Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

"Please take off your clothes. You can hang them over on the screen or fold them and lay them on that chair over there—with Grant's."

Cath was standing there, in the center of the photography studio, feeling like a zombie and trying to shut her systems down even further.

Why had she agreed to do this? And, having decided to do this—to pay up her poker debt to Grant—why was she thinking of backpeddling. Was she really this fickle?

He was right. No one would know it was her. And he probably also was right that a wanton act like this was just what she needed to explode her inhibitions of being nude in any but the most intimate private situations. Maybe after this she'd go back to Annapolis and rape every good-looking midshipman she could find—in the nude, on Stribling Walk in the shadow of the Mexican Monument, at midday.

But all of that went out the window because Hunter Winslow was here, barefoot and dressed only in droopy, worn jeans and looking at her—no, capturing her attention—with those piercing, coal-black eyes of his. He was almost feral. Thin, but tightly muscled, the veins standing out on his arms because there was no fat on him.

And he wanted her to strip. And he was going to take her photograph—painted to match the swirling colored patterns on the padded lounge and flooring on the platform that was surrounded by camera tripods. There were even cameras overhead pointed down at the platform.

She assumed she would lie, nude, there while he painted her body to blend in with the set, and she'd have to resist shuddering at the touch of the intimidating, yet mesmerizing, mad artist.

And, worse, she had figured out what had made the photograph in the gallery so disturbing and sensual all at once. And Grant had confirmed that the photographs would need to be taken after sex.

Her stipulation had been that it would be Grant who was there to fuck her before the photographs were taken. She could not bear the thought of Hunter Winslow fucking her. And it wasn't because he repelled her. It was the opposite. It was because she could see the danger and evil in him and still was attracted to him. Ever since she had agreed to do this and Grant had set up the appointment in Winslow's New York studio, Cath had dreamed of lying under Hunter Winslow. But her great fear was that once she had coupled with him, she would want to do so again and again. She didn't want such a compulsion or complexity in her sex life.

She felt she must resist. Working her way out of prudishness was one thing. Coming under the power of a man like Hunter Winslow was something else altogether.

"Miss Tatum. I said you were to disrobe and leave your clothes over there."

"Yes, of course." She hoped her voice didn't sound as small and scared and breathy to him as it sounded to her.

Grant was already naked and was masturbating in front of a mirror at one side of the room, preparing himself for the first stage of what Cath was now thinking was to be an ordeal.

"Very nice," Winslow said as, nude, Cath came from behind the screen. He held out his hand and she placed one of hers in his. His eyes were slitted but boring into hers, drawing her both physically and emotionally toward the chaise lounge. She trembled at the touch of his hand on hers and moved, again like a zombie, to the couch.

After rising from his knees where he had been hunched over Cath's pelvis and bringing her to an orgasm with his tongue and teeth on her clit and his fingers inside her, Grant stood at the end of the chaise lounge, crouched between Cath's legs.

"No. On your back, I think. Have her ride you."

Cath had mostly had her eyes closed to this point. And when she had them open, she was avoiding looking wherever she sensed Winslow was in the room. She melted under the power of his gaze, and thus she didn't want to make eye contact. At the sound of his voice, though, she opened her eyes and involuntarily turned her face in his direction. She gasped when she saw that he, too, was nude now. He was strutting around holding a camera. He was almost Satyric in his nakedness, with a line of black, curly hair running from swirling around his nipples, down his sternum and belly, and to pelted thighs. His thighs were noticeably hairier than his torso. If he'd had horns and cloven feet, Cath would have likened him to her concept of the devil. She had no idea if he'd already started taking photographs. If so, it wasn't what she had agreed to. But that thought receded to the back of her mind as soon as she realized he was naked—and in a full, upcurved erection. He captured her eyes with his and there was a sensual, cruel smile on his face.

Cath knew then that Hunter Winslow was going to fuck her too. And, as his eyes bored into her, taking possession of her, she no longer cared. She felt a long sigh, ending in a whimper, welling up from her core and escaping through her clinched teeth. She was defeated without even having struggled.

Grant was laying on the small of his back at the bottom edge of the lounge, his feet flat on the floor and his legs spread. Cath perched astride him, facing him, skewered on his cock. She was moving, leveraging off the lounge top with her knees and calves planted on either side of his hips.

She shuddered in fear and anticipation—and of want—for what she knew was coming. A groan escaped her lips as she felt Hunter's hands palming her breasts from behind and knew that he was standing between Grant's legs.

"Tilt her," she heard Winslow instruct Grant in a low, hoarse voice, and she whimpered, knowing exactly what he was going to do, but not having the strength or resolve to try to prevent it. She cried out and ineffectively tried to pull from Grant's smothering embrace as she felt the head of Winslow's cock at her anal shaft and then felt him work his way inside, deep.

She stopped struggling as both men bottomed in her separate channels, and she began to whimper and moan as the two started to slow pump her in counter rhythm. Winslow was nibbling and sucking on the hollow of her neck as one of his hands went around her waist. His thumb was on her clit and two of his fingers were working their way inside her on either side of Grant's stroking cock. Grant's hands came around and palmed and spread Cath's buttocks cheeks to give Winslow even greater penetration. With a little cry, she felt the fireworks start and her pelvis involuntarily moving back and forth, taking one deep and withdrawing—only to be taking the other one deeper. Winslow longer; Grant thicker; both demanding their all.

Cath had come again and was utterly exhausted when Grant pulled out from underneath her, Winslow turned her on her back, thrust inside the channel Grant had vacated, and pumped her with an increasingly filling cock to a third explosion. All the time he was holding Cath's eyes in thrall by his, willing—successfully—her to want exactly what he was doing to her.

After he was done with her, Winslow pulled Cath fully up onto the couch, her body spread all a kilter on her back in full satiation and exhaustion—and began clicking off photo shots.

Her eyes closed and she drifted off into a totally spent sleep, only vaguely wondering when the painting of her body part would come in. For all she knew or cared, that had already happened. If not, was there to be another round of sex after the painting? Feeling the shame, but dismissing it, she found she hoped there was another round to come.