My wife insisted we attend this photography event, you know, to repay favors to some big-shot artist. The studio was in chaos—their male nude model caught the flu last minute. Before I knew it, she volunteered me as replacement .
That hourglass-shaped vixen kept grinding against me during poses. “What if she sees us?” Her forked tongue flickered like a damn serpent . Every time my wife checked lighting ratios, this succubus dragged me into storage closets. By sundown, I’d blown my load like ten times in her—all while pretending to adjust bloody tripods!