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Part 1: A Glazed Donut

I stood at the glass door to the apartments above the cigar shop. Sylvia’s Studio it read on the door. I swear I felt face-to-face with destiny. How right I was.

The staircase was a long climb, enough to make me winded when I reached the waiting room. No receptionist, just a couple of white leather couches, a couple of plants, and a big window. A clock on the wall told me I was right on time: 9 pm, the strangest time for an interview I had ever known, but You know these artsy types, I thought. A white noise machine drowned out anything going on behind the big door in the middle of the room. On the walls were photos of beautiful young men and women. I looked at them and wondered what the fuck Jack was thinking sending me here. I wasn’t ugly, but I wasn’t pretty.

The door opened and my jaw hung open.

“You must be Leonard.”

“Uh…yeah. Call me Len,” I replied standing and offering a handshake trying desperately to maintain eye contact. She kindly obliged.

“Hello, Len,” she smiled warmly. To my surprise, she sat down in the waiting area. She crossed her legs, which told me she intended to be there awhile. I sat too. I caught her eyeing me up and down as I did.

“I’m Sylvia Montague like it says on the door.”

She looked mature, maybe in her mid-forties, but there were no lines on her perfect, porcelain-white complexion nor a single gray hair in her mane. Her thick, long curls of black hair rested on her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face. A fan of pin-up glam, she wore ruby lipstick, black eyeliner, and reddish-brown eyeshadow around her piercing, bright blue eyes. She wore a short-sleeved, collared, black, button-down shirt. I’d have felt more self-conscious staring at her massive breasts if she didn’t have three buttons undone. Charcoal leggings stretched over her thick thighs and hips. She was like a sexy, big-titty, goth girl, but all grown up and girl-bossing.

“So,” she asked, “How do you know Jack?”

“We were coworkers a few months before the construction company went under. We became workout buddies at the gym. I told him I needed rent money fast, and he told me to email you. I have to say, I have no idea why. I never thought of myself as much of a model, especially now, looking at these faces on the wall.”

Sylvia smirked. “Never mind them. They’re just decoration. How old are you, Len?”

“Twenty-six.”

She nodded, “Great age. Boys don’t become men until at least twenty-five.”

She looked me over again, as if for the first time.

“Okay, Len, let’s talk. You may be perfect for the job I have in mind, and I know what I’m doing,” she said casually. “The question is what kind of guy are you?”

I grinned. “Okay…What do you want to know?”

“Well, what is your day job?”

“I’m, uh, between jobs at the moment, but I worked with Jack at a construction company before that. I’m a carpenter.”

“Ah,” she said in acknowledgment. “Is carpentry a passion of yours?”

I struggled to find words, but couldn’t.

She raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps it was just a means to a paycheck for a young man who was not a fan of school?”

I laughed, impressed at her insight. I pointed at her and sighed, “Yup.”

She smiled and nodded.

“At least I’m honest,” I shrugged. She smiled.

“You a religious man?” she asked somewhat delicately.

I hesitated, as it was hard to admit. You never knew how someone would take it.

“No.”

She grinned widely. “Good.”

I gave voice to my suspicion.

“Sylvia, is this for porn?”

She leaned back on the couch. Her legs remained crossed but she relaxed her shoulders and rested her arms, jutting her chest out even more. I wish my dad had the staying power of the fourth button on her shirt. I couldn’t tell if she was just relaxing or trying to keep me there with that display.

“What if it was for porn?”

That stunned me. What if, Len?

“Uh, w-well,” I stuttered, “I mean, what’s it pay?”

“Ha! Good boy,” she smirked.

God, was I that desperate? Yeah, I guess I was.

“What kind of porn are we talking about here?” I added.

She bursa escort uncrossed her legs, hoisting herself onto her flat-heeled shoes. She was close to my height, and I’m six-one. She nodded towards the door, saying, “Let me show you.”

The room made me stumble in shock as I entered. The walls were covered in photographic prints on canvas.

“As you can see, Len, we serve a niche market.”

Dicks. Everywhere: dicks and balls. Big ones, average ones, even little ones. Cut and uncut, veiny and smooth, straight and curved, hard and soft, ugly and handsome, and every color of the rainbow. Never in my heterosexual life had I expected to be confronted by so many dicks.

“Holy shit,” I muttered.

“I collect images of male sex organs, then I sell them to clients with a fetish for a certain type of cock. As you can see, we serve a cavalcade of tastes, but the big beauties are always the most in demand. Like this one.”

She pointed at a large canvas on the wall behind her. It was a shot of a guy’s entire hairless torso, twisted to stretch his impressive musculature. He was built like a Greek statue but was definitely not hung like one. His massive, erect, pink dick jutted out of the torso, curving slightly upwards over a tight nutsack hugging a large pair of balls snugly to the base of his cock. I wasn’t attracted to men, but artistically, it was actually quite beautiful. The lighting and shadowing were particularly well done. Sylvia was a pro.

I was turned on standing in the middle of Sylvia’s studio surrounded by nude cocks, which disturbed my self-image. My dick began to engorge. I don’t know what it was. Maybe there was something sexy about being in a room full of objectified penises knowing mine may be next. Maybe I was finally ready to start showing it off.

She said, “That delicious dick is Jack’s.”

Jack and I were always chatting in the locker room after working out, and yes, I noticed he had a long dick, but it was nothing like the plump, turgid member captured in the artwork. I guess he noticed mine too, thus my invite.

“So, it’s nude photography?” I asked.

“Mostly,” she answered. “Please, have a seat.”

There was a desk in the corner where she sat with one soft, leather chair before it. I sat and she spoke.

“I’m something of a connoisseur,” she said. “So are my clients. They tell me what they like, I supply it. They pay me very well for this privilege. Very, very well. So well, I can live very comfortably and still pay my models handsomely. It’s a hundred dollars, in cash, per hour, which is a lot more than the average male model makes.”

She wasn’t lying. I was hoping for fifty.

I looked around and realized something I blurted out, “No faces.”

“No faces means the focus is on the sex, not the person,” she replied. “It’s one of the keys to my success. It helps me get the best models, guys who wouldn’t otherwise dare be nude on film in the age of the internet.”

“I’m one of those guys,” I said.

“Well, now you know you have nothing to fear posing nude for me. That’s the other thing. When a guy knows he won’t be recognized, he can relax. Makes for better erections and posing.”

This was becoming more appealing by the moment. The money, the anonymity, it was all I could’ve hoped for. With the fear subsiding, my mind focused on the money.

“So, how does it all work? How do I get paid?”

She chuckled at my greed, but I was too desperate to be embarrassed.

“The canvas work, the artsy stuff, is up to me. I go with my muses and make art. I show it at private galleries, and rich people buy them for their sex dungeons and boudoirs. That’s a hundred an hour like I said. The actual porn pays a lot more, but only if you’re interested.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback. Oddly, it never occurred to me that she might have more than one method for making money. “What kind of porn?”

She slid a large album in front of me, saying, “See for yourself.”

I opened the book and my eyes feasted on all kinds of sex, kinks, and perversions. One photograph was of a pretty dominatrix hollering at a bursa escort bayan man covered in tight latex with only his little pecker and big balls hanging out. There were a lot of close-up shots of dicks drooling cum, ejaculating, sandwiched between big tits, and even some erotic costume play. As I turned the pages, the depictions became more explicit. Now there were close-ups of cocks stretching tight pussies or engulfed in wet mouths. This was not your average pornographic material though; it truly was beautiful. Sylvia was a gifted artist, it’s just that her muse hung between a man’s legs.

I continued, finding depictions of different sexual positions, interracial sex, sex with overweight women and waifs alike, gay men sucking each other’s massive erections—posed artfully and shot from above like some geometric wonder—the young with the old. The last set was goth as fuck. A young woman with engorged breasts was breastfeeding a man blood from her nipples while stroking his huge, hard cock. The woman was an exotic beauty. The man was Jack. I recognized him, even from behind. Despite what they were doing, the dribbles of blood on his chin, her repose, and the billowing, black linens wrapped around them made it look like a Renaissance painting by Marilyn Manson.

Like I said, she was a gifted artist. I began to realize why, in a world saturated with cheap, amateur porn, all about incest and affairs these days, her artsy take on sex could command high prices.

“Oh hello, Jack,” I snickered upon recognizing him.

She giggled. “Yes, he is a favorite muse of mine. I love his body, but he is moving on and needs replacing.”

“Wait, do you fuck your models?” I asked. The question came straight from my balls.

She smiled with a hint of wickedness. “Only if they are enthused to do so.”

My cock was rock hard. I was so nervous that I barely registered just how attracted to this MILF I was. The thought of her riding my cock, sucking my cock, me burying my face in those huge, milky white tits.

Sitting back in her chair, she purred, “I imagine all of that porn may have stiffened your cock, so this would be the perfect time to see why Jack referred you.”

My nerves didn’t soften my manhood. I slowly stood up. I undid my belt. I unzipped my fly, reached in—

“Hey, don’t just whip it out,” she laughed. If you’re going to be a nude model, I have to see everything. Strip.”

I took a deep breath and unbuttoned my shirt, draping it on the chair. I slid out of my loafers and slowly slid down my trousers and boxers in one movement. When I stood back tall, Sylvia’s eyes widened.

“Oh…,” she gasped, “Oh…ohhhhhhhh!”

Sylvia was only the second woman to see it. The first was my high school girlfriend Julia. She was thrilled at my size, but we were kids with no idea what we were doing. Long story short, I had to drive her to the hospital. It was nightmarish and put me off dating while I was in trade school.

“Fuck. Fuuuuuck. It’s inhuman! Sorry, I mean, it’s superhuman. It’s as thick as a can of soda,” she remarked, “and longer than two stacked together.”

She took a tailor’s tape measure and a magnifying glass from her desk drawer and came over to me. I jolted with surprise, which gave her pause.

“Oh. Len, I’m sorry. I got carried away there,” she chuckled. “May I take your measurements?”

“Okay.”

“And may I…um, examine you down there a little?” she asked wiggling the magnifying glass, “I need to be sure close-ups will look good and there are no surprises before we sign the contract.”

“S-Sure.”

I was absolutely into it while terrified I’d cum in her face when she got close.

She knelt in front of my nakedness and delicately set the tape measure at the base of my cock, slowly sliding it to the tip.

“Goddamn,” she whispered slowly. “Nearly fourteen fucking inches long. That’s officially the biggest I’ve ever known of. Now, for the girth.”

She wrapped the tape measure just behind my glans and chirped, “What a beautiful cockhead.” She wrapped it around the base of my cock, then the middle.

“Len, escort bayan you are seven-point-eight inches in circumference. That’s bigger than most men’s wrists.”

“Wow,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

“No, Len, five inches of girth would be wow, this is holy shit. Well, let’s take a closer look at him.”

She clicked the light on her magnifying glass and zeroed in on the head. She gripped my dick and lifted it slightly; her fingers couldn’t wrap around it. It was as if she was holding one of those long cans of iced tea. Her warm hand felt good, and I had to fight the visions of her stroking me to orgasm.

I nearly had myself under control when she began to rub her fingertips in little circles on it, caressing it gently, sending lightning bolts of pleasure to my brain.

“You keep it clean,” she said approvingly. “The head is so plump and the deep red color will look great on film. I see you have pearly papules under the head. I love those. They feel great if you let them tickle your lips.”

My cock was throbbing and a thick pearl of semen emerged from the glans.

She ran her forefinger up and down the shaft, saying, “I like a good dorsal vein. A cock just doesn’t look like a cock without one.”

“Sylvia, sorry. I’m leaking,” I said sheepishly.

Without missing a beat she ran her finger over the tip, scooping up the drooling pearl and sucking it off her finger. I was stunned. She just continued speaking.

“It’s a hairy cock. We’ll have to do something about that. It just doesn’t look good on film. I have someone for that. You’ll lose the cock and ball hair, but just trim the pubic hair short. No more smooth boys; I need a manly man. Oh my, and look at those big, manly balls!”

She gathered my scrotum with her left hand, feeling my testicles between her thumb and fingers. Her right hand was still gently squeezing and caressing the shaft. “Your balls are the size of lemons! Maybe bigger! Are they hyperspermatic? Do you ever get big mood swings?” As she spoke, her right thumb slipped under my glans, massaging my frenulum with those agonizingly slow, little circles.

My mind was awash in pleasure at the beautiful, mature woman’s curves, her powdered spice smell, and her tender, silky touch. Then, my fear was realized. I felt the tightness of a coming orgasm rumble too fast and too late to warn her. My cock spasmed as stream after stream of hot, sticky, white semen spurted all over Sylvia’s face and breasts.

I was horrified like I had shit the floor in front of the Pope.

“Fuck! Oh fuck, I’m sorry!”

She knelt there in stunned silence, then burst into hysterical laughter.

“Well, I guess that’s my answer.”

“I’m so sorry,” I repeated.

“Get my camera.”

I saw it resting on a small table next to white sheets and lights set up in the corner of the room. I skipped over to it, drips of cum dripping off my bouncing cock, only just beginning to soften.

“Take my picture, now!” she commanded on her knees, raising her arms as if baptized in some ancient religious ceremony. “Hold down the shutter and get as many as you can.”

I did.

She smiled widely and joked, “How do I look?”

I snickered. “Like a glazed donut.”

“Ha!” she exclaimed.

There was a huge, spa bathroom where I found a towel and handed it to her.

“You want the job, Len?”

“After that, you’re offering me a job?”

She was still smiling holding the towel in her left hand, and with her right, she painted my thick glaze away from her cheeks and chin to her mouth, licking it up and giggling with delight as a glob dropped into her ample cleavage.

“I love cum,” she sighed joyfully. “This is my thing, Len, my fetish, and thanks to your extraordinary body I just got the biggest dose I’ve ever experienced. It feels like more than ten men’s worth. You are amazing.”

She looked at me dreamily and continued, “You’re my muse, Len. I want to photograph you, I want to sculpt you, I want to paint you… Give yourself to me,” she begged firmly. “Please.”

I was in love. She was so unique, so beautiful, and so fucking sexy. It may have been accidental, but she gave me a handjob, she was wearing my spunk like musky warpaint. I wanted more. I would have done anything for her. I sighed deeply, wondering if it was a mistake, but my gut took over.

“When can I start?”

Continued in Part 2 where Len has an unforgettable spa day.

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