Posing to Order

I was newly married, still really under the control of my domineering parents, we had just had our first row, if you can call my bursting into tears and locking myself in the bathroom a row. Mike, my new husband, was sulking at me, he had wanted me to wear stockings to a night out with his friends, the thought of what my father would do to me if he caught me "dressed like a whore" had terrified me, even though we had moved hundreds of miles away.

Things limped along but the harm had been done, I was being largely ignored, I changed my hair, he did not notice, I bought a new dress that actually stopped above the knee, he was indifferent. In bed I was getting used to his back to me.

I began to suspect he was having an affair and like any wife I hunted, and found what seemed to confirm it. Before the internet and sites like this one people used contact magazines to find sexual partners, and I found a stash of them, some of the ads had been circled and there were letters tucked in with them, replies to those Mike had apparently sent them, they were addressed to his work to avoid my finding them in our post.

The mags held a strange fascination for me, I read them all, cover to cover, and not just the ads, the letters boasting of successful meets, fantasy stories and such. At first I was shocked at the blatant language in the ads, but then realised they were totally anonymous, just code numbers that people replied to and were re-addressed. Many of the photographs had blanked eyes or faces. Anyone could write whatever they wanted in safety and keep the replies totally secret. Provided I hid them better than Mike!

I was somewhat mollified that it was apparent he was not trying to arrange meets with anyone, rather he was exchanging fantasies, I thought him foolishly naïve, it was blazingly obvious to me reading the letters he was collecting that these were men replying, pretending to be women, repeatedly asking for pictures of me exposing myself, just a silly sting to get some indiscrete photos, perhaps even leading up to blackmail.

But one letter got my attention, thanking Mike for his interest it was openly from another man, looking to exchange photos of his wife for Mike's - me in other words. Sensibly it suggested they first exchange holiday type snaps, which had apparently already taken place as a second letter gave very nice compliments about me, from the comments it was clear they were some of those taken of me when we had gone sailing on our honeymoon. I had never had a good body image of myself and I found it not only flattering, but a turn on, to read a total stranger describing the swell of my breasts in a bathing suit and my long, shapely legs that he said he was fantasising about having wrapped around him.

I was shaking by then, and much more was to come, a set of pages detailing 36 poses the stranger wanted Mike to take of me. Each pose took about half a page to describe they were in such detail, and were highly specific about what I should be wearing. The first one for instance read:

"Sitting down, facing the camera, wearing a white negligee, brushing her hair and smiling at the camera as if it were a mirror. Wearing white shoes, those gorgeous long legs crossed, her soft thighs clearly on show."

There was more detail, but you get the gist. Gradually though the poses went from virginal to pornographic with phrases such as "... Legs up in the air and holding her cunt open for me to see all of her juicy twat..."

I played with myself as I read them and came violently, clutching the instructions, kneeling on the floor, my face burning feverishly.

I hid the papers back where I found them, but the words kept playing through my mind and I practised the poses when alone in the house, but it was not enough, I wanted the outfits described, I wanted to dress up as instructed and pose and look at myself in the mirror. And much more, I wanted the writer to see me like that.

Shortly after Mike asked me a question, making it sound casual, but setting my heart thumping. He asked if I owned a quarter cup bra. Several of the poses had required I wear one, displaying my breasts.

"What on earth would I want something like that for?" I replied automatically.

He stammered a bit then came up with an obviously rehearsed story that we had been invited to a formal dinner dance which required a cocktail dress and he had been advised I would need a quarter cup bra to make the best of it. I let myself be persuaded and that weekend we went shopping in the top end stores. If I was going to play along I might as well get some decent stuff for my wardrobe. I had no intention of actually letting Mike photograph me though, I would let me ask me to pose and then drop my bomb that I knew what he was up to.

It was a laugh, letting him pick stuff out for me, sneaking looks at the letter he had brought with him. Literally a laugh when it came to buying fishnet white stockings, I pretended to dig my heels in and accused him of having a fetish about stockings, he blushed and there were lots of secret grins at his expense from others in the shop, but that was okay, he deserved it for planning to peddle me naked to a stranger! I let him buy them in the end only if he got a gorgeous white Basque, hugely expensive, to go with them.

After the shopping he took me to a lovely restaurant then home to share a bottle of wine that tasted like silk. It was hard not to giggle when he produced his camera and said we should get some photos of me in all this wonderful clothing we had bought.

I changed into the negligee and shoes, crossed my legs and brushed my hair and let him take the photo, after all, that was not so bad, I was not showing anything and I was enjoying the game so much.

But maybe the wine was taking effect because I slipped into each pose, changing as needed, not really listening to Mike telling me what to do, I already knew. I was imagining my unknown admirer slowly looking through the photos of me, seeing me slowly showing more and more. Would he enjoy them? Would he touch himself as I had, reading the instructions? A musk scent filled the room, me, I wantonly displayed myself for the camera lens and I forgot Mike was taking them, it was my distant, remote lover, I could hear his voice, telling me to open my legs, to touch myself, I moaned and brought myself to slow, blissful orgasms. The last pose had me on hands and knees, wearing only high heeled shoes, looking back at the camera, one hand between my legs, holding myself open, inviting him in.

"Put the camera down and get in me!" I whispered hoarsely.

As we lay, drenched in sweat, breathing hard, recovering, Mike promised me he would get the film developed by sending it away, not risk it at the local chemist. I glanced at the camera, wondering if I should strip the film out and ruin it, but then I would never get to read what my admirer thought of my performance.

"Make sure you get a new film," I told Mike. "We should do that again some time!"

Sal