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I was going to put this up for the Valentine’s Day Contest but, after taking a good look, decided that it really isn’t in the spirit of that contest. The valentine’s references in this piece are spurious rather than an integral theme. So, here it is, a rehash of an old theme; a photographer taking dirty pictures, but I do hope you enjoy it. If you do, send feedback, if you don’t, send feedback…

Thanks to those who helped with it. The ones who looked at it in embryonic form and made comments. Some I’ve used, some I’ve discounted. A special thanks to lovemonster for the time she put in checking my inumerable errors; I do appreciate it. Any errors that remain are purely my own ‘cos I’m too lazy to check it again.

Southwark 1913

I noticed the obituary in The Times this morning. He was dead, aged 81, survived by Lady Annabel, 68, his wife of forty years. I never managed to forget Lady Annabel; I’d been far too affected by the scenes I witnessed that day to ever forget. Although the shine did wear off over time.

I kept the secret all these years but seeing the Lord’s obituary brought that day to the forefront of my mind. It was that reminder which led me to finally record those events in writing. The illicit pictorial record had always existed, a souvenir which, contrary to instructions, I produced and kept for myself.

The self-imposed duty I didn’t dare deviate from was the secret. There was never any overt threat, although I remained acutely aware of the implications of those photographs should their existence become public. No, I kept my mouth shut. Not to do so would have been utter folly; inviting a visit from the menacing Manners. A death sentence. Suicide.

I still shudder when I think of that man; I knew the moment I saw him, when I first looked up at the tinkle of the studio bell. He gave all the appearance of being the dapper man-about-town as he feigned interest in the equipment; he certainly dressed the part, but there was something about him, an air of danger and a quality behind the eyes perhaps..? I recognised the menace immediately, but of course, I kept that to myself.

“There’s money in this?” The first words I heard him speak.

“A modest income, enough to get by, yes.” I was polite; he was a potential customer despite my immediate misgivings.

He studied a portrait of a popular actress of the day, “Interesting.” His gaze then turned to me and I’m certain it was an appraisal of sorts. He was weighing me up, assessing me. Whatever conclusions he came to he acted quickly, moving to the door and pushing the bolt across, denying me any means of exit while also barring the possibility of any intrusions.

He cut short my blurt of protest with a single gesture. “My employer,” he began, “is outside, she wishes to speak to you about… a job.”

“A commission?” I interrupted.

“You call it whatever you desire, I know no details, and nor do I need to, but the fact remains that my employer wishes to speak to you about a matter of… ‘some delicacy’ and awaits your response.” He then pointedly added: “Your immediate response.”

I admit it was curiosity that led me to accept this invitation rather than the prospect of remuneration. I agreed instantly and a few minutes later found myself ensconced in the privacy of the Lady’s carriage. Manners, as I subsequently discovered the man’s name to be, waited under the gas lamp some yards away; undoubtedly on watch.

I recognised her straight away. She was a prominent socialite and dedicated champion of the poor and impoverished — of which there were great numbers in Victorian London. She was an attractive woman, a noted beauty of our time; her husband, inevitably a rich and powerful man, was a Member of Parliament.

Why the need for all this clandestine tomfoolery?

“Mr Speight, how delightful to meet you.”

In the shadowy interior of the carriage, a setting befitting the nature of what was to follow, the Lady spoke in veiled terms of what was expected from me. A gift, she told me, a simple gift for her husband on St Valentine’s Day. She wished me to use photographic techniques to produce a pictorial record as a present.

“For your services, Mr Speight, you will be paid double your usual fee.” I was flabbergasted. Double? Why double? The Lady then continued, enlightening me, but only partially. “The subject matter is extremely… delicate, Mr Speight, very sensitive — in extremis. For your discretion, which is irreproachable I’m sure, you will also receive a monthly stipend; an amount which will be delivered to you personally by Manners.” She gestured towards the figure at his post beneath the gas lamp. “Do we have an arrangement, Mr Speight?”

Common sense screamed at me to refuse, but I couldn’t. “Yes, Lady Annabel,” I took her gloved hand, “we have an agreement.”


I presented myself and the two large trunks containing my equipment to the rear of the Mayfair Mews. I was shown to a room along a maze of corridors and up at least two flights of stairs. The room itself, although Çankaya Escort warm, clean, and painted brilliant white, contained but one piece of furniture; a chaise longue.

I was left alone after my equipment arrived along with a pot of tea. Bemused I set the tea things in a corner and began to set up the paraphernalia of my profession. Then, after quite a lengthy interval and excellent tea, the door opened and in walked a young man, early twenties if I had to estimate, but to whom I was never introduced. I don’t know who he was, and I have no desire to know, he simply entered the room, ignored me completely, and took up a position by the chaise.

His manner of standing indicated a pose and I realised I was expected to take his photograph. I did so; I took the first picture and prepared for the next. That first frame was the only one of the series that was in any way within the sphere of what I considered, in that year of 1879, to be normal or even decent. For what happened next shocked me.

Once again the door opened and a woman entered. I immediately recognised her as Lady Annabel. What was so shocking was her clothing, or rather lack of clothing. She entered the room, striding with purpose to join the man standing by the chaise. She wore nought but a leather corset and petite ankle boots, also made of leather. The corset was cinched tight around her waist, giving her a severe waspish figure. The tight garment, which I vaguely noticed in my fugue, was laced along the back, served to accentuate the generous proportions of her breasts; bare breasts that swung freely as she moved.

Lady Annabel looked at me, smiled as though we were at a social function and were old friends. “Mr Speight, may I remind you, you’re here to take the photographs.”

She posed with the man, both of them side by side. It was an incongruous scene, he in the suit of charcoal grey, her, one hand on his shoulder in a gesture of familiarity as though posing for a typical family photograph. The couple smiled brightly, facing the camera, but with the female subject flaunting her body in such a provocative manner.

I did what I was commissioned to do. I took photographs of Lady Annabel and the man; an individual who was most certainly not her husband.

The second picture featured the couple as I described above, while the next captured them kissing. The one after that showed them still kissing, but now Lady Annabel had calmly fished the man’s cock from his flies. I could see why this man had been chosen, his penis, still flaccid at this point, hung with a terrible potential along the woman’s wrist and forearm.

As she stroked it, the thing grew with incredible speed as though suffused with life, so much so that it soon jutted with monstrous proportions from the man’s suit trousers.

I took the photographs as fast as the equipment of the day could manage. The subsequent frames showed Lady Annabel squatting in front of her lover, his scrotum resting upon her outstretched tongue as she licked his balls and his appendage lay along her face like some hideous python.

Of course, as corrupting as the pictures are to view, they are nothing compared to the actual reality of what I saw and heard in that room. The pictures cannot record the profanity used by Lady Annabel during the course of that wicked afternoon. Nor can the images convey the obscene moans, groans, and sounds of their rutting.

Lady Annabel spat over the bulbous cock-head before, mouth agape to the extreme, she took the thing between her lips. Those lips stretched tight around the girth of him as she gamely swallowed several inches. Inevitably she gagged and coughed, rejecting the invader as saliva dribbled from her mouth and tears welled in her eyes. To my amazement, with strings of drool hanging from her chin, she once again gulped at the length. The man groaned and held Lady Annabel’s head while his hips jerked forwards. This movement caused the Lady to gag and splutter again and once more saliva oozed from her mouth. This time trails of the stuff dribbled over the upper slopes of her breasts.

I continued to record the scene.

“Lick me,” I heard Lady Annabel command. “Lick my cunny, make me wet and ready my quim for fucking.”

My attention was drawn to the area Lady Annabel spoke of. I gaped in open-mouthed astonishment as she opened her thighs to reveal herself. I’d failed to notice earlier, when she made her startling appearance, that the area normally covered by pubic hair was now completely bare. It appeared that the Lady Annabel preferred depilation; not entirely unheard of, but certainly beyond my experience. Lady Annabel, mindful of her role as my model, positioned herself on the chaise in such a manner that the single eye of my lens could capture every detail. Her hairless state meant that I could plainly see her labia puffy with arousal, the lips hanging in a petulant pout. The man, also aware that the camera demanded an unobstructed view, knelt at Lady Annabel’s feet and placed his Keçiören Escort mouth to that place.

I recall I sighed at that point. It was, I believe, the first sound I’d made since the couple had appeared. Lady Annabel heard the noise and looked across the room to where I stood. She smiled at me, her eyes heavy with pleasure as the man lapped at her body. Then, although she addressed her lover, she stared directly into my eyes as she spoke, her voice a purr. “Lick me, lick my cunt and drink me.”

As I said, the profanity was shocking, even more so when the harsh word fell from lips more usually associated with refined eloquence. Her high born position corrupted to a slattern’s vulgarity offended my gentle sensibilities, but I still experienced a dark slither of arousal at the scene developing in front of me.

The man continued to slurp at Lady Annabel’s vulva. I could see his tongue wriggling and squirming against the flesh of that most intimate place. He held the labia apart with his fingertips and dabbed his tongue into that bubbling orifice.

“I’m going to come. I’m going to reach the peak. Lick it… Lick it… Lick me you bastard…”

The preamble to a noisy climax poured in a vulgar torrent from the sewer of Lady Annabel’s mouth. She grunted like swine foraging for truffles and forced her body against the man’s face while the pleasure coursed through her senses.

“From behind,” she panted and roughly pushed her lover away. She positioned herself on the chaise, supporting herself on her knees, arms outstretched as she pushed her derriere towards my lens. “Remove those clothes, tongue my tar-hole and then put that thing inside me.”

Again, busy with my craft I captured image upon image. The man stripped while Lady Annabel fingered her own sex, no doubt to keep her lust simmering. Then, at Lady Annabel’s insistence, her lover held her buttocks apart while pushing his tongue into the rosebud of her anus. Shock visited me again; by now a familiar acquaintance and I recall doubting that this woman was capable of any more lewd behaviour. I thought I was now beyond astonishment — I was to be proved wrong.

“Lick me,” I heard her say. “Lick that muddy hole… Lord, yes! I love it… I adore it. I can feel your tongue in there. I can feel it squirming.”

Lady Annabel’s arm reached between her thighs and her fingers moved quickly against her dripping sex while her lover dutifully probed into her anus.

“Stick it into me. Fuck me. Do it now,” she commanded. Lady Annabel groaned hugely when the dome of that cock bumped her body. She manoeuvred her knees wider, reaching back to peel apart her sticky labia, and I had a glimpse of the man’s cock nudging at the woman’s scarlet opening before it sank an inch or two inside.

Lady Annabel moaned and thrust back, an action which caused half the length to disappear. The man pulled back, leaving just the tip of that horrible thing inside the woman’s body, before he pushed hard and sank deeper than before. Another groan from the Lady and her lover repeated his thrusting, probing deeper with each push. With each rearward pull I saw Lady Annabel’s vulva stretch and distort; her opening tight around the man’s girth.

Eventually their bodies met. The tangle of his pubic bush compressed against the woman’s round buttocks. “Now,” she grunted, “fuck me. Show him what you’re made of. Fuck me.”

I wasn’t sure to whom Lady Annabel was referring when she said ‘show him’. She could have meant me, but just as equally she may be alluding to her husband, for whom these pictures were intended — A Valentine’s Day gift.

The probability of such a gift being gratefully received was beyond my comprehension. I’d forgotten that detail as events began to unfold; my mind suddenly being occupied elsewhere. Only now did I recall the nature of this commission.

Double the fee, the monthly payment, my silence… At least that now made sense. In extremis she had said. Well, she wasn’t exaggerating that point, this was as extreme as I’d ever experienced, but the Valentine’s Day aspect puzzled me.

Lady Annabel was to clarify that point later, but at that moment she was vociferously demanding: “Come on you pathetic specimen, fuck me. Call yourself a man. Don’t just tickle me; give me that brute of a cock. Fuck me!”

I took more photographs, recording the scene faithfully as Lady Annabel required, for whatever purpose. The man’s abdomen slapped against Lady Annabel’s buttocks and caused the flesh to wobble despite her lean physique. The sight of the pair copulating caused another dark ripple of burgeoning lust deep in that secret part of my belly. Surprised at the sudden urge to masturbate, I suppressed desire and attempted to focus my attention on the technical issues at hand.

My concentration was disturbed however when Lady Annabel loudly announced her impending climax. She writhed and moaned again and her body jerked as she sobbed her delight at the glorious release.

“Are you wet Etimesgut Escort with my come?” she panted, her chest heaving as she fought to breathe. “I want to taste my cunt.”

Lady Annabel moved quickly and sat on the edge of the chaise while the man offered his cock for her to suck. She slobbered and slurped and spat in a depraved, sluttish display. Her fist slid up and down the length of the shaft as her other hand slid through the folds of her gooey sex.

“Now,” her voice snickered, “it’s time.”

The man, obviously understanding the reference, lay on the chaise longue. He shuffled around onto his side while Lady Annabel positioned herself against him, her back moulding to his front. From my position I watched as Lady Annabel lifted one leg and exposed herself to my camera. The man smeared juice from Annabel’s vulva around the pucker of her sphincter, then, with his cock still liberally oiled from their earlier copulation and the woman’s saliva, he nudged the dome against her body.

“Come on,” Lady Annabel urged. “Push it in… Pop the ring… I can feel it widening.” The man pushed more firmly and I could see the smudge of Annabel’s anus relenting under the force. “Yes.” She hissed, “That’s it. Stretch me open. Go on, a little more.”

Lady Annabel gasped, her eyes widened and her mouth gaped. “It stings. Oh fuck it stings…” Her fingers found her clitoris and she rubbed herself. “Glorious,” she wailed. “You’re in. I felt it go in.”

The man paused and I saw concern on his face. It appeared that his concern was unfounded as now, with her anus impossibly stretched around that terrible girth, Lady Annabel urged him deeper. I watched in disbelief as the woman’s vagina gaped with the pressure of the invading cock in her rectum. A trickle of juice dribbled slowly out of the opening and trailed over Annabel’s thigh.

“Bugger me,” Annabel cried. “Split me in two. Fuck me and tear my arse…”

The man grunted as the Lady forced her body against his cock. He gripped her corseted waist and moved against her thrusts, an action that elicited a wail of either pain or pleasure — or possibly a combination of both — from Annabel’s mouth.

Following several energetic thrusts, Annabel wriggled and squirmed against the intruding cock. “More,” she panted, “I want more.”

Together the pair shuffled and rolled into position with Annabel now dominant and firmly mounted above her supine lover. She bounced with vigour up and down while, once again, the man held her waist and supported her writhing form. “Oh, you glorious bastard! That’s so deep. Bugger me, bugger my rectum…”

Lady Annabel squealed and shouted so loudly that I grew concerned that somebody would come to investigate her cries. She vehemently exhorted her lover to greater physical abuse. I was sure the poor woman would be rent from anus to navel when this carnal extravagance was ended. Surely she couldn’t stand much more of this violence.

As before, I was erroneous in my assumption.

After disengaging from her lover and standing, albeit on trembling legs, Annabel bid the man to also stand. He did so, and, with a lithe display of acrobatics, lifted Annabel clear of the carpeted floor. The Lady laid an arm about his neck while he held her aloft, his hands behind her knees. He then manoeuvred the woman into position before she reached down to grab his swaying penis. She offered the glans to the already ravaged opening and once more took the brute deep inside.

Lady Annabel closed her eyes and her head lolled, rolling from side to side, back and forth as the man buggered her relentlessly. I heard his grunts of exertion at holding the full weight of Lady Annabel’s limp form while simultaneously lifting and lowering her around his cock.

He took a step or two closer to my camera, offering me more of an opportunity to capture the image of Lady Annabel’s sphincter stretched impossibly around the awesome girth. The woman couldn’t be taking it. Surely it was impossible. She was too slightly built to possibly be capable of accommodating this brutal instrument. It wasn’t that Lady Annabel’s physical stature was in any way inferior, just the opposite in fact, she was a superb example of feminine pulchritude, with clean, straight limbs and superbly crafted hips, waist, and torso; it was the sheer size of that awful penis, a true monster that had no business marauding this beauty’s anus.

But it seemed that Annabel adored being used this way. She actually revelled being impaled on that instrument of torture. “Put me back down,” she moaned eventually. “On my front, lay me on the chaise and then get behind me again. Fuck me again. Fuck my arse. Stir the soup as you squirt my guts with the hot stuff.”

By now the urge to masturbate was growing ever more urgent. I can feel the shame heating my cheeks even now, some thirty-four years after the event. Just as I’m ashamed to admit I succumbed to those urges in subsequent years — whenever I lifted the illicit copy of that album from its hiding place.

Annabel lay face down with the man draped across her back. I could see his buttocks clenching as he pumped like a piston into Annabel’s body. The Lady herself scratched at the covering of the chaise as her climax again began to boil. She clawed and wailed, with her hair falling in disarray about her face as the sordid scene reached a violent and noisy crescendo.

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