Photographic assignments

Three-and-a-half years ago, I posted this, about the photographic assignments I have given various distant buddies. In that post, I promised additional posts to come, fleshing out, further, the types of assignments I’ve given.

Alas, this being a blog, and me being a busy guy, I never got around to those promised follow-up posts. Truth be told, I don’t really remember what I imagined I might say by way of “following up,” but, having just stumbled on that post, I thought I’d take this chance to follow it up, now….

Currently, I’m essentially “distant-buddy”-free. Marina is pursuing her relationship with W, a relationship inconsistent with me. Sofia and I are contentedly friendly, but platonic. There have been a couple of other ladies with whom I’ve interacted in recent days, weeks, but none has vaulted herself into the category of prolific porn provider.

Which is, for the sake of this post, just as well. Because in some ways, what’s most interesting to me isn’t what I ask of one or another woman, but what I tend to ask of all the women I interact with. As I wrote in that previous post, even when I ask two women for the precise same thing, it feels profoundly different to me. Because different person, different relationship, different body, different moment, different conversational context. So when I type, “Show me your thighs in those leggings” (as I did just a few hours ago to a quixotic, smart, writer, whom I don’t imagine will come for me, or show me all her panties on her cunt and ass), it feels different to me every time, even though it’s unlikely I won’t ask it of any particular woman with whom I engage, at some point.

I’ll ask to see her hair. Her hands. I might give her some rope – say, “Show me a part of your body, clothed.” As I did to another correspondent a couple of days ago. She had warned me she was bratty; I had challenged her not to be. She failed. She showed me her face, behind a mask. (It wasn’t her “brattiness” that boded ill for us, sadly; it was her sadness, her self-denigration.)

As things progress, I’ll ask her to wear specific items for me. To show me specific parts of her body in specific items. Or, I might ask her to wear a specific color, and to show me what she’s chosen, on her.

And as they progress further, I might ask her to replicate a photo shoot for me. Or a video. I love this. It’s an incredibly cock-stiffening endeavor for me. It begins with my imagining, knowing, that my request will be honored. Then, I continue, hunting for the right shoot. At any given time, with any given particular person, this feels different. I might look at one site exclusively; I might troll for porn for a day or three. All along, imagining her, you, replicating every shoot I look at, growing hungrier, growing harder. And then, when I find the right one, invariably, I have to curate. Photoshoots online often are 100 photos. And it’s not fair or respectful to ask a woman to take 100 photos at a time for me. Or rather, I would much prefer to ask for 5 sets of 20, each a different shoot.

When Marina and I pressed stop (or, maybe, pause? though it feels more like stop…) I had a backlog of maybe ten shoots I’d asked her for, and another fifteen I hadn’t yet asked her for, but I’d selected. I’ve since deleted all those shoots I bookmarked.

But here is an example of one I just found now that, if Marina ever were to return, I would certainly demand of her. As you see, a lot of photos there, many of which are very similar to many others. So, to make it more manageable, I’d pare it down to maybe ten or twenty. Or thirty. Or forty. Depending on how I was feeling about her return.

For years, Sofia sent me photoshoots. Unbelievable compendia of her tiny waist, her round ass, in (and out of) the most insanely sexy denim short shorts. Or yoga pants. Or jeans. Or skirts. Or dresses. Sometimes with stockings, and heels. Sometimes, more casual. Or bathing suits.

I asked enormous amounts of Sofia; she gave me more than I asked. It was phenomenal.

I asked V to show me as she dressed each morning, ending with touching her pussy just a bit for me. Every. Fucking. Day. Which, given her body, and her compliance, was pretty fucking spectacular. And made even more so by the fact that she worked a professional job, and dressed fucking well. So. Sexy outfits. Stockings/tights. Skirts. Dresses. Slacks. Jeans and silk tops. Just fucking hot shit. On a fucking hot woman.

Often, I ask women to answer “yes” or “no” questions with their thighs – open for yes; closed, for no.

Before Marina, I never asked a woman to show me her actual cunt; “show me your cunt in your jeans”? A thousand times. “Show me your cunt?” Not once, until just a couple months ago.

I’ve corresponded a little with a woman who came to me through FetLife – her profile is filled with closeups of her tits, her nipples. I told her, “I’ll be looking for something very different from you.” It’s hard for her to give me the shots I want. She feels more exposed, she tells me. Of course, I say; I’m asking to see your taste, your personality, your composition. That’s much more than just your tits.

I don’t make any promises, but I aspire to share with you a more granular, more real-time access to my photographic hungers in the coming days.

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