Chapter 1 – “Fanny”
Marius Travers scolded himself internally for letting his mind wander, and pushed himself fully into the present, willing himself to enjoy it. He rotated his hips back, slowing only at the end of the stroke, and was rewarded by a lurid popping sound as his cockhead fully disgorged from the girl’s asshole.
“That feels so good, Fanny” he intoned to the object of his amusement, in lilting French.
“Fleur!” she corrected him. “My name is Fl— Aaaaaah!!”
This time he pushed himself, not into the present, but up to the hilt into Fanny’s abused rectum. It was far too much, too fast. It had taken a number of minutes and half a tube of lube just to loosen her sufficiently to push his tool up past her sphincter. He had only taken a few half-strokes since then. He pulled back in a long stroke until he felt the crown of his cock catch at the inside of her sphincter.
Marius watched Fleur, or Fanny, or whoever she was, bite her lip, and adjust her white-knuckled grip on his bedsheets, pushing up slightly off the bed using the side of her face.
A second before she could say, ‘ok,’ he rammed his dagger all the almanbahis şikayet way home, none too gently. Too much. Too fast. Too hard. But then that was the point, after all. Marius smiled as Fanny stifled a small scream and arched her back the wrong direction in a reflexive attempt to find relief from the invader. She would find little sympathy tonight. Only regular, deep doses of throbbing man-meat. He planted both hands on her lower back, pushing it back down, and buried his cock again, this time a little slower, but with a little extra push at the end, to make sure she felt it.
Marius was an asshole, and he knew it. Accepted it. Even reveled in it. He knew he was a sex addict. He knew he was a bit of a sadist. Not the kind with a dungeon in the basement, or a collection of complicated and expensive equipment. That might make for a fun experiment, if he were to walk into such a thing, but for him, that felt far too contrived. Marius liked to go with the flow. And he liked people who were real, not those who put on masks and paraded about.
The irony of the last point wasn’t lost on Marius. As a top photographer in the highly competitive Paris almanbahis canlı casino fashion scene, he worked daily with some of the most made-up people in the world. Every model strove to be something other than what she was. To achieve some kind of ideal, even though they weren’t sure what that ideal even looked like. Like Fanny here. She was a model. But then, all the models were Fanny to him.
Her face was sideways against the sheets, her mouth open in a silent scream, her brow furrowed in concentration against the pain of his increasing assault. He loved to see them this way – stripped of all their facades, all their pomp and superiority, their unflappable composure gone. Here he had found the real Fleur – for that was her real name – underneath the Fanny that glided the runways. Or, perhaps, inside the fanny that glided the runways.
Marius grabbed Fleur’s hips and pulled her back hard, thrusting upwards and forwards for maximum depth. He felt his dickhead penetrate a half inch more than he had yet attained. The poor girl was frantic now, slapping the top of the bed and twisting her head back and forth, futilely seeking escape. Marius almanbahis casino held her fast, and pulled her in as far as she could possibly get, as he pumped semen into her bowel.
“Aaaaaaahhh… ooooooohhh… YES!” he hissed as came down from the crest of the orgasm.
Had she cum? Did he care? No… he had found out early on that many models didn’t cum at all, no matter the effort put into it. After trading on their looks for so long, it was, for many of them, part of the job. That was, in fact, how he bedded so many of them.
Somewhere early in his career, some models had decided that fucking the photographer would result in better photographs, more opportunity for advancement. It wasn’t actually true, of course. The photographer couldn’t actually make a woman more beautiful, chic, sultry, or anything else. He could make them look worse, perhaps. Direct them to do silly or idiotic things. But then that would reflect on him, poorly. And he was excellent. All models received his best work. He would have it no other way. They just… didn’t need to know that.
As a young man, he had felt some guilt about it. Now in his mid-30’s, he was past the guilt. He now encouraged both the rumor that he could make them look better, and the rumor that if they were to refuse his advances, he might make them look worse.
“You… will look absolutely beautiful in the spread, Fleur.”
She had earned her real name.