Carol and I sat in her kitchen apartment.

Our first sexual experience had not ended well. I did not control myself and came all over her back, hair, and ass way too soon. What followed was a well deserved verbal spanking, as she was upset both at my lack of control and having cum all over her back.

It was now early morning, about 1:00 a.m., and sufficient time had passed since my embarrassing misadventure, that I was fully ready to continue with what she and I had started a few hours before. I stood to take her hand and lead her back into the bedroom.

Carol asked me to sit back down as she had to tell me something. Something that she should have told me before our relationship had gone this far.

Her story, which follows, is not verbatim. Nor is it in great detail. Nor does it properly express the emotion and angst Carol expressed when telling me her secrets. The detail she provided that night, the nuances, asides, questions, commentary, looks, concerns, tears cannot be fully expressed in this format.

Carol was from southern California. She lived closer to the Nevada border than the ocean. Her mother was a realtor with a home cleaning business. Her father was an engineer; an actual rocket scientist. She had a younger sister and brother.

Her teenage years did not seem different from thousands of other young women. She played sports in high school, was a good student, participated in several school clubs and events, and was popular with her classmates. She learned early on that she was attractive. Boys, men, and even some of her teachers, would often stare at her. She had plenty of dates and her social schedule was often booked well in advance. Like many teenage girls, she learned about sex through late night, whispered discussions with girlfriends, or “on-the-job” experiences with several older male students.

She had always had an interest in becoming a nurse, and attended a college near the California coast where she would receive her undergraduate and graduate degrees in nursing.

Carol lost her virginity in the first month of her freshman year at college. It was after a weekend party, in the back seat of a car, with a senior who played for the football team. The experience, she recalled, was neither good nor bad. She was turned on, nervous, afraid, cramped and thankful when it was over. There was less pain than she had expected, and less pleasure as well.

The rest of her college career was spent attending to her studies and friends, partying, and learning the joys of sex: how to give a good blow job, the value of a good vibrator, and the art of masturbation.

Along the way, she had sex with more boys, experimented with girls, and with multiple girls, and had a single threesome with two younger boys she knew from the dormitory next to hers. All of these experiences were preceded by copious ingestion of alcohol.

In her junior year, in order to earn spending money, her mother helped her set up a home cleaning company and she began to clean the homes of faculty or staff. The little business grew through word of mouth. By the time she began her senior year she had four other students working for her.

In the fall of her senior year, just prior to the holidays, Carol was asked to clean the home of a female faculty member who was having her extended family to her home for a holiday dinner. Carol was to clean the first floor of the house and a portion of the basement. The family would clean the upstairs.

The faculty member’s husband was a professional photographer. A large part of the basement contained his dark room and equipment. She was instructed not to enter or clean the dark room or touch any of the photography equipment.

Carol cleaned the house for the holidays and then again once a week for about three weeks, before she met the woman’s husband. He was an average guy, maybe five-feet, ten-inches, of average build, not bad looking, and, about 30 years older than her, more or less. He was polite, friendly, and had a nice smile, and took the time to show her his dark room, equipment, and many of the photographs which he had published.

As the weeks went on, the husband offered to take a portrait picture of Carol in black and white. She agreed, and was both impressed and delighted with his work.

One day when Carol was cleaning the main floor of the house, she ran into another young lady who had just come from the basement and was leaving. Slightly embarrasses at being seen, the young lady told Carol that she was a model working for the husband. When the husband learned that Carol and the model had met, he apologized for not having mentioned to Carol that he sometimes used models in his work. The young lady was a student at the college, and she earned extra money by modeling in the nude. When Carol learned what the model was paid for posing nude, and was asked if she would be interested in modeling herself, she jumped at the opportunity.

She was nervous at the first photography session, which the husband limited to Carol’s upper body. Just before he began to take his pictures, the husband rubbed an ice cube over Carol’s nipples, which made them hard and perky. That little photographer’s trick sent chills up her spine and made her wet.

As if to prove to me that she was telling the truth, Carol went to her bedroom, retrieved a photo album, and showed me the black and white pictures that had been taken at that first session. The only thing different was Carol’s hair, which, at that time, was much shorter. Even in her late teens and early twenties, Carol had the look that had caught my attention right from the beginning: pretty and cute, but also hot and sensuous. I could see why the husband would want to capture the look on film.

“And why are you telling me all this?” I asked.

“You’ll understand when I’m done.”

Two photo sessions later, Carol was exposing her entire body. The husband had her pose in different, but certainly not unusual, poses. He called his work art photography because it was in black and white with shadows of different intensities crossing over Carol’s body in just the right places.

I was shown several of the art pictures as well.

The husband told Carol that she was a natural model with a photogenic face and body.

“But wouldn’t he say things like that just to encourage you to continue and maybe do more risqué photos?” I asked, beginning to sense where this was all headed.

“Maybe,” she answered, “but I felt comfortable and safe, I liked him, and it paid well.”

She paused for a few seconds, looked down at her coffee, and then continued her thought.

“It also made me feel good inside.”

The husband had some ideas for future photo sessions, and had two requests of Carol, should she wish to continue. First, before any future sessions he did not want her to wear any panties or bra on the day of the shoot, as they left lines and imprints on her body when removed. Second, he wanted Carol to consider shaving her vagina. The second request was stated without hesitation or embarrassment, and the husband used the anatomically correct reference to Carol’s pussy.

Carol quickly agreed to the first request.

Shaving her pussy was something new to her, and she had to give it some thought. While Carol knew that women shaved or at least trimmed their pussy, she had never done either before. Nor had she, herself, ever seen a shaved pussy. A girlfriend, who was more familiar with the concept, told her to take her time and do it while soaking in a bath tub.

Looking in the mirror after she had completed the task, she was taken by how her pussy looked. It was different, exposed and bare. She liked it, wondered what the husband would think, and fantasized about him looking at it. That fantasy, and her fingers, brought her several intense orgasms over the next several days.

At the following session, her little fantasy came true. She removed her robe, sat on a chair, slowly spread her legs wide while the husband was setting up his equipment, and waited and watched for his reaction.

When the husband finally looked up and saw Carol in the chair with her legs spread, he stared at her glistening, shaved pussy with fire and lust in his eyes. A wave of tingling and pleasure spread quickly through her body as she held tightly to the arms of the chair. Her pussy juices began to flow and run down over her ass. The whole experience almost made her cum. If the husband had touched her right then and there, even a little, she definitely would have cum.

Over the next few weeks, the husband became bolder, eschewing the ice cube in favor of tweaking Carol’s nipples with his fingers or squeezing her breasts with his hand. Carol enjoyed both. It gave her goose bumps, made her feel good all over and made her pussy wet.

The husband was not the first man to touch her in this way, although he was certainly the oldest.

Carol sensed that the husband appreciated that she would let him touch her in such a private and pleasurable way. It was like a gift she was giving him and he was honored to accept the gift. She had never felt that any of the younger boys she had been with had been grateful for or appreciated what she had given to them. To those boys, she was a trophy; something to conquer; a means of self gratification; something and someone about whom they would tell their friends. To the husband, she was someone to be appreciated, idolized and treated with respect.

While it was very early in the relationship, and Carol did not realize it at the time, she was beginning to sense and understand the sexual power and control she would have over the husband, and over men in general. She was beautiful, had a great body, and was beginning to learn how to use her sexuality to have an effect.

A simple moan or look on her part would give the husband greater confidence in what he was doing and how he would touch her; she could spur him on and make him more aggressive. A different sound or look from her could make him back away or stop altogether.

She found herself playing with the husband’s sexual emotions and frustrations; teasing him; giving him positive feedback when he was particularly nice, complimentary, or doing something that she liked and made her feel good; shutting him off if she was not happy, or just because she wanted to.

She loved the look on his face, and how he would stare when she touched herself, held her breast so he could fondle her nipple, or made sounds of pleasure. She liked how she could change his temperament, look, or demeanor just by spreading or closing her legs or encouraging him to do more, or denying him any contact.

Carol also began to understand in a very real way, that sexual play, toying with the husband’s needs and desires, was a two way street. The husband was not some kid newly learning his way around a woman’s body and emotions. He was well aware that posing nude for him turned Carol on and gave her sexual pleasure. He knew that touching her in just the right place and in just the right way made her feel good and want more.

The husband would have Carol sit in a chair and spread her legs so he could take close up pictures of her pussy. When doing so, he often used the excuse, real or not, that she was dripping her juices onto the chair, and would need to run a small hand towel over her wet, flowering lips.

When the intent of the photograph was to highlight her wet pussy and leaking juices, he would tell her that he needed to run his finger just inside her swollen lips to let more juices flow and spread her wetness over her pussy.

She knew that these were just excuses, made just so the husband could touch her slit. Yet, she did nothing to stop him. She liked and enjoyed the playing; the way it made her feel.

How he wiped the soft towel over her pussy lips or slid his finger into her wet tunnel affected her body, mind and soul. He could make her want more; do more; or ask for more. With enough time, he could make her beg for more. Or, he could frustrate the hell out of her. If she wanted to play with his sexual desires, fantasies and needs, he knew how to play with hers.

The sessions increasingly became a sexual game. The husband would touch her breasts, play with her nipples, tickle her pussy lips with his fingers, tease her, and get her sexually aroused, turned on and wanting more. She liked showing off her body, the way the husband looked at her, and that she made his cock hard. She enjoyed teasing him and getting him all hot and bothered just by the sounds she made, the way she moved or posed, or how she looked at him.

After each session, she would hurry back to her room and masturbate. Each time, she had the most intense orgasms, and often multiple orgasms. For two or three days after each photo session, Carol would masturbate thinking about what the husband and she had done at the last session and wondering if he was masturbating to thoughts of her. In the days before the next session, she would masturbate while fantasizing about what the two of them might do next.

Again, there were pictures to back up her story. Those pictures, however, were kept in a closed, locked pocket in the back of the album.

The husband got bolder. Carol got more turned on, wanting and needy. She fantasized about what it would be like to fuck him. Or what she would do if he brushed up against her with the bulge in his pants, how she might touch his bulging cock with her fingers or take it out of its confinement play with it.

In short order, her fantasizing and needs, and his boldness and desires, led to increased sexual play. The sexual tension and desires led to nipple play, finger fucking, hand jobs and blow jobs. Ultimately, it all led to fucking and more fucking and more fucking. Photography and posing were replaced by once a week, passionate sex.

It was with the husband, in the basement dark room, where Carol experienced many sexual firsts. The husband gave Carol her first facial, her first experience with teasing and orgasm denial, her first real need to beg for more, and her first anal experience, inserting both fingers and his manhood in her asshole. He perfected her cock sucking, and taught her how to suck his five or six inches in a variety of positions and on different pieces of equipment. And, since there was no bed in the basement, Carol learned what two people can do on a chair, or what the husband could do to her while she was bent over a table or piece of equipment.

Carol wanted me to know that she did not shy away from any of this. A door had been opened and a new world of sex, pleasure and fantasy had been introduced to her. She could not wait to see the husband each week. She could not wait for the pleasure and orgasms he would give her and that she would give him. And she found herself pleasuring herself three or more times a day, while she waited for her next adventure with the husband.

Carefully, she pulled three more pictures from the locked pocket in the back of the album. One was of the husband’s cum on her forehead, nose and chin; the second was his cock deep in her ass; and the third, and a strange picture indeed, was of Carol on all fours, somewhat sideways to the camera, with a rose and its thorny stem held in her mouth, and her breasts dangling down.

Carol graduated from college with honors, and enrolled in the college’s graduate school, seeking a master’s degree in nursing. The graduate degree program had not been planned. To Carol, it was a last minute thought that conveniently provided a means to be near the man who was thirty years her senior.

For most of the fall of her graduate year, things continued as before. Each time she went to the house, she would get wet with the anticipation of the sexual adventure that would await her. Each time the husband pleasured her and she him, sometimes two or three times over the course of an afternoon.

In mid November, Carol showed up at the house to clean and do whatever the husband had in mind for the afternoon. This time, however, there was a for sale sign on the front lawn; her key did not work in the lock of the front door; and, when she looked into a first floor window, the house was empty. Carol felt panic set in.

She checked to make sure that she was at the right house. She went to a neighbor’s house and asked if they knew what had happened to the woman and her husband

The neighbor understood that a prestigious faculty position had opened at a University in another state, the position had been offered to the woman, and that the woman and her husband had moved out a few days before. The neighbor wasn’t sure what University or what state it was in.

Carols first thought, however, was that the wife had discovered what she and the husband had been doing. Then she thought about all of the pictures that the husband had taken of her naked body. She had copies of most of them, or so she believed. But what of the pictures and the negatives the husband may have kept?

Those thoughts and concerns were soon dwarfed by Carol’s anger at the husband for abandoning her, and her emotional panic over the sudden loss of the husband and the weekly sex she was experiencing with him.

And what of the other model? Did she know that the husband had left? Were there others? Was he fucking other women?

By now, I was into my third cup of coffee, and had made us each a sandwich.

“What’s this all about?” I asked again. “Why do I need to know all of this?”

“Because I want you to know.”

“You want me to know your sexual history? That you’ve been with other guys?”

“That’s not the point. You’ll understand when I’m done.”

“There’s more?”