My dotage was not so far advanced that I couldnâ€™t get the old boy to polish up quite nicely into some semblance of erectile muscle and throbbing gristle. Occasionally, he would even put out for me and eject a thin stream of jizz, but it needed the stimulant of my past life to get him going these days. As had become a habit of mine, I had been reviewing some of the old footage of films we had made. Robbie was long gone now; the abuse of narcotics and booze had caught up with him. But, we made some films all right!
The one that had just run out on the videotape was by far the best that we had done. Seeing Buffy locked with her dog, seeing her, with its cum running from her, had reawakened the memories. The scene with the horse though, had me gagging to shoot a wad into my palm. I managed to climax when I rounded up the film as Robbie and I fucked the good lady.
The replayed scenes came back to me as if it had been yesterday and as I gently rubbed my shaft, hoping to be able to complete the act, the memories did indeed play in the background, complete with the smells and noises. Afterwards, I slept and relived the day again in sharp focus. My memory is as good as it ever was. The following is what happened on that magical weekend.
The day didnâ€™t look promising. Grey cloud cover hung in the air; blanketing what weak sunlight was left of the morning. Rain had passed through during the night, leaving the pavements slick with moisture and shiny in their smoothness.
We trudged on with our collars turned up and hats jammed down hard over our foreheads, leaving little of our faces exposed to the chill wind that the Atlantic cooled, before throwing to shore in a frenzy of vortices and eddies that cut like whetted knives. It was days like this that we seriously wondered if the money was worth the trouble. The perfectly sunny days where it felt good to be alive, let alone filming had been temporarily forgotten in our miserable condition.
My Cameraman grunted something to me, but it was inaudible, I didnâ€™t stop to find out what he said and would have left it at that, but he either repeated it or said something else, only louder this time.
My answer, "how the fuck should I know", didnâ€™t help the general mood of the day. I mean, how am I suppose to know how much further it was, did he think I was having de-ja-vue, or something? Was the line of questions currently going through my soggy mind?
We are good friends on the whole. We had to be I guess. In our late teens, we had partnered up to film Viet Nam for CNN. Two completely raw ingrates thrust into a conflict that had little to do with our idealised notions of push button warfare. After too many body parts, we became inured of the daily scene, just took the shots and fucked off out of there.
We had been a partnership since then. Robbie took the shots, I gave them words, and together we sold the stories and together got pissed and or stoned from the proceeds. Thirty years on, we were still a partnership, but only part time now. Our respective women had other ideas and limited our freedom. It wasnâ€™t so bad though and probably saved our lives, which we would have pissed away or had leaking from our drunken bodies, in an alley, after a binge.
So, together, we made a formidable pair. Chasing down the hot stories, getting into the tight spots. Even sometimes, being so close to the action that we got stuck in the middle of it. Famine, war and natural disasters had been our speciality, but not anymore. Christ, we were too old for that kind of mission. Besides, the younger photojournalists had learned the lessons we gave them well, and then improved on them. Crawling through the remains of a family in Sarajevo or Bulawayo was best left to those guys who felt nothing and slept at night.
Our quarry these days, actually proved to be more lucrative. The porn industry had really taken off with the advent of video. What used to be a seedy, backdoor arrangement was now a multi-multi million dollar, in your face, industry. Home PCâ€™s and the Internet had turned the already massive giant in to a super-nova of a business that employed a large percentage of the media. We were just another pair of hacks who, like hundreds before us, found a more comfortable way of making money.
We specialised. Actually, if you asked the majority of media journalists in the field, they all specialised in the extraordinary. These days though, nothing was extraordinary anymore, unless you had honest to God aliens, but that nut hadnâ€™t been cracked yet, only in fantasy.
But, we did specialise, we advertised for and got thousands of replies from amateur Housewives. We could afford to be picky and selected just five or six a year to have us come and photo shoot at their homes. I always found it amazing that the majority of the replies came from forty-ish middle class women who lived in well to do areas such as Esher in Surrey, where money was nothing but a hindrance or a ladder to the next level.
So many of the replies carried snap shots of an overweight lump of pampered flesh with a lascivious look in her eye. Even my Father wouldnâ€™t have raised an eyebrow at them, invariably; the picture and accompanying letter got filed under B.
Occasionally though, a window of opportunity would come from one of the hundreds of envelopes. Some very good- looking women would be showing more than their mothers would approve of on an Instamatic Polaroid print or computer generated print. Strangely, the accompanying letters seemed to be the wildest. For some unaccountable reason, these attractive women would describe fantasies, far in excess of most imaginations and certainly the middle-aged tubs of lard who normally wrote.
It was to one of the former that we were headed. Buffy, as she signed her initial letter, had sent a photo that looked quite professional. The lighting had been expertly placed through what looked as if it might have been Venetian blinds, casting shadow lines over her beautiful body.
In all, a very tasteful study of the female form, but the letter that went with it was far from tasteful and it was this that had attracted us, more than anything else. If her claims were even half way true, she could do with a stallion, what most women would find difficult with a small man.
Twenty minutes later, soaked through and seriously considering the possibility that the address did not exist, we arrived at her door. A liveried Butler showed us to the drawing room of an Edwardian house. Her directions had purposely made us leave the perfectly dry interior of my car some two miles away. The fucking road passed less than sixty feet from the main gate. Wouldnâ€™t you know it, I thought, Frightened of the sodding neighbours.
Paintings that looked old, stared at us from their vantage points on the oak panelled walls of the drawing room. A large fire blazed in a John Adams fireplace and candles lit the room from candelabras set on sconces around the room. The Butler advised that the Lady of the house would be with us in a few minutes and would we please make ourselves at home. He bowed to us in turn and backed out of the room.
Neither of us dared to sit in the Queen Anne chairs, but the heat of the fire drew us to stand on the parquet floor in front of the blaze, hoping to dry out a little and get warmer.
Several minutes passed, then the door opened to admit a huge Irish wolfhound. Typically for the breed, he was full of exuberance and placed both paws on my shoulders with consummate ease in greeting. I stand five ten high; looking a dog eye to eye while vertical is a little disconcerting. I just hoped he was friendly.
"Byron, Get down." She hadnâ€™t entered the room, but obviously knew the dog well and knew it would have made its presence known in this manner. Bryon, we guessed was the dogs name, slunk away to an opposite corner and laid down on a tartan blanket.
She swept passed the edge of the door and into the room. "I really am most dreadfully sorry, Byron has a tendency to like people immediately and has no qualms about showing his affection. Please, do accept my apology".
"Fuck me." Robbie whispered, "She is fucking knock out."
He was not wrong in his appraisal. The Lady of the house was a vision to behold. A low cut, full-length dress accentuated her loveliness and the banded pearl choker around her long neck was real. Her slender, almost delicate hand was extended. We shook hands while introducing ourselves.
"I am Mrs. Taylor Smyth she informed us, although I much prefer to be called Buffy, it goes back to school days donâ€™tyouknow and seems to have been handed down through the matriarchal line." This information was delivered with a slight shrug of her bare shoulders, a move that looked practiced and studied to illicit the exact response it caused my sensory array. "I do hope you liked my photograph, I had my Butler, Juan do them for me. He is rather good with a camera donâ€™tyouthink?
Her manner of speech also had a desultory affect to my nervous system and almost left me bereft of the power of coherent thought.
Robbie was not quite so bashful, he never had been. "They was luverly, and we wondered if there was any more you would let us â€˜ave?" I wondered at the sudden cockney style of talking, Robbie usually spoke fairly well. "See, we â€˜re putting togever a portfolio of wimen and you would look good innit."
"We shall see." She dismissed him as easily as that and turned to me, raising an eyebrow as she did. "I really am quite keen on acting out the fantasy described in my letter." She paused and raised her hand as if in defence. "Although, one does not actually indulge in these things you understand, on a regular basis, but I firmly believe that nothing should be allowed to pass untried unless it is absolutely abhorrent. I do not consider the proposal to be abhorrent, so, I do hope you can help me in this little venture and find myself quite at the mercy of your expertise."
We had been recommended by Lady something or another to her, she had retained the card and that, as they say, was that.
"Mrs. Taylor Smythâ€¦." I began.
"Buffy it is, Your fantasies as written in your letter, may prove to be physically impossible in, shall we say, the limits of our physiology, but we are, as you quite rightly say, experienced and are more than willing to assist and record your desires." We had locked eyes and I felt as if I had sunk into oblivion without end in a limpid pool that she projected. I was lost to her.
"I will have Juan prepare the games room. Have you gentlemen eaten?"
Robbie and I were given some tea and sandwiches with the crust carefully cut off while Buffy made ready. The tea was an earl grey and not one of my favourites. Juan returned to let us know that she was ready and would we follow him to the games room.
The attraction of a woman in my opinion is in the unknown, that which is covered and left to the imagination. Somehow, I always get a feeling of anti- climax when all of her hidden charms are revealed. Not that this was the case with Buffy. Perfection of form and line is a subjective thing and differs from observer to observer, but her body was the subliminal epitome of womanhood. Muscle tone and graceful curve amalgamated into a flawless creation. This is what God intended when he made woman and I fully subscribed to the notion. Naked, as she was and lying along the back of a leather Chesterton, my heart skipped in a merry semblance of Morris dancers at a May fair and I fell completely in love with her.
The pose she had struck was purely for effect. She knew what it might do to my male instincts and played her hand to perfection. I reacted as any other man would and became instantly aroused to the point of painfully hard in my trousers.
I discovered that it wasnâ€™t that I wanted her, I needed to possess that body, I needed to plunge into her and leave a part of myself within her, I needed to be lost and die in her arms. Guilt for the feelings she aroused also coursed through my brain. I loved my wife didnâ€™t I? But, to have this creature would be a crowning moment in my life.
"How should we do this gentlemen?" The incongruity of being called a gentleman in the current situation was not lost on me. I was amazed at the poise she showed, given what our intentions were and the delicate nature of our actions. She appeared completely nonplussed.
"Should I be on the floor or something?"
"Why not start with you on the settee. I can set a static camera in front of the billiard table and have Robbie use a smaller hand-held for close-ups and angled shots." I knelt in front of her on the floor and gave her a run through of what might look good on camera and hold a natural sequence of events. "The idea is that we wish to convey an air of spontaneity, not have it look as if it were stage managed. If you are ready, weâ€™ll start rolling." She nodded compliance and the cameras began to whirl.
Buffy feigned reading a book. The camera angle I wanted hid the fact that she was naked, her hair hiding those breasts that defied my powers of description. Gradually, her right hand slid from holding the paperback and began to caress the space between her perfect mounds, pushing her hair away and exposing the two orbs of desire, tipped with pink buds. Her fingers explored further and seemed to, absent mindedly, manipulate her quickly aroused nipple. Pulling and tweaking the hardening tip until it darkened in colour and stood firm and ready.
She dropped the book and began to arouse her other breast. In seconds, she had both of her nipples dark and hard. She continued to punish them while her back arched and a small moan escaped her lips. Her right hand travelled in one long smooth stroke to her hairless mound.
Fingertips pulled at the skin and stretched her lips in an upward motion that exposed her clit from its sheath. Keeping her skin taught, a fingertip of her left hand lightly touched the swelling bud of her hidden desire. She drew breath quickly as if the touch burned her. Again, her back arched, forcing her breasts forward.
Slowly, she rubbed in circular motion, arousing and teasing her pleasure centre to the maximum, hardening her clit until it stood proud and erect. Her rhythm increased in exponential increments and her breathing regulated to match the tempo. In a very short space of time, Buffy had brought herself to a shattering climax and was by now, pushing her whole hand into herself with a display of litheness and accommodation that had me wishing I was doing the finger fucking.
We stopped filming and set aside the tapes for editing later. The material already shot was enough really on its own, but we were here for Buffyâ€™s fantasy, not mine or Robbieâ€™s.
"How was it?" She showed no inhibition with her nakedness in front of us. Fact was, it was me that felt discomfited, even though had watched hundreds of women through the lens. There was something about her that just tipped it for me.
"It was just great. Perhaps you would like to see the rushes? Or shall we get onto the next scene while the light is good?"
"Let us press on. The next scene will involve Juan if my memory serves, Iâ€™ll just call him." Juan joined us a few minutes later. She gave him his instructions and returned to the leather settee.
She had arranged herself and continued rubbing her cunt as if nothing had interrupted her. Then Juan appeared as if by accident only to find his mistress in the throes of sexual passion all by herself. The plot continued with him getting almost all of a nine inch cock down her throat, then fucking her in several positions after which, he fucked her beautiful arse before jacking off over her face and tits. All standard stuff really, but there was very little that was standard about her performance. Buffy knew how to get pleasure and knew how to give it in return. She also knew how to play to the camera as if it were a third person in the room.
I must admit that the closing scenes of her getting a mouthful of Juanâ€™s shit didnâ€™t work for me and neither did the water sports afterwards, but as they say, whatâ€™s good for one is not necessarily good for the other.
Suddenly, when the filming had stopped, Buffy announced that that would be all for today. Juan would show us to our rooms and dinner would be at eight on the dot. Neither Robbie nor I had planned on being out for the night, but a few urgent phone calls soon had it smoothed over with our partners.
Dinner was a feast and it was two very stuffed Cameramen that discussed the next days filming sequence. Basically, Buffy wanted to move to the barn, starting off with one of the stable hands and finishing with her prized Arabian Stallion.
We helped polish off a decanter of brandy before retiring to our rooms. All fantasies of getting into Buffy were soon dispelled with her parting shot. "Sleep well, tomorrow is going to be a long day. Good night gentlemen."
The morning was the complete opposite of yesterday. Sunlight streamed though the curtains and illuminated the room that I had been too tired to really appreciate last night. I realised that I had slept without break for eight hours straight. This was a first for some time. I felt great and ready for the coming day.