The Photoshoot


This is purely fictional and intended for an adult audience of legal age only. If stories of body modifications offend you, be kind to yourself and find a genre that suits you better.

If, on the other hand, you enjoy long and detailed descriptions of body modification, piercings, and tattoos in a consensual dom/sub universe, please enjoy. I welcome feedback and suggestions on where this story could go, but please be respectful when commenting — and bear in mind that English is not my first language.

The photoshoot

I am preparing for my photo shoot as a fetish model. One day I might tell my story of how I used to have a high profiled career in a large company, but that is not for now. All you need to know is that as my master’s loving wife, it is my duty to obey orders. Which meant that when he one day told me that he had started selling racy pictures of me online — snaps that I thought were just for us, and that there was a niche market which could mean a new career for me, I knew that I had little choice but to comply. Especially as he had sent a few anonymously to my boss, who made me persona non grata from one day to the other. Again: That is a tale for another time.

We are in our mid-forties and enjoy a comfortable life. He runs a successful production company, and because of the extremity of the pics and videos we make, there is a big online fan base that are willing to pay generously for access to the content we produce.

I am so lucky to have found a partner that is as much into body modifications as I am. My life is now about enhancing, modifying, and changing my appearance in order to make myself the ultimate fetish model. For more vanilla types this might be disturbing, but since I was young, I have been drawn to this universe, and I have loved every bit of the process. Almost, that is. It has undoubtedly been a journey, accepting my new life, over which I now have only little control.

I start preparing my nipples with a little sweet almond oil which makes it easier to slide the big rings into place. Oh, how my nipples have changed over the years. Soon after I started dating my master to be, he let me in on his penchant for pierced nipples, and that if we were to be together, I would have to be willing to have them ringed. Of course, I agreed. My tits are a natural D-cup, but my nipples were sadly unimpressive.

First, I was pierced with small 12-gauge rings, but after a few months, we moved to a slightly thicker gauge — and from then, we were hell bent on stretching them as fast as possible. I now proudly wear 0-gauge nipple rings, and even though I alternate between heavy metal rings and flesh tunnels, the sheer bulk makes them impossible to hide even with a padded bra. My master loves the fact that my piercings are blatantly obvious to the world when we are out. I love them too, but some days it is tough knowing that when I go outside, everybody I meet will be staring at me. At first, I was apprehensive about showing off my fetish, and since I still had my job in the beginning of my piercing journey, I did not want to show my colleagues and boss that I was working hard on gauging up. But since my new career started, I feel more at ease.

It is arduous work wearing the heavy rings. They pull at the delicate skin in such a way that my nipples no longer stick out. Instead, the weight of the rings makes them gravitate downwards, and they are slowly getting longer. We are both turned on by the sight of my long, droopy nipples that border on teats. I no longer have small, perky nipples, and they are forever ruined, but in a strange way it is extremely erotic. Add to the picture that I have collagen filler injected once every six months to make them bigger and puffier. The end goal is to have teats. Big, fat, floppy teats, made for stretching and the perfect background for huge, heavy adornments. My pierced holes are now so big that even if I removed the rings, they would never close. They would remain stretched, ruined, and the gaping holes would never heal nicely, so I might as well embrace them.

The fact that my master also had my nipples tattooed with Ataşehir Escort a black mandala design has made any return to normality a lucid dream.

When he wanted me to have them marked with tattoos, I had been hoping for a small design and pleaded with him to choose something delicate, although I knew that I had would have no say. A fact that was made clear to me at the tattoo parlour, where I was blindfolded before tied to the chair. He sat by my side and whispered to me:

“Darling, you must trust that as your master, I know what is best for you. You know that the design of your body is up to me. I am using your body as a canvas for my cravings, and you are going to love it, no matter how humiliating it might seem at first.”

After that, the tattoo artist went to draw the initial design. Blindfolded, I was terrified about what the result would look like. I could only feel that the areola would no longer be small as before. From what I could sense, they would be a good deal bigger. How right I was. After what seemed like an eternity in constant, numbing pain, the artist finished, and I was sat upright and given a mirror to see the results.

I gasped, tears welling up. The ‘mandala’ design was not a traditional pattern made up of geometrical forms. No. My mandala was a pattern all right, but it was made up of small, erect cocks that all pointed out from the center of the nipple like sunrays. A cock mandala made only more obscene by the thick surgical steel rings dragging my nipples down. Each cock was about 4 cm long with intricate details of cum flowing freely. My tits were transformed into a cock and cum show — a small sign of what my life would become later.

My tears turned into a quiet sobbing, knowing that this was one more step away from a normal, suburban life into something dark and unknown. I had fantasized about this, even hoped for it, but every step was so hard to come to terms with.

My master and the tattoo artist were chatting as if I was not there. “She’ll bring in a good deal of money with those tits — pics, films, parties — everybody will be thinking how she agreed to having this done,” the tattooist said. To which my master replied:

“Oh, but she hasn’t agreed.” As her Master, I get to decide everything. Of course, I must take care of her, and I love her, but a part of loving her is accepting that she craves being shared with the world. I admit that I do revel in her humiliation and her fear that her family will find out.”

And with that, we went home, and after a few weeks, my piercings had healed enough to make it to the photo shoot.

The photo lamps warm up the studio fast, which is good. There is nothing like a cold location to make my nipples contract into tight buds. The warmth makes everything loose and supple, which is the look we are aiming for today. I am laced into a black, heavily boned corset with only the slightest of cups. My tits are massively on display, pushed up and out, nipple skin folding under the weight of the rings, the tattooed cocks pointing hornily out in every direction.

Since we are doing a closeup photo and video session of my tits, I chose the engraved rings. The inscription is quite subtle, but the words will be visible today. The rings were a gift from my master when we reached the 0-gauge goal. “I want everybody to know what you are about to become,” he said, as I was unwrapping the small box.

Inside were a pair of thick, shiny ball closure rings with an inscription on each. On the first, I read ‘Ringed Slut’ on the second ‘Tattooed Whore.’ “Thank you, Master,” I whispered, albeit the shame of wearing them was heavier that the rings themselves.

“You’re welcome, my lovely,” he answered. “That will get the revenue up when we post the work online. Your fans love that you are so willing to degrade yourself.”

And it was true. My fans loved it and went wild in the comment section.

Today, I willingly reached for them and worked them into place. The skin around the rings was taught, but that was about to get worse. I looked at a small tray on the dressing table, where a collection Anadolu Yakası Escort of metal weights lay. My pussy tightened and started juicing. Today was going to be a painful session!

I took the tray and went out into the studio and greeted the photographer.

“Your husband has sent the outline for today, and it’s going to be fairly hardcore.”

I simply pointed at the tray with the weights. He went on:

“Yeah, we are of course going to be turning those nips into real teats, which will include a great deal of weight training, but your husband also wants your tits decorated with cum. So, think of it as a tit-weight-cum-bukkake-session. Oh, and by the way: Your master says no lunch for you today — you’re on a cum diet. So, go ahead and milk those cocks, sweetie.”

My pussy was dripping by now. How thoughtful my master was! Other women took vitamin supplements, I got mine through the amounts of cum, I had learned to enjoy and yearn for. Perks of the job, so to speak.

The first part was a regular closeup. Me playing with my nipples, sliding the rings around, pulling on them gently. I dabbed on a little more body oil to enhance the black ink of the cock mandala, making them stand out even more against my fair skin.

I moved on to the weights. I started by slowly hanging one onto each ring. It was important for the audience to be able to enjoy how the skin gradually stretched and how long my nipples could get.

When I let go of the weights, I couldn’t help but gasp. No matter how much I enjoyed these sessions, it didn’t take away the pain. As always, I remembered that the first weights were the hardest to endure.

Shortly after, I added another set of weights, and yet another. And another. By now, I was down on all fours, tits facing the camera, rocking gently from side to side to make the weights sway. It was the most erotic sight: Each tit had transformed into a long, pointed breast, the cock tattoos splayed and stretched into different lengths. The ropes of tattooed cum spurted in different directions whilst the rings and weights forced my fleshy globes into oblong shapes. I was groaning by now, the pain almost unbearable, but I knew that I had to go on. This was my life, my purpose: A slut with a wet cunt and udders that were modified beyond any normal beauty standards to fit those of a true fetish slut. The skin was so tight, my big, fat teat-like nipples pulled down so hard by the weights, hurting so much, and turning me on like nothing else.

We went on like this for an hour, and I was exhausted under the heat of the lamps, and the pulling on my teats. I was thirsty — but I knew the rules: My only intake would be cum.

“Bring on the cocks!” I groaned, desperate to feed on their man juice.

This was the sign everybody was waiting for. The photographer motioned towards the back of room from where twenty men appeared. They were naked, each with a bold number drawn on their dominant hand. These men would be anonymous, their number being the only reference. I usually worked with the same group of men in order to stay safe, but I did not know their names. However, I had in-depth-knowledge of their cum. Number 10 produced the thickest, creamiest ropes of cum. Number 8 was a massive spurter. Number 3 had thin, but copious amounts that he loved smearing all over me.

No longer on all fours, I was kneeling in front of the first two cocks in front of the camera, thirsty but so turned on, that I needed to cum. My greedy hands were kneading the massive poles of flesh, my mouth ready to embrace the first drops of pre-cum. My tongue eagerly swirled around the giant bulbous head, coaxing, teasing, and sucking the precious salty fluid from his well-hung shaft.

Another cock made its way towards my mouth. What his member lacked in length, it made up for in girth. After having tongued and sucked the head, he wanted to make headway into my mouth. Being the trained cocksucker I am, I relaxed my jaw, opened wide and made as much space for the invading monster as possible. Despite that, I could not help gagging, my red lipsticked lips Kartal Escort stretched into an enormous O, man meat filling my poor, abused mouth.

Little after little, his cock made headway until my nose touched his stomach. Mission completed: The meaty pole of hard, erect, precum-dripping cock finally lodged where it should be: In my slutty mouth. I could hardly breath, but focused on looking up at him while the photographer moved around us trying to get the best angle and paying no attention to the gagging sounds that emerged from me.

“That’s perfect — the subscribers are going to be creaming their pants when they see this,” he said and zoomed in on my face.

My jaw was aching, tears streaming down my face, snot running from my nose — in short, I was a mess. A cock filled mess who still hadn’t been given any jizz. I tried to pull away, but the meaty pole was so huge that I would have to use sheer force to accomplish that.

Just as I thought I would faint, he pulled out. I gasped for air, spit and saliva running from me onto my udders. The photographer captured everything, knowing that my struggle to accomplish the single task of welcoming a cock on the large side would make a great comment track online. Men and women would love humiliating me, and my husband would happily read the reviews for me as he had done so many times before.

“Lazy cunt,” “Should have trained the whore better,” “Tell her to practice more — I want to see her swallow more cocks… the words were endless. As was the praise.

“Ok, guys, let’s wrap this up,” the photographer shouted.

“We’ll start with a single pearl necklace and after that, we’ll glaze the slut’s udders — get at it!”

A chair appeared, and I sat down, my stretched, fat nipples and sore tits at the right height to receive the cum bath.

Cock number 10 was ready to shoot. With a roar he directed his huge, dark pole towards the upper part of my chest near my neck. Rope after rope spurted aggressively from the small opening, and he adeptly moved his massive cock along my neck creating a thick, dense cream coloured pearl necklace. Stunning.

I sat motionless, waiting for the second part. Slowly, the pearlescent semen started sliding down, leaving a glistening, sticky trail that the bright photo lamps highlighted beautifully.

From both sides, the men got ready. From now on, my tattoos and piercings were the goal. Load after load landed on me. The tattoos were partially covered by the milky mixture, my ringed teats and the weights were dripping with spunk. I was on fire; my cunt was burning for attention.

“I need to cum! Fuck, I need to come!” I shouted.

One of the men parted my legs and started licking my throbbing clit. I was on the verge of exploding with desire, but something was missing. The taste of salty spunk. My fingers slid over my sore tits and scooped up a big glob. Greedily, I swallowed the heavenly mixture. I scooped up more, this time with my hand. Some of the men came to my aid: They scraped of the sticky, pungent mixture and fed it to me while I was having my cunt licked by a willing donor.

This was the ultimate sight: Sperm decorated tits covered in a thick layer of man cream whilst I was getting cleaned up and fed. The camera was hard at work, and I was horny beyond description. This was my life. This was what I was made for. It was worth every painful stretching session, every tattoo, piercing and what my imaginative Master ever would choose to adorn me with. I loved showing off to my audience, and loved showing them my transformation. What would be next? Pussy rings? Head shave? Extreme corseting? I did not know, and in the present moment, I did not care.

I glanced down at my sticky body, now almost cum-free, and exploded in a huge orgasm so powerful that I almost passed out.

“That was amazing, my sweet slut.”

My master was here, scooped me up in his arms and carried me to a room next door. Here, he helped me out of the corset, took the weights of the rings, and admired the new length of my nipples. I was bathed, put in a soft robe, and we lay together for a long time. It was perfect.

Tomorrow I would relive everything when we edited the film, choosing pictures and short shots, writing copy. But that was for tomorrow.

“I love you, my darling angel,” he murmured into my hair.

I was happy. And ready to do anything for him.

Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir