tagLoving WivesThe Making of a Blue Girl

The Making of a Blue Girl


This is an edited version of a true confession which was sent to me by a lady who wants to write her life story. We discussed it by phone and email and she agreed to this version ...


After 15 years of marriage, my husband developed this obsession with getting me to pose for mucky pictures.

He kept on about it and he kept telling me I ought to be flattered he thought I was that sexy. I didn't mind while it was only dressing up and posing for him. But he quickly moved on to wanting somebody else to take the pictures and I resisted. I thought it would be like being unfaithful.

But it's amazing what you will do for love, isn't it?

I did love him. I still do, in a way, although my experiences have changed me - and our relationship. This is how it all started ...

He kept finding pictures he wanted me to look at. Then he would buy me the outfits to pose in. Then he would shake his head over the pictures we got and tell me I really deserved better --" a professional, or a really good amateur, with a top camera and lights and all that".

And the more I thought about it, the more I got curious about the idea. I started to look at the pictures myself, when he wasn't there, and later I found out where he kept his video collection and I would watch them too.

I imagined being in them - obeying the photographer's instructions, bending over, pulling my panties aside, stretching my pussy open, feeling the heat of the photographer's gaze through the lens and imagining men staring at the pictures later, with their hands on their cocks. I began to see it as quite a girl-power sort of thing to do, in a way.

One day, I had my hand in my pants and was watching this German slapper d'un certain age, as they say, bursting out of green satin undies to start with, ending up teasing her brown bumhole with a gold lipstick case, when I suddenly felt myself gush over my own fingers. At first, I felt a bit seedy about it. But I wanted to do it again. And I remembered something a divorced friend once said after a few drinks: "Once you learn you can come on your own, you are free."

I was still uneasy about the reality. But one night, after Rick had murmured in my ear all the way through a fuck, about how he wished he could see us like a spectator, I said okay.

He obviously knew exactly where to go to advertise. And one night, I found myself dressed like a tart, and made up to the nines, mopping the surfaces in our respectable suburban kitchen, waiting for a man called Charles to ring the doorbell.

I knew nothing about him. My husband said he wanted me to be surprised. And I was.

I'd met the odd photographer before and I imagined some big-bellied older man with long greasy hair, leather jacket and Timberland boots. But Charles turned out to be a tall slim young Somali in a suit, bright white shirt and mock-regimental tie. He was terribly polite and correct, as if he had come to sell us insurance, and I thought he was rather sweet. If Rick was not bothered that all he had with him was some kind of Instamatic (this was pre-digital), I was not going to mention it.

We all had a sherry and when I sat down, it was impossible not to show my stocking tops in the skirt Rick had chosen. Charles tried not to stare, bless him, but I felt his eyes on my border country and it made me feel quite tingly.

"Well," he said eventually. "I believe this lovely lady is willing to allow me to try to take some beautiful pictures. Are we going to do it here?"

All of a sudden, Rick became the stern and watchful husband. It was up to Charles where he wanted to take the pictures, he said, but he would remain present - he hoped that was understandable.

Charles was all smiles and deference. I guess he had been here before. Absolutely no problem at all, he said. But he wanted to assure us that he was not here to take liberties - "only nice pictures". We all laughed at that one.

We moved some furniture so he could use the plain curtains of our bay window as a backdrop.

To start with, it was all quite sedate. He had me lifting my skirt high enough to show my "beautiful" red knickers and unbuttoning my blouse to show my "beautiful" cleavage. He complimented my beautiful legs and shot them from the floor, which meant he was looking up my skirt. He got me to lean into the camera with my mouth a little open and he shot me from behind with my skirt lifted and my hands on my buttocks. I was very conscious, at that point, that there was just a wisp of stretched lace between my cunt and the lustful gazes of two men. I can't tell you how sticky that made me.

Charles kept on saying it was all beautiful. Then he asked to have a private word with Rick, who had been simply sat watching, smoking one cigarette after another. They went off into the kitchen.

Rick came back into the room first, looking flushed, and whispered excitedly in my ear: "He says you are making his penis very hot and uncomfortable and wants to know if he can take it out while he takes some more pictures. I said it was up to you. I said he could try doing it slowly and see how you reacted."

I shrugged as if it didn't matter to me. What I was thinking was - you want to be careful of what you wish for, matey.

Rick went back to give the go-ahead and I went upstairs to change. The outfit Rick had got me in was a bit predictable. I thought it was time for my own input. I found a black tube dress I had had for years. I could just squeeze into it, with my tits threatening to spill out of the top. It looked a bit kinky like that but I liked it. I pulled it down half an inch so I was showing a hint of nipple too. No bra. Very sheer yellow French knickers. Shiny black high heels.

Charles was very enthusiastic about my beautiful breasts and was soon asking if I would take them out for him. While I was wriggling them free, he unzipped. And the rest of the pictures were taken by an aroused black man with his cock hanging out of his trousers. He was not fully erect but it was already a very long cock. Very. I couldn't take my eyes off it. And nor could Rick, I noticed. One way and another, my cunt was pounding like a second heart.

After a while, I straightened myself up and asked Charles to excuse me for a minute. I asked Rick to come with me. As soon as I got him into the kitchen, I went for his fly and knelt down on the floor and started to gobble him, quite noisily. We were both aware of Charles just a few feet away, on the other side of the glass door, and knew he must have known what was going on. But I wanted him to and Rick didn't want to stop his first ever full blow job. He tried to keep quiet but he couldn't help grunting a bit and I gave it plenty of moaning in between sucking like a Hoover.

When it was over, still kneeling, I showed Rick my mouthful of cream, like a proper porn star, and then swallowed it and found it wasn't so bad. Tasted a bit like a mouthful of seawater -- or oysters if you want to be a bit more romantic about it. I thought I was making Rick's dreams come true but he just whispered : "What are we going to do with him? He's not going to go home now we've got him in that state." We could make out the shadow of Charles on the other side of the door, apparently stroking his cock.

I asked Rick what he wanted to do. I wanted him to take charge. But he just said weakly: "It's up to you." And that's when I sort-of stopped caring what he thought. I whispered: "I'll do something to calm him down, but you'll have to let me. And I'll need you to fuck me when he's gone."

I went upstairs again and changed into a loose black silky robe and some jewellery, nothing else, and came down again to find Rick and Charles making some sort of conversation. I went over to Charles and said: "Do you like this?"

He said: "Very much."

Feeling like an actress in a film, I said very coolly: "I enjoyed the view earlier."

He smiled and pulled his zip down again. And I reached inside his pants and got his cock out and undid my gown and wanked him off, with my husband watching, until he came over my tits. In my mind's eye I was seeing the scene myself as it unfolded, as if I was floating on the ceiling, filming it,and I zoomed in greedily on the final shot of that long black cock disgorging its milky load over my pale pink nipples.

Rick went and fetched a tea towel with Buckingham Palace on it and gave it to me to mop up as the lad got himself straightened out, saying all the time: "Thankyou madam, thankyou. Thankyou very much."

Rick got all growly and said it was probably time to say goodnight. I gave Charles a kiss on the cheek at the door. Then I dragged Rick upstairs and made him eat me until I came and came again and that got him up enough to come in me, rather feebly. And that was the last time he ever fucked me.

Next time Charles came round -- and of course there was a next time - I did what I wanted, and Rick took the pictures. After that, I became a "blue girl", as some sociologist once defined it -- something between a stripper and a prostitute, selling pictures and selling photography sessions, and later moving on to performing on video. It has sometimes included using a man as a prop but it was never actually fucking for money, which is an important distinction in my mind. I get my rocks off from the posing and the money is a nice little bonus.

Eventually, the neighbours cottoned on and Rick had a panic about his reputation. Personally, I didn't care very much what other people thought. And I didn't really want to stop something which had put a lightning bolt of new life in me. Rick and I came to a deal which included me moving some way away but remaining married. He still comes to see me and we are fond of each other, like old friends are. But from the start of my new career, we were finished as sexual partners. It's funny. I gave him all he wanted and he lost interest in me, at least for straight fucking.

I've wondered about it, of course. And here are my observations, for what they are worth. A lot of men fantasise about watching their wives "put out" - if I understand that Americanism correctly (it sounds perfect). But actually lettingit happen makes them feel unmanned in some way. Also, once you have given a man all the spice he dreams of, plain old vanilla doesn't cut it any more.

I've found my compensations and I don't mind too much. I could take a lover if I wanted. Rick would probably like that. Meanwhile, he stays over with me sometimes, so I know he still masturbates. And And it gives me an odd sort of comfort that I have good reason to believe he usually does it after looking at my pictures.

So do I, of course. But that's another chapter.

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