| Violet, the Pussy Wrangler – The Opening Chapter “May I touch you?” asked Bellocq as he walked toward his model. “I’d like to rearrange your lips.” He meant her large and meaty pussy lips, positioned in a fashion that he wanted to change. She knew what he meant even though his statement was vague. “No you may not,” replied Hattie, Violet’s visibly pregnant 27 year old mother, who was reclining on the sofa, nude and spread in front of the camera. This pose he particularly enjoyed, with the changeable lighting effects from the sunlight entering through the window at different times of the day when he photographed her. He had pulled her hair back, showing her neck, hairy underarms and breasts. Her legs were widely spread, fully displaying her thick bush and protruding labia. Unmistakably her large belly was the center of attention for the photographs of today. Not only could he not avoid her growing belly, he enjoyed having a pregnant model to work with. She was his first. Bellocq recoiled. “I meant nothing sexual by it, Hattie,” he stated. “Remember, I told you I am impotent, and harmless?” “I remember,” she said as she closed her legs and drew them to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “I can’t perform at all,” he confessed in a fashion that was simultaneously embarrassing and ennobling. In the latter case, as if he were a eunuch or something, perhaps lacking both testicles and a penis. He sat down on the chair next to the sofa, propping an elbow on one knee. She replied, “I could tell the first time we met that you were a different kind of man.” Then she added, “You never offered to fuck me.” Amusingly, she couldn‘t resist adding, “All men want me.” He wasn‘t amused. “May I confess something to you? “Most certainly,” Hattie replied. “I so deeply wish I was the father of your baby,” he said, even willing to be rebuffed. In the six months that he had been photographing her, once a week or so, Bellocq had witnessed her belly grow and expand. In the beginning, her stomach was tight and flat, but he soon noticed it had started to grow as he examined every square inch of her through the viewfinder in preparation for each photograph. Photographers were always observant. She hadn’t volunteered that she was pregnant by the time he suspected. When he asked, though, she told him she was. She couldn’t be sure when the baby was due, for obvious reasons. She seemed neither happy or upset with the pregnancy, apparently resolved that such things happen in her line of work. From the day she confessed her pregnancy, his feelings of care and protection had started to grow. He wanted her for more than modeling. “Oh Bellocq, my sweet man, why do you wish that?” As she spoke, she caressed her large belly. She was more than bemused by his kind revelation. “I wish to take care of you, Hattie.” He insisted on adding, “And the baby.” “And Violet too,” thrown out quickly, so as to include her 12 year old daughter. “What a dear you are, but we can discuss that when it is closer to time for me.” She spread her legs, then returned her hand to her pussy, inserting a finger slowly moving it in and out. The motion was reflexive and effortless. She smiled at him as she masturbated. “Not that way,” he added, mildly reprimanding her but at the same time enjoying her hand movements. Bellocq walked back behind the tripod and camera. “Besides, you can’t see yourself from the camera view.” “Do you wish me to close my legs?” Violet asked, in an obvious attempt to reassert her control. Their interaction often reflected a battle of wits and control. “No, you are beautiful and sensual and I want to display you in the best possible light, and to do that I need many poses.” “That includes your pussy.” “It would be best just now if you didn’t touch me though.” Hattie reclined, closed her legs again, resting her hands on her growing belly. But she gave him no reason. ------------------------------------------------------------------ “I’ll do it,” came a small voice from the near the open doorway. Bellocq looked to see Violet standing in the door. He hadn’t noticed her appearance from downstairs, although the stairs usually creaked under the pressure of even light footsteps when anyone walked up. Violet has often been present when Hattie posed for him. He invariably enjoyed the presence of the model’s daughter, for her occasional attention to the shoot to her frequent inattention to the main activity taking place. She was mostly distant and aloof. Indeed, she was always polite, saying “yes sir,” when she got in the way of the camera and he asked her to move. He was fond of seeing the two of them together, especially when Violet would sit on her mother’s lap or touch her in some intimate way—or kiss. Despite the intense pleasure from what he witnessed, his penis never stirred—not even a flinch. It never had, always hanging limp, since the accident when he was 16. Not when Hattie fingered herself to an orgasm. Not when Violet sat on her mother’s lap and they kissed each other, on the mouth. His pleasure was all psychological and aesthetical, the sexual appreciation of the female form magnified by the choice of profession he made soon after the accident. His instructor at the art institute immediately noticed that he was a natural at lighting, in particular. He delighted in the nude models willingly posing for him. He found it quite easy to ask a woman to model, to disrobe, without the need to tell her of his imperfection. Without a single refusal, although he knew that everyone he asked in Storyville was aware of his growing artistic reputation. It was only Hattie that he confessed to. For what reason he was unsure, except that he and she had developed a closeness over the course of the months he had been photographing her. He thought of it as a friendship, although he was not sure she did. He knew she was his favorite, without a doubt. She was relaxed and casual with him, never having displayed the least of inhibitions. Although he was now perplexed by her failure to allow his professional touch, he was at least willing to try Violet out. “You can do it,” Hattie said to Violet. Violet gracefully moved from the door to between her mother’s open legs. Her movements, Bellocq thought, were not those of a girl, but of a woman. Maybe she had benefited by constantly being around her “working” mother. She sat down there, then placed her hand on her mother‘s belly. It simply rested there as they looked at each other. Soon Hattie placed her hand over her daughter’s. Bellocq interrupted, “Then let’s take some photographs.” “I am ready,” replied Hattie. Bellocq said to Violet, “Violet arrange your mother in a different way.” “Okay.” Before Violet could do anything, her mother told her to get her fingers wet first. At the same time she opened her legs even wider. Violet’s two fingers went immediately into her mother, all the way. Bellocq was startled at the familiarity Violent showed in touching her mother. He wondered if she had been there before. It was possible, he thought, since she neither showed hesitation nor ignorance of her mother’s pussy. The fingers were completely covered with wetness upon removal. She had literally fingered her mother in order to achieve the most wetness possible. She succeeded. Then she rubbed her fingers against her thumb to lubricate it. With this very hand, Violet, not so gently, spread the hairs from her mother’s pussy, matting them with her mother’s wetness, then proceeded to sculpt the massive labia into an abstract object of genital art. Bellocq was more than pleased. Once Violet moved out of view, the camera shutter clicked and clicked, while Bellocq’s penis hung lifeless between his legs, hidden under his clothes. Violet stood aside, out of camera range, watching her mother, licking her mother from her fingers. Bellocq only noticed when he followed Hattie’s eyes to where Violet was standing. |