Chapter 20
Lights, Camera, and Plenty of Action
CAL
Nat is a bloody rockstar. She’s pulled out of the bag all sorts of experts who are willing to lend their services for free.
Max may have scoffed at my environmental campaign, but it’s definitely drawn the fashion crowds.
Although, I suppose Gossamer has made such a huge name for itself as a sustainable fashion brand that it makes sense the people Nat’s team collaborates with are eco-conscious.
In any case, with her and Gen’s combined—and scarily efficient—help, I’ve pulled together the shoot schedule with relative ease. I’m pretty sure everyone in the calendar—particularly Adam and Max—should be far busier than they seem to be, but they’ve all cleared their diaries for this.
I suppose sexy posing with your loved one, or ones, beats HR sit-downs and forecasting meetings or whatever the fuck else they do all day.
Aside from the off-location shoots in Adam’s gym and Max’s office, we’re hoping to get everything wrapped today and tomorrow.
Tobias Graf, fashion photographer extraordinaire, is here with his team and, unfortunately, his dog, Ludo, a pretty little pug whose nasal passage is so comprised that you can hear him coming long before you see him, and whose plump, intact scrotum is a source of great intrigue and, it appears, arousal to Norm.
What could possibly go wrong?
* * *
ADAM
Cal’s artistic vision for me taking my youthful-looking wife over an old-school wooden desk while she carries off the soon-to-be-violated schoolgirl look with aplomb is so on the money that I make a mental note to (a) shake him by the hand later and (b) ensure that we take this uniform home with us.
Why I’ve never thought to act out this particular fantasy with Nat, I have no fucking clue, but consider that an oversight I’ll probably compensate for every weekend.
While I think of it, I might try to take this desk home, too. It would work well with the spanking bench in the basement.
My wife looks like a porno version (tasteful porno, but porno nonetheless) of a schoolgirl from that godawful show she made me binge-watch with her when she had a virus.
What was it called? Something Girls. Oh, Gilmore Girls.
Total drivel, but Nat’s take on the little tartan skirt, and knee-high white socks, and modest looking blouse and tie, and this fucking prep-school ponytail she’s swinging around is something I can very much get on board with.
She’s even got plain white panties on, very similar to the ones she wore that first time I took her over my knee in here. Her skirt is so short, and I’m hyper-conscious that they’re right there.
I might make her walk all the way home in front of me, just so I can watch that flippy little hem swing.
It seems she’s as tickled by my appearance as I am by hers, though I have no idea why.
She dressed me in the kind of khakis a teacher might wear (though far nicer—God knows, she won’t get me in Gap khakis even for the ), and a blue and white checked shirt, open at the neck.
Over it I’m wearing a V-necked navy merino tank, and I have my sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm.
My wife has told me the forearm porn is a very important part of this and that I must make sure I flex as hard as I can when I’m pretending to spank her.
My favourite part of this costume? The wooden foot-long ruler I’m supposed to spank her with. As I slap it against my palm, I note how pleasingly flexible it is. This should sting nicely.
The brief for the shoot is tasteful. Moody. Sophisticated.
I can do that.
The lighting is rigged up and ready. Graf is standing by.
‘Over to you,’ he says to me and Nat. ’Why don’t you try out a few positions? Get comfortable, and then I’ll see what works?’
‘You heard the man,’ I croon in my wife’s ear as I stand behind her. I wrap her glossy ponytail around my fist and tug her ear even closer to my mouth. ‘Why don’t you bend over for Mr Wright and let him show you what a very bad girl you’ve been today, hmm?’
I don’t miss the little moan she makes, for my ears only.
I know how much she loves it when I’m in disciplinarian mode.
I release her ponytail and put a palm between her shoulder blades, coaxing her forward so she’s hinged over the wooden desk.
I nudge her legs wider so I can step right in behind her.
My poor cock is aching already. ‘Like this?’ I ask Graf.
‘Very nice,’ he says, cocking his head thoughtfully. ‘Natalie, can you try coming up onto your elbows, and then wrap your fingers around the far edge of the desk as if you’re holding on for dear life?’
‘Yep,’ she says, pulling herself up. By doing so, she arches her back more fully and thrusts that barely-concealed little backside against me.
‘That’s wonderful,’ he says approvingly. ‘Turn your head a little so you’re facing the camera. Now Adam, you can pretend to spank her.’
Hmm. Pretend, my arse. I flip up Nat’s little skirt like we’ve pre-agreed, baring her pristine white schoolgirl panties to view.
Holy fuck, it’s a good thing I didn’t pursue a teaching vocation.
I would have got myself arrested, in all likelihood.
With my free hand, I give her bottom a leisurely stroke, and she lets out an embarrassed giggle.
‘Adam!’
‘Mr Wright to you, young lady.’
She squirms.
‘Ready?’ I ask the photographer, and he gives me the nod.
Because I’m a philanthropic kind of guy and feel deeply about putting my best foot forward for the rainforests, I put one hand between Nat’s legs—no one can see it but me—and stroke the cotton covering her pussy as I bring this excellent wooden ruler up in the air.
Two things then happen at once.
One, Graf starts snapping on his old-school camera.
And two, the ruler hits the part of Nat’s cheek not covered by her panties as a lovely clean thwack rings through the air, immediately accompanied by her audible gasp.
I’d put good money on her mouth making the most authentic O of schoolgirl shock at the same time as I smirk triumphantly.
That’s what I call the perfect shot.
* * *
CAL
I’m dragged away from what feels like a full-time job of dog chaperoning and coffee making and prop lugging to shoot my Mr Balaclava moment with my lovely wife.
Tobias was very taken by the lustre of the backlit pink onyx bar and proclaimed that we absolutely needed to shoot at least one scene in the bar area.
Apparently, it will glow beautifully in black and white.
You would think it’d take Aida longer than me to get ready for a shot like this than me. Trousers and balaclava, you might say. What else does the guy need?
In my defence, Aida arrived straight from the hairdresser with a full—and immaculate—face of makeup already on.
There’s a makeup artist here, but my news anchor wife has learnt so many tricks of the trade over the past couple of decades that she claims not to need assistance, even for TV appearances.
Also in my defence, she’ll be wearing a mask anyway.
And in additional evidence, I’d also like to point out that her dress is very easy to put on (and even easier to take off).
It’s the same gorgeous red one she wore that first time we fucked, and presumably will match the bar far better in black and white than it does in colour.
The final part of my defence is that a good part of my prep time involves having the makeup artist contour my abs and oil up my entire torso.
What? It makes perfect sense. I’m taking this thing seriously, and I want to look my best under the lights.
Rafe and Zach may be keeping their clothes on, but I’m fucking well giving anyone who shells out for one of these calendars their money’s worth.
I’m considerate like that.
‘What the fuck is that?’ Aida asks as I stroll into the bar. She’s lounging against the bar itself, looking like a red-hot Italian temptress, her ornate gold mask on a nearby table. I grin, knowing she can never resist me with my balaclava on. When the mask goes on, it’s game on, too.
‘What’s what?’ I ask.
‘All that shit on your body. Is that oil?’
‘Yes it is, baby,’ I say, advancing on her.
She starts to laugh. ‘Oh my God! You look like a Chippendale circa 1986.’
‘You’d know.’
She barks out a disbelieving laugh that I’m age-shaming her. ‘He’s bitchy, too. Wowzers. Should we lose the mask and get you a nice Chippendale bowtie instead?’
‘Now now. That’s extremely hurtful. Do you have any idea how many women would kill to be in your position?
A lot, that’s how many.’ I pull my phone out of my pocket and hook it up to the sound system, swivelling around to face her in a Patrick Swayze style move as those excellent opening beats of Robert Palmer’s Addicted to Love pump out.
My wife watches with wide-eyed disbelief as I gyrate in front of her.
‘Hang on,’ she says, grabbing her phone. ‘I have to get this on camera.’
She holds the phone up and records, backing away from me as I give her all my best moves. ‘Don’t come near me. If you get that stuff on this satin I swear I’ll crucify you.’
‘That’s not very nice,’ I croon. ‘Anyway, I think Zach and Mads have that scene covered next door.’
I know I look good. I have at least five minutes of hard evidence from admiring myself in the mirror—from every angle. My guns look fan-fucking-tastic, and this high-shine look is extremely flattering to my abs, which are as expertly contoured as a Kardashian’s face right now.
I’d forgotten how bloody brilliant this song was. It’s epic. We should definitely do an Eighties night here, and soon. I hold my guns up and flex, thrusting my crotch as I do, and she guffaws. ‘Oh my God! This is literal gold.’
Right. Much as I enjoy entertaining my hot wife, I’d rather she was looking at me with more incredulous desire and less incredulous amusement.
It’s time for the kill.
I put out my hand. ‘Give me my phone.’