Tortoise and Hare Redux

In the meantime, Tory continued to work on Jock with the modeling-as-a-second-job tact. "I know several people in the trade—that is, the underwear trade—and, if we go ahead with this, I'm absolutely sure we can connect you with a good agent." She glowed, in spite of herself, enjoying Jock's enthusiastic interest. "This is gonna be fun!" she decided, setting him up and stringing him along with a line that was actually the truth, even if not the whole truth. She needed, she realized, his full cooperation if this were going to succeed more than just superficially—more than just winning the wager with Arlo—which she already felt was a foregone conclusion.

"But first," Tory announced, suddenly business-like, "we need to put together a portfolio—a sort of a photographic CV." Producing a high-end digital SLR camera, Tory started with some benign shots of Jock, taking the opportunity to grab and pull and maneuver him into various poses. Jock quickly got into it, taking, as it were, the bait - hook line and sinker.

And Tory played with him. Starting out slowly, she worked up to several times a week, as his shifts allowed, taking hundreds of pictures—candid and posed—all, initially fully dressed. Her apparently endless supply of trendy, chic garments, that mostly fit him, was a continual marvel. Early on, she had suggested, coyly, "Let's keep this secret from Ari and Ari until we have a complete portfolio, okay?"

"Well, I guess...,' he nodded, unsure of himself. Back-pedaling for a moment, he said, "I'm not really comfortable, you know, keeping Ariel in the dark. I don't really see the necessity for secrecy."

"It's just that she's a woman and, believe me, we wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea about what's going on here."

Just as she expected, Jock relented. "Yeah, I s'pose."

"Now," she purred playfully, after a bit, "let's see what you've got." And she began to give him directions, in effect, instructing him on how to strip artfully. She got him to show off his pecs, again, taking copious pictures. "For your portfolio," she breezed by way of explanation. She faithfully photographed his six-pack abs; his sculpted legs and arms; his rugged jaw and handsome look. Tory soon realized that this was no longer a ruse. She was being absolutely genuine. She had decided that he really did have a fabulous body—spectacular! She would be his agent, if he'd let her.

Eventually, of course, Tory coaxed Jock down to his skivvies. "After all, what would be the point of the portfolio without pictures of you modeling briefs?" She had him try boxer shorts to start, then jockeys. In subsequent sessions she had him in tangas and bikinis, as well. As Jock became increasingly comfortable with the camera, Tory eventually got him into the skimpiest of garments—G-string ball-bags. At every shoot, she clicked away as she directed and he posed—as well as when he moved between poses. Tory even got some surreptitious snaps of him changing, though, for the moment she kept those to herself. "He doesn't even realize how sensual he is," Tory marveled to herself. "How very voluptuous and carnally attractive he is—the sexuality he exudes!"

Finally, reaching in, Tory casually arranged and rearranged Jock's package, pulling and positioning his cock, and hefting his balls to fill the ball-bag to best advantage, before taking a photographic account of the results.

Jock tried to stay aloof—goodness knows he tried. Tried to stay professional, or at least how he imagined a professional would be. Still, inevitably, Tory's subtle manipulations got him chubby; which required still more handling and rearrangement. Suddenly letting go, she explained, "For the remainder of the shoot, I'll get you to change duds frequently. Maybe that way, we can get you calmed down. You know, if you're going to do this professionally, you'll need to learn to display the self-control required in order to disregard your feelings of arousal."

Sufficiently chided, Jock was determined to resist his erotic responses to her man-handling. Tory put him in boxers, once again, posing him from dangling to varying degrees of erection. But try as he may, sooner or later, Tory was shooting him erect. It was humanly unavoidable.

"Women, especially," Tory purred, during yet another session, as she began to twiddle Jock's nipples, "love the look of a chiseled chest with erect buds." Jock resisted reacting with tremendous effort, as Tory blithely continued. "I think a natural glistening is much better than the sheen of lube." With that, she leaned in further to mouth them, clamping on and sucking like a lamprey, swirling them with her tongue, each side in its turn. Unable to resist erotic stimulation, Jock pulled her face tight into his chest, his inflamed libido sighing and gasping. Tory just continued to placidly 'nurse' as she reached down to stroke his straining cock.

Pulling away, at last, Tory smiled as she snapped a series of pictures showing his woodie slowly pushing past the elastic and peeking out over the waistband. When she finally stopped, she scolded Jock for being too stiff. "This is unworkable," she complained. "Photographers don't like models who waste their time. I suppose there's only one thing to do." She dropped her gaze and pushed her hand into the front of the briefs, grasping him firmly and proceeding to jack him off without any hesitation. It didn't take long.

Jolting and jerking, Jock sent a fountain of semen arcing between them. "Oh, Christ. Look at that. You've got cum everywhere! You've soiled some of the samples!" Well, reprimanded, Jock's mortification was eased by Tory's sly grin, as she wiped her hand and picked up her camera once more, snapping some pictures of his damp, softening prick amidst the glistening mess and dripping garments.

After that, in subsequent sessions Tory took care of the obtrusive erections without comment. Whenever Jock became too stiff to maneuver, she simply leaned in and gave him a blowjob.

Meanwhile, Arlo continued his velvet assault, doling out cheeky tidbits. Yet, his outrageous statements didn't seem quite so outrageous to Ariel any more. She listened and evaluated and thought about how his ideas would translate into designs.

Arlo was obviously a boob-man at heart. He often said things like, "If you can go braless, and do it well, then let us know." He'd tug her neckline down, just enough to expose a hint of areola. In fact, several times he'd announced something to the effect, "You should be proud of your nipples!" reaching in to twist and pinch with both hands, until Ari's highbeams pushed prominently against the silky material of her top. "Show 'em off, for cryin' out loud. That's what they're for!" One of his favorite lines seemed to be, "Show us yer tits!" Ari came to the realization that, with increasing ease, she responded to his teasing by giving him a quick flash; furthermore, she found she tolerated a passing grope, at least from Arlo, with increasing acceptance.

Over the course of several conferences, every couple meetings or so, Arlo would casually allude to some bigshot, mentioning them by name. Baiting his conversations, as it were, he offered to show some of Ari's designs around. "Freebie introductions to see if our business association might be worth pursuing," he explained. Then, later, playfully demanding payback: like a kiss or a flash "More properly," he lectured, "called an erotic reveal."

"You know," he began one afternoon, "The fashion industry is ruthless—as am I, I'll admit it. There are trade secrets, and insider industry standards that would really surprise you. I could share them with you, but then I'd have to kill you." He took a sip to lubricate his chuckle, before continuing somewhat more seriously. "To fully embrace the fashionista lifestyle one must participate in the cultural commerce by means of currency exchange."

Ariel raised her eyebrows, in an unspoken, "Go on, then."

"Not all currency is monetary," Arlo pointed out. "Especially in our business." After a pregnant pause he continued, "Information and sexual favours are also valuable, often more so than cash." He watched as Ari's jaw sagged a little, her eyes getting a little glassy. "Oh yes, networking introductions and name-dropping—promotion and information—news, conferences, debuts—are often, very often, priced or valued in terms of sexual currency." He gave Ariel a moment, to gasp as she processed all this. "Don't be shocked. Everybody does it."

As their meetings progressed, their relationship grew. Arlo became more frank, more forthright—raising some points just for the effect, or possibly for the shock value. "Some transactions," he pointed out, "will even require girl-on-girl intercourse." He paused to gauge Ari's response, but she remained impassively focused on his advice. "But I'm sure you'll manage that just fine, when the time comes." Ariel did note, however, that he had said 'when' not 'if'. She would ponder that later.

Still, Arlo continued to groom her with his multi-faceted seduction. He played to her ambitions—subtle, persistent, and flattering. Eventually, he asked Ariel to meet him at his office, downtown, to share an important bit of information. When she arrived, wide-eyed and wondering—after getting her seated, Arlo, looked at her affectionately and announced, "Victoria and I have decided to take you on as a client." He had in fact discussed it with Tory the night before, and they had agreed. He had the contract out and ready for her to sign.

Ari was virtually beside herself with excitement. "Omigod! You have no idea how much I appreciate this. Your trust... Your confidence... Your..." She was thrilled, believing that she could, then, begin to get ahead, and finally move beyond the entry-level position she currently held—doing what she considered the grunt-work.

Arlo chuckled and, sounding somewhat in jest, asked, "Exactly how much do you appreciate it?" He soon got his answer.

One thing led to another and in the fog of excitement, Ari found herself on her back on the couch, tits out, knees spread, welcoming his gentle caress. Her breath collapsed into sobs and gasps and cries, as Arlo tongued and nibbled her breasts, moving one to the other, while his fingers migrated to her dripping pussy, slipping in and out of her quim, swirling persistently over and around her clit.

Heaving her hips up to meet his invading digits, she moaned and squealed her way towards the sharp peak of a monster orgasm. Arlo skittered across her quivering, glistening body and drove his steely Dan into her as she bucked her way over the edge into the most intense climax she could ever recall experiencing.

Arlo had surprised even himself at how quickly he had managed to fuck Ariel. He hadn't really expected to even get to third base, let alone beyond. Then, of course, he had to soothe her distress at her own moral weakness. "We can keep this as a little bit of private commerce between us. It is, quite literally, no one else's business." But, right now, let's go share the good news—about our new business arrangement—with your husband.

Ariel was in a turmoil the whole train ride home. While accompanying her, Arlo, wisely, remained silent. The Ferguson's house was empty, and strangely quiet when they entered. "Jock?" Ari called. "Honey? Are you home?" He hadn't been in the yard, and the garage door was closed, so she assumed his car was there. "I wonder where he is."

"Perhaps he's next door," Arlo suggested, "at our place. Might be giving Tory a hand, or just having coffee with her." Arlo took Ari by the elbow, and guided her out the side door, heading across the driveway and onto the adjacent property. "In any case, we can let Victoria know that you've accepted our proposal, and signed on."

Earlier in the afternoon, Tory had invited Jock over to put together the final touches on his portfolio, which she had assembled from the great many photos she'd taken. Casually, while they arranged and rearranged prints, Tory announced, "I have taken the liberty of speaking with a modeling agent whom I know quite well. She's interested in what I've told her about you and has agreed to giving you an interview."

Jock was flabbergasted. "Already? I can't believe it!"

"It helps," Tory told him, "that you're a fit fireman. Even she has ogled and drooled over a firefighters' calendar or two." Jock couldn't contain his excitement. He danced about, just like a kid—exclaiming, and giving Tory a bear-hug squeeze.

"How about my finder's fee?" she asked with a sly grin.

"What?" he asked, then, without waiting for her reply, he said, "Anything! Anything, you want!"

Tory smiled to herself. She thought, with regards to the grooming and shaping of Jock, "This has been almost too easy!" She watched Jock intently, while thinking, "Arlo couldn't possibly have talked his way into Ari's knickers this quickly!" Then catching Jock's exuberant gaze, she purred, "What I really want is that great big prick of yours stabbing me mercilessly in the cunt, until I can't take any more!"

Taken aback for just a moment, Jock froze. "Did I hear that right?" But Tory's unrelenting stare assured him that he had. In a sort of slow-motion fog, Jock watched as Victoria silently dropped her slacks and panties and stuck her ass out, resting her elbows on the kitchen island. Looking over her shoulder, her wordless come-hither look was completely unambiguous.

With surprisingly little hesitation—surprising to both of them—Jock dropped his sweats and his briefs, and stepped up behind Tory. Grasping her cheeks with his hands, and spreading them, he lined up his quivering, throbbing erection and pushed it authoritatively into her slick vagina, like a well-oiled sword into its sheath. Within moments, he was pounding his steely tool balls-deep in and out of her proffered bottom. Titillated and ready, Tory, herself, was well on the way to cumming by his second thrust.

Jock could feel Tory's impending orgasm building up through her pussy, radiating from her ass-cheeks. He felt his own climax straining for release, as her vaginal walls clasped and caressed his woodie; but girded himself, consciously trying not to cum before she got there. He didn't want to seem like too much like an over-eager newbie.

Meanwhile, having found no one at their home, a terribly conflicted Ariel allowed her neighbour and mentor, Arlo, to take her elbow and lead her across the driveway and up onto the back deck of his place. The doors to the kitchen stood partly ajar. Ariel and Arlo could see that Tory was leaning over the cooking island, and Jock stood behind her. They realized at much the same time—but with diametrically different responses—that Jock's pants were puddled at his ankles, and his hips, initially oscillating wildly, had violently slammed against Tory's resilient butt and abruptly held tight, forcing a keening wail crescendo-ing from deep within Tory's gut. At the same instant, Jock's head angled back and a primal growl escaped from his slack-jawed maw.

Arlo smiled inwardly, his only real surprise coming at the realization that he might have actually won—if this was their first go. Classic tortoise and hare.

Ariel's jaw dropped. Her heart stopped as she desperately tried to make sense of what she saw.

Jock detected Troy's attention straying to the reflection on the fridge door, and without letting up at all, his cock still juddering and spitting, he glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, my fucking God!" he gasped, his spurting coming to a sudden halt, loosening his hips against his mentor's hot buttocks. There was a long moment of eerie stillness, an oppressive silence that gave way to the squelching of a withdrawal so abrupt, it left Tory's pussy lips flapping. Jock scrambled to cover himself—pointlessly—stumbling and hobbling. His glistening prick visibly softening, dripping and splashing love-liquor all over, as he tried to pull up his pants; futilely looking around for his shirt. Holding his unbuckled pants at his waist he ground to a stop, frozen by Ariel's tearfully accusing gaze. "Jock?" she whimpered in a whisper, "How could you?"

"I... It's... It's not...," Jock sputtered, before giving up.

Slowly lifting her chest, rising from her elbows, Tory looked blithely over her shoulder. Her glistening, still trembling, cunt squeezed out an impressive cream-pie, which oozed between her puffy, pink labia and slid down her inner thighs, dripping lazily to the tiled floor between her feet. Tory languidly surveyed the entire situation, before divining the apparent facts. Recognizing the glint in Arlo's eye, she made a wild—or, perhaps, not-so-wild—conjecture, Tory rose to her feet, and fired back at Ariel. "But it's all right for you to fuck my husband?!" Ariel's sagging jaw and suddenly dilated eyes only confirmed Tory's suspicions, so she went on. "That's pretty much the pot calling the kettle black."

Amazed, Ariel muttered, "How could you possibly know already?" Her eyes darted about furtively, before finally settling back on Tory. "Sorry! Sorry...!" and, to the wonderment of everyone, while locked into Tory's knowing look, Ariel blubbered out a confession. Notwithstanding, the apology, such as it was, seemed targeted as much at Jock as Tory.

"He... We... it was just... I wanted to show my... Oh, I don't know. It just happened. Only once. Just this afternoon. I'm so sorry!" Then, looking at Arlo, she sputtered, "I mean, I'm not ..." before covering her face with her hands and bursting into tears.

Arlo had to work to keep from smiling during the emotional maelstrom; indeed, he had to fight the urge to wink at his dear, slutty wife, who inconspicuously moved back from the counter, pulling her apparel back in order as she did. Sliding over to join her, Arlo watched as Jock migrated towards Ari and the door. In that way, the older couple simply—literally and figuratively—stepped back to let the newlyweds work it out. "Welcome to the fashion industry," Arlo muttered as the Fergusons turned to head home in stunned silence. Interestingly, it was Ariel who reached for her partner's hand and Jock, who initially snatched it away, although he relented before they had got to the end of the driveway. They were holding hands as they woodenly made their way to their own back door.

While Jock and Ariel appeared to be totally confounded—confused and indecisive—Tory, feeling rather abashed at having lost the original bet, smugly wagered with her husband that it would all work out for the best. "Furthermore, in the final analysis, I expect we'll have cultured new playmates." She gave Arlo a sharp smack on the ass, as they affectionately watched their young neighbours disappear into their own kitchen.