my ass, then unexpectedly giving my hairless asshole an expert and mind-bending tonguing. When we heard the rest of the party arriving, he gave my thoroughly receptive ass a quick but passionate fucking, pumping so much semen into my body that it felt like he was trying to breed me.

I don't know if those thoughts showed on my face, but I managed to answer my wife, "Hon, come on..."

My wife slid the tip of her finger into my asshole, and said, "You are so femme sometimes, without even trying. Does that feed your little habit?"

My crossdressing, she meant. She'd never really seemed to understand, or tolerate, "my little habit."

She continued to gently finger-fuck my ass, and asked, "Have you ever been with a man while, you know, dressed up?"

Well, technically, I hadn't been dressed up while I was being fucked by Tim.

Nor, technically, two days ago, on the eve of the 4th, when I'd Naired my legs, and the sight of my completely hairless, model-thin, feminized body had unleashed Carla, my feminine alter ego.

Emboldened by the quiet of my deserted neighborhood, I'd gone out fully made up and en femme in my wife's dark green polka dotted mini, a black bandeau halter top, and strappy tan heels.

I'd strolled out to the gas station and donut shop on the corner behind my house, and danced like a girl on the deserted gas station service drive, while admiring my reflection in the adjacent donut shop windows.

Hank, the station owner, surprised me on the service drive. Following some mad impulse, instead of running away, I dropped my skirt, baring my ass and legs to him.

After I introduced myself as Carla, another impulse led to having Hank help me remove my top.

I danced naked for Hank; danced a Texas two-step with Hank; then practically gave Hank a standing lap dance right there in the service drive, rubbing my bare ass against the bulge in his pants as I danced nude in my strappy heels, completely exposed to the street.

Hank had picked me up, pinned me to the gas station wall with my legs butterflied wide, and fucked me like a girl, in full public view.

He had to finish fucking me on a creeper in his immaculate service bay when a car pulled up to the pumps, but his cock got well-acquainted with my asshole before I could convince him to let me leave.

I suppose that the strappy heels and makeup I wore would count as being dressed up...

But I dissembled, "Oh, I'd be shy about leaving the house that way. I mean, what if the neighbors saw me?"

"Hmmm," she said. "Well, I'd probably tell them that one of my cousins was visiting. Or one of yours."

While I was processing that statement, she stopped playing with my asshole, then started running her soapy hands up and down my backside while staring at the mirror.

I lifted one leg around her and turned my head to watch while I ran my hands over her lithe body. My wife was Nordic-fair, while I had the same translucent fairness as my Chinese mother. Our soapy bodies glowed in the golden afternoon sunlight that flooded the bathroom.

A faint beeping sounded from the bedroom.

"Damn, the time!" my wife cried, untangling herself and turning the shower back on. I waited until she stepped out, then rinsed myself off as she hurriedly toweled dry and dashed out to prepare for her swing shift at the local hospital.

She was already in her scrubs, and sponging foundation onto her face, when I walked out in a bathrobe, and sat to watch her.

"Still lots of picnic leftovers in the fridge," she said as she leaned over to kiss me on her way out.

"OK. More soul-sucking job hunting and interview practice for me." I walked her to the door, waved her away, then returned to the bathroom.

I ran the shower long enough to throroughly moisten my body, applied a light sesame-oil after-shower moisturizer to my wet skin, and hunted for stray hairs. I wanted to make sure that my body was still completely hairless for the photo shoot I had planned.

I had succumbed to a mad urge the week before, and waxed my pubes and perineum bare. There still wasn't a hint of growth, but I ran my wife's five-bladed razor between my legs to make sure I was baby-smooth.

Nairing my legs two days ago had stunningly revealed how months of daily running had somehow sculpted my legs and body into more feminine lines, not to mention laying bare the expanse of smooth, creamy skin along their length (I have a 36-inch inseam despite being just under average height).

I hadn't been hairy at all before Nair, but I was still nonplussed at how pretty my smallish feet were as I ran the razor over their hairless contours.

Shaving my face usually kept me whisker-free for a couple of days, but I wanted to be perfectly smooth, so I gave myself a thorough shave with a new blade.

I pondered my wavy dark hair (which had grown almost to the bottoms of my shoulder blades during my months unemployed) as I moisturized my face and body, and decided to try to blow it out myself.

Pleased with the results, I held my now-tamed tresses back with a scarf as I sat at my wife's makeup table.

I was still very much in what I called "the grip" -- a consuming urge to look like a girl, dress like a girl, be a girl.

I thought I might give the grip a safer outlet by photographing myself en femme.

With a photo shoot in mind, I went for a somewhat more dramatic look than I had during my fateful outing the other night.

I'd been admiring my pretty depilated feet as I moisturized, and yielded to the urge to paint my toenails with clear polish. I glanced at them drying as I made myself up.

I followed light foundation on my moon face (I had my Chinese mother's bones) with a purplish-brown eye shadow, eyeliner, and mascara, all of which made my dark, long-lashed doe eyes (legacy of "some random wench," as my Scots-Irish father liked to joke) pop. I applied reddish lip liner, and a china red lipstick that contrasted fetchingly with my fair skin.

I removed the headscarf, parted my hair in the middle, and shook it out. I admired the polished, doe-eyed gamine in the mirror.

For my first outfit, I planned to reprise my outfit from the other night, when I got caught dancing on Hank's service drive. I strapped on my favorite Cathy Jeans, then was distracted by the sound of my phone from my office room.

I stepped into the hallway, wearing nothing but strappy heels and makeup, and stopped short. "Holy shit!" I thought, as I once again encountered the slender, cream-skinned, long-legged girl of my dreams who stared back at me from the hall mirror. She was very much me, and, if anything, she looked hotter than when she had first shocked me the other night. Hungrier. Hornier.

I tore myself away reluctantly, stealing long glances over my shoulder at the long dancer's legs and ass reflected in the mirror as I walked slowly down the hallway.

The text was from my wife: "sry hon, helen called sick, agreed to take her shift. be good, see you tmrw"

I texted back: "pooh. take care. u know me, i'm boring"

Well, several hours more on my own. I decided to spice up my photo shoot.

From a nondescript paper bag hiding in plain sight amongst the clutter on the top shelf of my office room closet, I removed a pair of breast forms, and a can of medical adhesive spray. Their shade perfectly matched my creamy skin tone; half-dollar sized aureola and pencil-eraser nipples topped each one.

I experimentally held the breasts against my chest and looked in the wall mirror. "Oh, holy crap," I whispered. I hadn't had this reshaped and feminized body the last time I had tried the breast forms; they were going take my femininity to a different level.

I picked up the adhesive spray and hurried back to the bathroom, smiling at my dream girl in the hallway mirror as I passed.

I placed the breast forms on shelf liner and sprayed an even coating of adhesive on their backs, and let it set. I picked up the left breast, positioned it carefully, and pressed, then did the same for the right.

I have unusually large and puffy nipples, legacy of a bout of gynecomastia when I was a teen; they popped out from my chest a couple of inches when engorged. The breast forms somehow transmitted sensation to my big puffies as I massaged them to ensure an even seal.

I placed my hands behind my head and shimmied, watching my breasts bounce and jiggle.

The breast forms were airbrushed to blend beautifully with my skin, but I used makeup to make them seamless. After powdering my breasts and face to set my makeup, it was time to get dressed.

The mini and halter I wore the other night weren't soiled, since I removed them before Hank hammered me. I slipped on the dark green mini with black polka dots; its stretchy jersey material hugged my hips and ass as flatteringly as ever. My breasts were a perky A-cup, and filled the black bandeau halter arrestingly.

I really liked the wavy tresses I had achieved with my blow-out, but I wanted to capture myself as I had been before I stripped for Hank, so I smoothed my hair into a ponytail that fell from the top of my head.

My usual 'disguise,' a pair of large round tortoise-shell glasses with no lenses that accentuated my big eyes, completed the ensemble I wore that night.

My mouth went dry as I admired the hottie in the hall mirror -- her perky breasts, the lovely gap between her long, cream-skinned thighs, her dark doe eyes alight with excitement. "Oh, get this girl in front of a camera," I breathed as I stared.

I took photography courses in school, and had a small number of lights I'd bought in better days. I set up in the living room, closed the shutters so the strobes wouldn't attract curious neighbors, and set up the camera.

My mother had been a professional dancer, then a dance teacher after retiring from the stage. I practically grew up in her studio; I loved to dance, and dancing like a girl came naturally.

(I spent one glorious summer dancing in an all-girl cosplay dance group with my female cousins -- with my mother's blessing, no less.)

So, I decided to take videos of Carla dancing in each outfit. My DSLR took exceptional video through its professional-quality lenses, so I only needed one camera anyway.

There was a shoji screen next to our blue pleather sectional that made a perfect backdrop. I fired up my wife's exercise dance mix, just loud enough to feel the beat (I'd edit in a real soundtrack later), turned on the video light and camera, and stepped onstage.

"Holy crap!" I thought, when I previewed the video. Watching Carla dance, with her coltish legs, her lithe body, her sensuous, graceful movements, and the carefree attitude she projected, was instant Viagra.

I had a simple, but effective, two-light setup for still photography. I took a couple of test shots, adjusted the lights, and started shooting, with the remote on a two-second delay.

I tried to capture what took place on the gas-station service drive the other night: Carla, surprised and horrified when Hank yanked open the service-bay door; Carla, looking over her shoulder as she started to walk away; Carla, her dress around one ankle, the creamy skin of her taut bubble ass glowing in the light, fully exposed to Hank's gaze; Carla, her dress slung over one shoulder, the other hand on her hip, grinning at Hank, her hairless pubes in plain view at the vee of her long, freshly Naired legs.

While standing in front of Hank, I had lifted the hem of my halter top, let the squish balls inside fall, and thrust my big puffies at him. Now, I thrust a perfect, perky pair of boobs at the camera. They looked completely convincing in the photos.

I carefully removed my top, and took photos of Carla, her hands on her ponytail, dancing a solo Texas Two-step, wearing nothing but makeup and strappy high heels. Hank had only a rear view at that point, but I took photos from all angles.

Since I couldn't pin myself against the wall the way Hank did that night, the blue pleather sectional would have to do. I set up the lights, and sat on the divan at the end of the sectional.

I have unusual flexibility and extension from my early dance training, so I put those skills to use as I lay back against the couch.

When Hank pinned me against the gas station wall, he put his muscular arms under my knees and pushed them almost to the wall. I was able to butterfly my legs on my own for the camera, opening myself to its view.

I visualized Hank splitting me open with his muscular cock as he fucked me in public view. The resulting pictures exuded a raw sexuality.

As usual when I was in girl mode, my balls contracted into a smooth hemisphere, and my penis retracted like a turtle into its shell, until it was barely an inch long. (My wife thought it was "cute.")

Apart from the compact package between my legs, I looked like an lovely young woman with her long, long thighs spread open, high-heeled feet pointing in the air, eyes closed and moaning in pleasure.

My next outfit consisted of a pair of my wife's leather shorts with an elastic waistband, a white see-through blouse with long belled sleeves, and an adorable pair of black stiletto Steve Madden sandals with straps that wound like a pair of snakes above my trim ankles.

I smoothed my hair into an efficient high ponytail, and freshened my makeup.

A slutty secretary smiled at me from the mirror, flaunting her braless breasts and long, creamy legs in high stiletto heels. "Why yes, Mr. Harding," she cooed. "I'd be happy to take your dick -- I mean, dictation."

I detoured to my office room; from the same paper bag where I had hidden my breast forms in plain sight, I unzipped a lens pouch, and slid out a pink jelly dildo, about six inches long, not crazy thick, and realistically molded apart from being pink and transparent.

Its manufacturer had advertised it as a "beginner's dildo;" it suited me fine. I returned to the living room with my prop.

In the standing shots, I posed and shot from angles to highlight Carla's delectable feet and unusually long legs as she posed and danced in shorts and sheer blouse.

My poses on the couch were of slutty secretary Carla putting on a show for her boss -- kneeling and twerking her tight ass; on her hands and knees, with her ass in the air; and the like.

They ended with me kneeling on the divan, wearing only the heels and the see-through blouse, which gradually fell open to reveal my breasts, as I avidly serviced my boss's cock, represented by the pink dildo.

While reviewing the shots, I was enchanted by sight of my painted toenails framed by the ankle strap stilletos. I followed a sudden impulse for my next outfit.

I used a warm washcloth to clean off my feet, dried and remoisturized all over, and raided my wife's closet.

Her flowery off-shoulder peasant mini dress, primarily in blues and greens, with long flared sleeves, had a great boho vibe. I fluffed my hair into free-falling tresses, and went to shoot a set of barefoot photos.

I put on "Doin' Time," and danced a slow, swirling dance like I was barefoot in the grass. The dress flared nicely when I spun and pirouetted, delectably exposing my thighs and ass.

I did a few kittenish boudoir poses on the sectional, allowing the off-shoulder hem to fall until my breasts were exposed (I loved the way they looked in the photos), and my dress was pooled around my waist.

Then I yielded to the impulse that led me to choose this barefoot girl outfit in the first place.

I switched on the video light and started shooting.

I leaned back against the sofa, brought one soft, pretty foot to my mouth, and kissed the sole, then licked it. I brought the other foot to my mouth, and sucked on my toes.

As I kissed and sucked my feet my dress fell away, exposing my hairless asshole, and I fingered it as I kept sucking my toes.

I shucked the dress from my hips, and lay back on the couch. The pink dildo replaced my fingers, and I worked it into my puckered bung as I kept kissing and sucking my feet and toes. I could feel an orgasm building, without even touching myself.

I had the dildo jammed in my asshole to the hilt, and was licking one big toe like it was a cockhead, when warm jets of cum started shooting onto my belly and breasts.

The video captured me looking soft and freshly fucked, lying there, moaning softly, with pools of milky semen on my toned, fair body.

Once my heart rate settled and my breathing became more normal, I wiped the copious seed from my body with wads of tissue, and put the peasant dress back on.

I checked and fixed my smudged makeup, cracked the shutters and peeked out. The neighborhood looked deserted in the late midsummer afternoon.

I eased the front door open, took a long look around, and stepped out onto the porch.

Seeing no one about, I went to the middle of my driveway, and stood there, barefoot, fully made up, dark tresses falling to my bare shoulders, clad in my wife's dress.