Darrin, my hero in more ways than one, came to my defense. He chastised the other photographers and the model. He told the other photographers that he would take my pictures for the magazine.
During the shoot, I made sure I showed off every curve, posing seductively in a sexy black bra and panty set. I was convinced that I looked better than anyone else; my curves only enhanced my sex appeal.
Darrin seemed to love taking my pictures. I posed exclusively for him. I caught some of the other photographers talking among each other and watching my body with desperation in their eyes. I imagined they were whispering, “Damn . . . I want to fuck you to death.”
Darrin continued to snap pictures and even accumulated significantly more shots than the other photographers. Every few minutes, he paused and scanned my body as he held on to his camera. I would tease him and pout my lips, pretending to be naughty.
After the shoot, Darrin informed me that chances were slim that my pictures would be included in the magazine. He informed me that the model who had complained was remarkably good at getting her way with the other photographers, if I understood what he meant. He smiled a sad, but extremely sexy, smile that sent quakes down my spine and then he winked. It was then that I noticed the cane he was grasping in one hand. He blessed me with his business card and told me that if I ever needed him, give him a call.
The next day I told my friend Star, also a model, about the fallout at the shoot and how kind Darrin had been. She acknowledged his good deed, but warned me to stay away from him. She claimed that he had a terrible reputation within the model pool because he seemed to disregard everyone. Whenever someone tried to get close to him, he generally pushed them away. She then proceeded to tell me all about his past.
Darrin Sullivan had been stationed in Afghanistan two years earlier and was gravely injured, which resulted in the loss of both legs from the knees down. He had been honorably discharged, then had returned to the States and had a brief stay at a veterans’ hospital where he underwent physical therapy and learned to walk again using prosthetic legs. He had recuperated at home after that.
Sadly, during that time, he had also discovered his fiancée cheating on him with another man. My friend told me that the breakup had devastated him more than the loss of his legs. He decided to return to college and immersed himself in his studies. He excelled in college and earned a masters in fine arts. Presently, he was working full-time as an art teacher and artist. He occasionally worked as a photographer for the hip-hop magazine.
I listened to her information and critical judgment of Darrin, but despite her warning, I decided to contact him.
I waited until Friday of that same week to call. I was stunned that he remembered me since there were so many girls at the shoot. He assumed that I needed him for model work. I needed him, but not in the way that he imagined. I told him that I never had the opportunity to thank him for saving me from an embarrassing situation. After all, he did not have to intervene when he did. I offered to cook him dinner that night. He quickly declined at first, but I insisted and, with some persuasion, he eventually gave in.
He arrived at my house a few minutes early, almost as if it were intentional so he could also depart early. I noticed that he was wearing loose-fitting denim jeans and a white tee. His eyes looked me over as a familiar smile formed on his face. I was sporting black stilettos, skinny dark denim jeans, and a green shirt that enhanced my bosom. I had made sure that my clothes would enhance my curves. I escorted him in and pointed in the direction of the dining room. Once inside, Darrin complimented my décor decisions.
He followed me into the dining room. The prepared food, a miniature feast with extra servings, was already on the table, allowing it to cool.
“Everything looks delicious. Can I help myself?” he asked.
“Yes, pick your seat, sit down, and dig in. I hope everything is prepared to your liking.”
He grabbed a plate and quickly loaded it with a large helping of everything on the table. Then he sat down in the nearest chair.
“It all smells so good and tastes wonderful.”
“Good . . . I didn’t know what you might like to eat so I cooked a variety of foods. That’s why there’s so much of it.”
“Well, you’re definitely a great cook,” he complimented me.
He beamed as he loaded his plate with more food. I smiled as I loaded a plate and then I took a seat across from him. Before I took a bite, I watched his lips take a mouthful of food. He didn’t realize how much it turned me on.
• • •
I cooked him dinner every Friday and Sunday for the next four weeks. The more time we met and talked, the more attracted we became to each other. I found out that we had a lot in common, like a taste for the same foods. I also discovered that we had similar pet peeves. We both enjoyed watching the same sports. We admired the same athletes. We each told a few confessions. One time, he confessed that he enjoyed painting more than photography. I confessed that I enjoyed eating fast food more than gourmet cuisine. Each time we met, we seemed to hit it off even more. I hoped that it was only a matter of time before we took it to the next level. The last time we had hooked up, I noticed some standoffish behavior. When he left that Sunday, I sensed that our meetings were in danger of being nonexistent. I had asked him if he sketched nudes. At first, he didn’t reply but then admitted to drawing his ex-fiancée in the nude. The memories seemed to sadden him, almost ruining the evening. He smiled his sweet-sad smile before finishing his meal. I noticed that he didn’t decline to draw me nude.
It was obvious that he was attracted to me in every way possible. But it was also apparent that he feared becoming too involved. He didn’t trust all too well because of his past relationship. I was determined to have him in my life, and in my bed. I was convinced that we were made for each other. I had come too far to let him leave. I made up my mind to fight for him.
On Friday of the fifth week, I decided to make a move. Darrin arrived on time. Dinner consisted of cheese pizza and beer. He let me feed him slices of pizza. After dinner, I asked him to join me in the basement for dessert.
I left the dining room to put on a silky red robe before returning. This time I insisted that Darrin follow me to the basement. He followed me down the steps to a scene created specifically for him. I had persuaded my antiquarian friend to locate a vintage couch for me. She located a beautiful one, and bought a red crushed velvet slipcover that looked like something Freud would have utilized. In front of the couch was a table with a large porcelain bowl of fruit near a wine bottle with two glasses. There was a tablet with a pencil on the table. I poured him some wine and handed him the glass along with the tablet and pencil. He took them both and grinned.
I discarded my robe, allowing it to plunge to the floor. I wanted him to appreciate my breasts and beautiful curves. I sauntered slowly over to the piece of antique furniture and then bent over it slowly so he could gaze at my pink pussy before I sat down.
I told him to draw me and I watched as he drained the glass of wine in two gulps. I imagined that it had been awhile since he’d had any sex, so I was determined to ignite his flame.
It seemed like he was sketching me faster than I had expected. I got up to see the drawing and was impressed by his talents. I asked him if I could draw him nude. He laughed but I insisted until he slowly removed his clothes.
I was pleasantly surprised at t
he length of his deliciously dark dick. The sight of it drenched my pussy and I couldn’t wait any longer. He sat down on the couch in the same spot. I walked over to him seductively, my breasts moving with each step, and sat beside him.
I kissed his lips and ran my fingers through his hair. Then I kissed him again. He gazed at me with a stunned look before he returned the kiss.