tagRomanceTeaching Millie She's Hot Ch. 04

Teaching Millie She's Hot Ch. 04


We were standing at the airline counter, redeeming our tickets to New York. The clerk was going through his list of canned questions, looking up only to snatch glimpses of the Grand Canyon--the 16 inches of Millie's creamy-white cleavage (I measured it while she giggled).

Millie was wearing a shockingly short microskirt and an incredibly low-cut T-shirt top, with a stretchy sling bra that offered very little support for her swaying, wobbling football tits.

Actually, they're bigger than footballs. But never mind that now.

Anyway, he was surreptitiously ogling my wife's huge knockers, at which I took no offense--what non-gay male wouldn't ogle her?--and asking us his routine questions.

"Have your bags been out of your sight at any time this morning?"

"No," I said.

"Are you carrying any explosives, fireworks, dangerous chemicals, or other prohibited items?"


"Do you have big t--uh, a projected return date?"

"One week from today." Millie and I exchanged smirks.

"Reason for your ti--uh, trip?"

Millie leaned forward--the clerk did not look at her face--and said excitedly, "I'm going to New York to pose naked for CURVY magazine!"

The clerk looked at her face then, his eyes wide. "Jesus Christ," he said. "I'll buy it!" Then he blinked and said, "I'm sorry. Please don't tell anyone I said that." We both laughed.

As we walked toward the gate, I leaned over and whispered, "Next time just say 'business,' baby."

She just giggled.

The plane ride was routine, except for the number of men who kept finding reasons to walk by our row of seats. There were three seats in our row, and the poor old bastard that was sitting on the other side of Millie was sweating and fidgeting before our plane ever left the ground. Her breast kept brushing his arm, and I noticed that instead of pulling it in to give her room, he actually moved it toward her a fraction.

He finally moved to lean against the window so he was partially facing Millie, and pretended to read a book. He didn't turn a page for the whole flight. His boner was visible even through his baggy, pleated pants. I'd guess he was about 80, but the plumbing obviously still worked. On the other hand, if all women looked like my Millie, the Viagra people would go broke.

After the plane landed and people were getting up and retrieving their carry-on bags from the overhead bins, the guy just sat there and frankly stared as Millie reached up over him to get ours. She handed them to me--then leaned over him and asked in a breathy, insinuating voice, "Did you enjoy the flight?"

Her tits were dangling about a foot from his face. "Y-yes, I did," he stammered in his old, cracked voice. "Very much."

She smiled, leaned in, and kissed him full on the mouth--and gave his hard-on a long squeeze as she did it. "Bye," she said as we turned to go.

"B-b-b-bye," he said after her. His face was a mask of total shock, and he was shivering a little.

"Damn, baby," I said as we walked down the aisle, "I hope the paramedics are ready. I think you gave that old guy a heart attack."

"No, I didn't. He just came, that's all." She looked back at me and smirked.

"Oh." I watched her generous ass roll and jiggle beneath her short skirt as we went on down the aisle, and I wasn't the only one. I was smiling, and I guess I looked pretty smug. It didn't matter, though. No one on the plane was looking at me.

We took a cab to the CURVY offices from the hotel, and the cabbie--a swarthy Middle Eastern type, big surprise--spent more time looking in his rearview mirror than at the road. I don't think it was adjusted to look at the traffic behind us, either.

As we got out of the cab, I counted out the fare and was adding another five. "What's that for?" asked Millie.

"You always tip cab drivers," I said. She knew that.

"Oh. Well, let me do it." She handed me her big purse. I knew what was coming, and I stood back to watch.

Millie leaned into the cab and said, "You want a good tip?" The cabbie nodded, his eyes suspicious. He had probably heard "Don't sleep on the subway" and such "tips" many times.

"How about two good tips?" asked Millie, and to the cabbie's shock--and that of several passersby--she pulled up her top and bra and flashed him. She shook her bare, massive milkers in his face for a second, then quickly covered herself. "How's that?" she asked as she adjusted her bra.

"Lady, dose are da best tips I ever got!" He must have been in New York a long time. His accent was pure Brooklyn, not Pakistani. He looked at me. "Keep da money, mister," he said. "Dis ride was on da house!" he rolled his eyes skyward. "God is great," he said as he put the cab in gear and pulled away.

I handed her purse back. "I thought you wanted me to make you do things," I said. "You seem to be having a lot of fun on your own."

She shrugged, and some guy walked into a light pole. "It would be more fun if you were giving me orders," she admitted. "But I'm enjoying myself anyway. We're in New York, and I thought I'd let myself go a little. Is it okay?"

"A little?" I looked back at the guy picking himself up off the sidewalk. He was still staring at my wife. "It's okay with me, Big Tits, but I think you're going to be keeping the doctors busy while you're in town."

She giggled. I love that giggle. "Besides, you haven't made me do anything."

"Okay," I said. "Take off your underwear."

She goggled at me. "Now?" she said. "Right here?"

"Do it."

She hesitated a moment. The street wasn't crowded, but it was a long way from empty. Looking around with that expression I knew meant fear, embarrassment and pussy-gushing excitement all at once, Millie handed me her purse again--then abruptly pulled up her short skirt, exposing her pink thong panties, and skinned them down her plump, pale thighs. I don't think she could quite have been arrested--her skirt came back down with her panties and her pussy was never exposed--but it would have been close.

At least a half-dozen men, and even a few women, stopped dead in their tracks to watch. Millie handed her panties to me in a wadded-up ball, and I put them in my pocket. "The bra too," I said.

Standing right there on the sidewalk, in full view of her appreciative audience, she pulled one arm inside her sleeveless top and unfastened her bra. She slipped the strap down that arm, then slid her arm out again and reached around to deftly yank her bra from the other armhole.

As she handed it to me, there was a small round of applause from around us. Millie, her face pink, gave the watchers an ironic curtsey. Her enormous tits, now quivering entirely free under her low-cut, stretchy top, swayed seductively. Her softball nipples and long, erect tips were clearly visible, probably from across the street.

A car rear-ended a tour bus as we stood there. The gaping tourists in the windows of the bus didn't seem to notice.

"Shit, let's get inside, Millie. You're going to cause a traffic jam." We were standing directly in front of the building where CURVY magazine was located. She grinned and we walked in.

The CURVY offices were on the thirty-fifth floor. As we rode up in the elevator, Millie gave my ass a squeeze and whispered, "Thanks. I needed that. It's more fun when you order me."

Jesus, I thought. I could tell her to strip naked in Times Square and do Jumping Jacks and she'd do it. I shook off the dizziness; it was getting to be a regular thing.

The CURVY offices were nice, but hardly palatial. The walls were decorated with pictures of beautiful, chubby women--clothed, though not modestly--and there were a couple of sofas with coffee tables in front of them. Copies of the magazine were piled on the tables. Beats the hell out of the dentist's waiting room, I thought.

We walked--or in Millie's case, jiggled--up to the receptionist's desk. The young woman behind it, no lightweight herself, looked up and her eyes widened.

"You must be Millie Wilson," she said.

"Uh-huh. We have a ten o'clock?"

"They've been waiting since eight. Right this way." We followed her swaying hips down a short hallway, where she knocked at a closed door.

"Come," said a masculine voice, and Millie giggled.

"I bet I will," she whispered as the receptionist opened the door.

"Millie Wilson is here," the girl said. She favored me with a grin and a wink and returned to her post. We went in.

It was a surprisingly small office, and the man behind the desk was already standing. When Millie walked in, his eyes sprang open and he said, "Holy cow! ...Er, no offense."

Millie laughed. "Mooo," she giggled. "Wanna milk me?"

"Hey, that's MY job," I put in.

The guy just gaped at us. He was maybe fifty, a little overweight, but still had all his hair--that, or a really high-quality rug. He finally recovered and put out a hand with a slightly disconcerted smile. "Uh, hi, uh, I'm Frank DeMarco," he said. "You're Millie, and you are...?" he looked at me inquiringly."

The luckiest guy on the planet," I said. "I'm her husband, Jeff Wilson."

He looked at Millie, then back at me. "You'll get no argument from me, Mr. Wilson," he said with an envious shake of his head. "Can I call you Jeff? Have a seat, both of you."

"Jeff is fine," I said. "Let me see the contract."

"Right down to business, huh?" he said. "Here you go." He handed me a folder that had been lying on the desk.

"Yeah, well, my wife is in a hurry to take off her clothes and get in front of a camera." Millie blushed and, of course, giggled.

"Oh, it'll be a while before we're ready for that. Our hair and makeup people get a turn with her first." He looked at her and smiled. "Though I don't know how they can improve on what I'm seeing."

"Thank you," murmured Millie, oddly shy now.

I was reading the contract. Every word of it. DeMarco knew better than to hurry me, and he chatted with Millie as I read.

"You know about the interview?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. That'll be fun. They'll ask me a lot of sexy stuff, right?" She was glowing with anticipation.

"Sure. How far will you go? Do you want us to write some of it for you? Our readers like it pretty raw," he said with a surprising air of apology.

Millie smiled at him with a deceptively innocent air. "Oh, no. I'll tell you anything you want to know." Then she grinned wickedly. "The nastier the better," she said.

I noticed that DeMarco kept glancing downward. The little tease--well, okay, BIG tease--had let her tiny skirt ride up and was showing off her pale, fleshy legs--plus giving him a partial peek at her shaved, pantyless crotch. The sexy, minimal sandals on her pretty feet weren't helping matters.

"You can make up things yourself if you like," he said.

She smiled. "I won't have to." I was halfway through the contract, which was three pages long on legal-sized paper. "I see a problem here," I said.

All business again, DeMarco said, "What's that, Jeff? It's all pretty standard."

"Well, my wife isn't, as you may have noticed... It's the part about the videos and DVDs."

"Videos?" said Millie. "I get to do videos?" Her eyes sparkled.

"Says here she gets a flat fee," I said. "That's no good. She gets 15% of the gross receipts, or no videos."

DeMarco looked at me for a long moment. Then he looked at Millie. "Done," he said. "We'll just charge more for "em. They'll still sell like hotcakes. Let me see that."

I handed him the contract. He crossed out a paragraph and made some notes in the margin, then handed it back.

"Do we need to initial that?" I asked.

"No. I'll have it retyped before you leave and we'll use that one. Is that all?"

"Dunno. Haven't finished reading it." I resumed my perusal, and DeMarco turned back to Millie.

"Do you think you'd like to do some videos?" he asked.

Millie was bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, and excited. "Oh, yes! What kind? What would I do in them?"

His eyes slid over to me for a second. "Anything you want," he said. "Some of our girls do hardcore, but you don't have to." He glanced at me again. I said nothing; I knew what her answer would be.

But I was wrong. "Hardcore? What's that?" she asked innocently.

He told her, and she shook her head rapidly, finally shocked. "No, no," she said. "No way. That's only for my husband."

"Maybe WITH your husband...?" said DeMarco.

This time I was shocked. That had never occurred to me.

Millie and I looked at each other. She seemed as unsure as I was. "We'll talk about it," I said, "and we'll get back to you. No promises."

"Fair enough," he said, and turned back to Millie. "We'd like some nice softcore, for a start," he said. "Posing, showering, maybe exercising or dancing, that sort of thing."

"I can't wait," she said. "Ooo! This is going to be fun!"

"How about--er--feeling yourself up, or working with a dildo?"

"I brought my own," said Millie brightly. "Wanna see one?"

Before he could answer, she pulled one from her purse. It was her favorite--about a foot and a half long, as big around as a flashlight, and studded with marble-sized bumps.

Demarco, the veteran, was speechless. He finally just nodded. "Got another problem," I said.

"What?" he said, his eyes still on the dildo.

"First-time payment only. No good. I want another payment, at least half the original amount, every time you run any of her pictures."

He finally looked at me. "But that's--" He stopped and looked back at Millie. "Okay," he said abruptly, and held out his hand. He crossed more out, made more notes, and handed it back. "Jeff, I want you to know, I've never made these concessions for any other model."

I looked at Millie, and so did he. She looked back at us innocently, still holding up her big, bumpy dildo. Her big eyes were wide. "What?" she said.

DeMarco and I looked at each other, and he gave me a wry smile. "Anything else?" he said archly.

"I think that's about it," I said.

"Do you want us to use her real name?" he asked. "I'd advise against it."

"Ask her," I said.

He turned to Millie, who said, "What's wrong with my name?"

"It's not that, sweetheart," I said. "You just don't want creeps to find out where you live or call you or stuff."

"Oh." She blinked. "I never thought of that." She thought for a second. "How about using my real first name, and making up a fake last name?"

"That's what a lot of the girls do," said DeMarco. He looked at her appraisingly. "Say, I have an idea," he said. "I was just thinking, something Irish; it goes with your beautiful pale complexion and your pink cheeks. How would you like to be a redhead?"

Millie blinked, then smiled. "That would be fun," she said.

"Okay, then. If we're agreed on the terms...?" He looked at me.

"Good to go," I said.

"Great. Let's get you to hair and makeup."

We all stood up. Millie was all but dancing with excitement. "I presume you'll want to be there through the whole process?" he asked, addressing me.

"Up to my wife," I said.

Millie gave me a sweetly mischievous smile. "For everything but the photo session," she said. "I want to surprise you when the magazine comes out."

As we walked down the hall, Millie asked, "Can I do the video today, too?"

DeMarco shook his head with a glance at Millie's wobbling, swinging tits. "Not today, honey," he said--followed by a quick glance at me.

I shrugged. "Honey" was okay, but nobody gets to call her "Big Tits" but me.

"You're going to be tired," he said. "You'll be surprised how much work a good photo shoot is. You guys are in town for the week, right?" It was a Friday.

"Yup," I said.

"How about Monday for the video, then?"

Millie was disappointed that she couldn't do it that day, but she shrugged. "Okay," she said.

We went into the prep room. Two technicians were there, a man and a woman. Millie was handed a terry robe and told to strip. "Do you want me to leave the room?" asked Demarco.

Millie already had her top off. "What for?" she said. "You're going to see my pictures, aren't you?"

As she pulled her skirt down and stepped out of her sandals, all three of their mouths fell open. Millie stood proudly naked and smiled at us.

"Jesus H. Particular Christ," said DeMarco.

"Mother of God," said the woman.

The other guy's plucked eyebrows shot up. "Oh, my," he said, flapping a limp hand at his face. "Suddenly I understand why most men are straight. You are a goddess, girl."

"I'll, uh, be in my office," said DeMarco. He looked shaken and stirred. "Call me when her hair is done and you're ready to do the makeup consult, Sheila."

Millie wrapped herself in the robe, and the woman went to work on her hair. I sat in the corner and read some back issues of CURVY, trying to stay with the articles and interviews. My dick was hard enough already.

A little later, I was standing behind her as she looked in the mirror. Millie as a redhead was enchanting. "I like it," I said. "I really like it."

"I do too, Jeff! Doesn't it look natural?"

And it did. No phony fire-engine red here; her hair was a a vivid carrot-orange, but subdued by being mixed with blonde and light brown. It looked like she had been born with it, and it did go perfectly with her skin tone. Millie's short hair had been fluffed out as if it had a bit of curl to it, and she looked as Irish as County Clare.

"Very, very nice work," I said to Sheila, a middle-aged, motherly type with gray hair in 60s-style braids.

"Thanks," she said with a small smile. "Excuse me." She more or less elbowed me out of her way, and began looking at Millie's face critically. She keyed a number on her cell phone, said "We're ready, Frank," and a moment later DeMarco came in for the consultation. He began eyeing her face, too. The other guy was just sitting there, watching.

"Well, we definitely want to go with the fresh, natural look," DeMarco said. "Maybe down the road we can try out the slutty hooker thing, but not this time. What can you do, Sheila? Doesn't look like she needs much help to me. "

The woman stepped in and looked at Millie's face even more closely. Millie sat patiently, looking straight ahead as ordered. Finally, the woman stepped back.

"Nothing, Frank," she said. "A little light eyeliner and mascara, a touch of lipstick, and that's all she needs. Perfect skin, like new ivory. Not a blemish on her. She doesn't need blusher--she has roses in her cheeks all the time, and she blushes a lot anyway."

Right on cue, Millie did, eliciting friendly laughter.

"Look, she even has dimples," said the woman as Millie smiled and showed them. "She has a little hint of a double chin," Sheila went on, "but that comes with the curves, and that's the way we like 'em, right? This girl--Millie?" Millie nodded. "Millie has the most perfect face you've ever brought me. If all your models looked like this, I could phone in this job." Millie was blushing furiously, of course.

"Okay," said DeMarco. "Do your thing with the eyeliner and whatever. Shouldn't take long. Alex, you're up. Lose the robe, Millie."

The woman waited as Millie shrugged out of her robe. She then sat naked as the woman went to work on her eyes. Alex, the gay guy, came forward with a slightly disdainful air and began to examine Millie's body--from inches away. He started with her arms. He inspected her carefully from shoulders to fingertips, and then he knelt down to peer at her legs, moving methodically from her pink toes to her fleshy thighs.

He and the woman moved automatically to stay out of each other's way; it was clearly a dance they had done many times before. He stood back to wait as Sheila finished Millie's minimal makeup, then said, "Stand up, sweetie. Lift your arms. High above your head. Good." Alex began examining the rest of her, close up with a bright handheld light.

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