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did order the oysters, but finally we said our goodbyes... I promised to call Helen back that evening... and jumped a cab to the gallery he'd just purchased a partnership in, a downtown affair of such upmarket pretension that its very architecture almost blinded you to the engraved sign on the door that announced the various proprietors' specialties - glamorous portraits, modern landscapes and, courtesy of Ray, vintage erotica

"Vintage erotica." It really does sound kind of unsavory, doesn't it? I mean, I've been dating Ray all this time, and I still conjure up images of some seedy little man with a musty, messy back alley store, selling dirty postcards in plain brown envelopes to furtive businessmen wearing suspenders under their suits. When, in fact, the entire operation could not be more above board.

He advertises in the best magazines, his client base swings from government officials to captains of industry - and, to even reach Ray's showroom at the gallery, you have to pass first through three other, vast, mahogany-ed halls, filled with photographic art of every description. But then you pass through the heavy wine curtains that drape the rear wall, and you forget everything you saw on the way in, to lose yourself instead in a lost world of monochrome sexuality.

Three thoughts on that subject. First, our grandparents obviously weren't as prudish as we like to think. Secondly, they could teach a lot of modern "porn stars" something about displaying the Body Beautiful. And third, they had some very strange ideas... okay, not strange, but certainly not what we'd call conventional... about what is and isn't sexy. Lots of pissing, lots of pipes and cigarettes being inserted in vaginas and, if you look closely, a lot of rather ludicrous disguises - men with false Groucho noses, things like that. It's also refreshing to realize that the modern fad for ultra-skinny models is just that, a fad. The women in these photographs certainly aren't fat. But neither do they look like they might snap from one over-vigorous fuck. In other words, just normal women doing what, for them, appeared to be normal things.

"Except they weren't normal," Ray explained. "You have to remember, the camera itself was still a fairly recent invention; it certainly wasn't the kind of device you ran into every day. So the models in the pictures might well have been having their picture taken for the very first time - which means, there was such novelty value in it that the actual nature of the photograph was probably a very distant second to the fact that they were being photographed in the first place."

He handed me a loose bundle of pictures that he'd obviously just received in that day's mail (yes, it is legal to send such things through the mails - in fact, much of Ray's business is conducted that way). "These were pulled out of the basement of... believe it or not... an old church that was being renovated in Arkansas. One of the workmen found them, took them home to look through, then put them up on e-bay. Luckily, he didn't have a clue what they were, didn't have a scanner, and only pulled in a few bids. I got them for $30, but I'll probably be sending him another grand by the time I've sold them..."

I looked at him blankly. "I thought you'd already bought them?"

"I have. But one thing I learned long ago, if someone brings you something good... particularly someone in that line of work... treat them right. Because that way, if they come across anything else...." He gestured to a rather striking blow-up on the wall, a veritable triptych showing a priest in a devil mask, taking a nun from behind. "A demolition worker in Brooklyn found the originals, got in touch... we sold the set for five grand, gave him $300 and what do you know? The following week he sent us another batch, that he'd been holding onto as a souvenir."

I flicked through the photos in my hand; paused as Ray lay his hand on my wrist. "Gently. These things are fragile." I apologized and, instead, spread the pictures out on his desk. "Another priest?"

"Priests were a popular subject. Any profession that was considered ‘above' that kind of behavior... you see a lot of well-to-do Lords giving the chambermaid one, a lot of religious figures, there's even a few done up to look like famous politicians and Royalty." He rummaged through a file for a moment, then pulled out a shot of a man with wild, staring eyes, long unkempt hair, and his tongue lolling out of his mouth, lying prone on the floor, while a woman stood above him with a wide, gaping vagina. The caption insisted, "the Real Death of Rasputin."

"The implication..." began Ray.

"Yes, I know what the implication is," I smiled. "Still, at least he died happy."

"There was a lot of humor in pornography back then," Ray continued. "A lot more than you find today. Puns, word-play - I don't know if it was a conscious attempt to lessen the shock of the actual picture, or if it was just the way people's minds worked. But this one's a classic." He passed over another picture, this time of a woman in full Queenly regalia, interrupting what was obviously a very vigorous blowjob to announce, "who said anything about eating CAKE?"

"Marie Antoinette?" I asked. Ray nodded. "The sad thing is, a lot of people today simply wouldn't get the joke; not because it isn't funny any more, but because they don't even know who Marie Antoinette was."

"Are all of these worth that kind of money?" I asked, gesturing around the room.

"The originals are. But we don't display many of those; in fact, we don't even keep them on the premises. Security reasons... insurance purposes... and plain old preservation. Some of these photos are more than a 100, even 150 years old now; you can barely even look at them without them crumbling, let alone handle them. So we make digital copies of every photograph that comes in, to show clients, to lend to publishers... whatever. And they're also handy for reference. You'd be surprised how many forgeries come in these days, and more every year."

"You mean, people dress themselves up as Edwardian priests, take a few photos and then try to pawn them off as the real thing?"

"The amateurs do. But there are also people out there who probably make a better living than I do, selling blatant fakes to the gullible - and I mean, blatant." He pulled out a ring binder and, as if he could barely stand to touch it for any longer than was necessary, he dropped it onto the desk.

"The first few pages are ones we shoot in the studio here, for reference and, occasionally, to ‘complete' sets where there's a scene or two missing - if you look closely, you'll see a towel with the gallery logo placed unobtrusively somewhere in clear view, to identify the piece as one of ours'; otherwise, they're as close to how the original might have looked as we can get it. But the rest are ones that I've picked up over the years - including a few that had me fooled for a while."

I opened the binder and, quite honestly, I had no idea what I was looking at. Beyond what was obviously there, of course. I passed over the ones Ray had just detailed, to the page after page of supposed fakes. "Okay..." I began. "So what makes these any different?"

Ray leaned over me, close enough that I could feel his body-heat through our clothing - although I doubted whether the photographs had anywhere near the effect on him that they were having on me. After all, if you spend 40 hours a week surrounded by every sexual act and position you could imagine, you had to develop some kind of immunity.

"Okay, this one. The costuming is spot-on, the furniture's more or less right for the period. But you tell me. Did late-Victorian servants really wear studs through their tongues?" I looked closely... sure enough, denting the glans of a cock in mid-lick, a honking great piece of hardware. He pointed at another. Again, the clothes looked correct, the furniture seemed old... "and that's the point. The furniture does look old today. But in 19-oh-whenever, it would have been... maybe not brand new. But it wouldn't look like it had just come out of an antique mall, either."

And so on. I soon spotted a 19th century nurse being fucked by a "patient" whose cell phone still lay on the bed alongside her; a milkmaid blowing a stable boy beneath a sky that was streaked by a jet aircraft's con-trail; and, my favorite, a scene that even Ray admitted was perfect in every detail bar one. A door had opened behind the couple, and you could just catch the reflection of a flickering TV screen through the gap.

He continued his impromptu lecture. "Sometimes it's the language that gives a picture away. There'll be a word in the caption that wasn't in use at the time the picture was meant to have been taken... it's surprising how many words for cocks and quims we've come up with in the last 50 years or so. The problem is, I'm trained to look for things like that, and we have the necessary equipment to scrutinize every picture that comes in. A lot of people, though, it never dawns on them ... just as it never occurred to you... that such things can be faked. So they start their collections, they spend a small fortune, and then one day they need to have it appraised...."

His voice trailed off. "It's got to the point where my firm doesn't even offer to value collections any more, unless we're actually being offered it for sale. That way, if we think there's anything amiss, we can just decline to buy and not have to give a reason. You know how they say "a fool and his money are easily parted'? Well, a fool and his temper come in a close second."

"And a maiden and her virtue?" I smiled and, having checked that his office door was closed, reached between his legs to squeeze his balls. The men and women in his photographs are probably all stone dead cold now. But looking at them was making me hot all the same, especially with Helen's last-night experience still bouncing around my brain. Even as I looked through the pictures, losing myself in some remarkable feats, the back of my mind continued conjuring up the scenario... she's in bed, already tucked up, reading a magazine; she barely glances up as Terry steps in from the shower, crosses the room... and suddenly he's straddling her chest, pushing his erection into her mouth. Was she shocked, was she frightened, was she horrified? Or did she realize that he wasn't as oblivious to the state of their marriage as she thought, and decide to let him know that the feeling was mutual?

I remembered the pleasure in her voice; pictured the joy in her eyes as she sucked his cock; saw that same joy echoed in the eyes of the women (and men) in the photographs spread out before me. The laughing brunette with a cock in each hand; the nun with one in each hole... and some of the most beautiful one-on-ones I've ever seen, a succession of girls who genuinely look like they're enjoying themselves (a far cry from some of the sour-pussed visages you see in modern porn)... and real girls, too. Not a silicone boob or collagen lip in sight. "Look at this one." A photo of a girl in the obvious throes of orgasm caught my eye and I pulled it across the table. "She looks exactly how I want to feel."

Ray ruffled my hair playfully. "Well, I suppose I could be in conference," he grinned broadly and clicked the intercom on. "No calls for the time being, Janis," he told the secretary who answered, then turned to me. "One thing, though. I don't suppose you have any condoms on you?"

I kissed him. "You don't need a condom for what I have in mind," I told him and, trailing my hand down his abdomen, I sank to my knees before him and unzipped his fly.

I held him still hardening in my hand, and drew the hot weight towards my lips, swirling my tongue across his glans in long, soft, deliberate swoops, feeling him stiffen beneath my administrations, as I brought my lips, too, into play. His scent was strong, his taste was tart... I wondered if Ray had forgotten his shower this morning, but it didn't matter. The heat of his hard-on packed a flavor all of its own and I could already sense it building.

My mouth enclosed him, sucking gently as I drew him in. I held his cock at its very base, the palm of one hand cradling his balls, the other scraping long nails hard against his stomach beneath his shirt. I knew he was close; his breath was coming in sharp gasps, his muscles were tensing beneath my fingertips. I gave him one more long, loving lick and then pulled away.

"Do you have a camera handy?"

He looked down at me and arched his eyebrows. "What... like a digital?"

"No... I was thinking of something older."

Realization dawned on his face. "We'd have to go through to the studio..." he glanced at the day-planner on his desk. "It's free all afternoon."

I folded his erection back into his pants. "Well, maybe we should drop in. I must say, I'm feeling just a little Victorian right now."

"We'd better have a look in the wardrobe as well, then." Ray took my hand and led me back across the main showroom, and into a smaller room at the rear of the building, laughing as he heard me gasp. It was like stepping out of a time machine, into the perfect replica of an early 20th century living room - or, at least, what I would imagine one looked like.

"We had a shoot in here last night. A sort of ‘what the butler didn't see' series, of him going about his business while the lady of the house flashes her bits behind his back." He pulled out the storyboard. In one, the butler's asking if he should "decant" the port - behind him, she has a bottle pushed up inside her vagina, and replies, "no, I think I can get it out myself." In another, the misguided servant is holding the cat up to the window and asking if pussy can see the tits. The lady is on her back with her legs in the air, her breasts and cunt parallel. "Yes, and the tits can see the pussy, too," she replies. And so on. I lay the cards on the table and, while Ray started fiddling with the camera, setting up the "automatic" function that would capture every frame of the action, I went to the wardrobe and began selecting my costume.

Nothing fancy, nothing posh. I would be a scullery maid, a scruffy little urchin in a tattered slip, the white bow in my hair my only concession to feminine beauty; Ray would be the head of the household, come to admonish me for neglecting my duties, for pouting around the house, for generally behaving like "a week of wet Wednesdays." And, adopting a fierce, New England cut-glass accent, he slipped into the role beautifully... so beautifully that, with a sharp pang of jealousy, I wondered just how often he had played it? That's another thing about these old photographs; though you invariably see the woman's face, the man's is either disguised, obscured, or absent altogether.

It wasn't a pleasant thought... or feeling. Neither Ray nor I had ever discussed fidelity, it's just one of those unspoken conditions that you naturally assume you both agree to. And would it even count as infidelity, if he was the star of his own dirty pictures? Wasn't it simply a part of his job? Open the office, answer some e-mails, check the post, get his dick sucked, make a few calls....

I tried to push the thoughts out of my mind, but Ray noticed, anyway. "Hey, you okay over there?"

I nodded. "Yeah, fine." I leaned back on the bed.

"We don't have to do this, you know," he assured me, as though it had been his idea.

I shook my head. "No, I want to...." Actually, I didn't want to, but I wasn't going to back out now - if not for my own sake, then for that of the eager cock that flagpoled through his shirt tails.

He stood watching me for a moment, and I saw the first camera flash go off. "Come on, what's the problem?"

"Nothing!" I spoke a little harsher than I intended, raising my face to look him in the eye - it suddenly occurred to me that I'd been staring down at my hands. "I was just..." - I was going to say "I was just getting into my role," but I was speaking too slowly; or he moved too quickly. But suddenly he was astride me and, even as my lips parted to form a word, they found themselves forming another shape entirely, a wide "O" as his prick pushed in, past my teeth, over my tongue, thick and hot and thrusting... "and you can keep sucking on it," he half-murmured, half-growled, "until you decide to tell me what the matter is."

My heart pounded... the same thought, the same action, the same reaction that had been heating my pussy all afternoon. Instinctively, without even being aware of the fact, I was sucking on him, drawing him deeper into my mouth, feeling the blood pounding into my lips to make them fuller, softer, a smoother ride for his slow, but so forceful thrusts... Flash! Flash! Even through my closed eyelids I could see the bright explosions of the camera, each one blending with the sensations of light that slashed through my head as his cock tip drove deeper, banging against the back of my throat.

The thought skidded across my mind; what if I wanted to speak, to tell him what the matter was... how could I with this monster pounding into my face? But why would I want to? Why would I ever want this to stop?

Flash! Saliva flooded from my mouth, squirming past his tool to run down my chin and drip onto my chest; I tried to slurp it back in, but the action only drew Ray even deeper, until his thrusts ended only when my face itself was pressed against his abdomen, and he held me there, pushing my nose tight into his belly, my chin into his balls, as I wriggled my jaw and thrust out my bottom lip, to send new sensations rippling through his flesh.

Flash! Again I felt him tense; again, a tingling of that sixth sense that all women possess... the lucky ones, anyway, as a cum-drunk girlfriend once reminded me. His moment was upon us. Flash! I broke his grip and pulled back; kept him tight in my mouth, but not so deep that his load was going to slip straight down my throat. Instead, I caught it, held it, swilled it onto my tongue, and then leaned towards the camera with my mouth wide open... Flash! Then I swallowed.

Ray leaned back, breathing heavily, his eyes still half-closed. "Wow, you really had me fooled there," he whispered. "You looked furious... and even after you said you wanted us to do this, I wasn't sure if I still did. You looked like you'd rather bite it off than suck it."

"It was nothing," I lied. I snuggled into his arms, pulling the bow out of my hair as I did so. And then, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to me, "so why do you always cut your own head off when you take photos?"

"Me?" He laughed. "I've never..." and then a pause. "You think... is that why...." He squeezed my shoulders. "Oh Chrissie, I run the gallery, I don't star in it. I can honestly say this whole thing..." and he gestured towards the camera... "is as new for me as it is for you. We have models that do the fun stuff and, to be frank, they're welcome to it. I have a difficult enough time staying hard for as long as I do. The idea of keeping it up all day...." He shook his head. "And all the posing! They'd need a zoom lens to find my cock if I had to do this on a regular basis."

I cuddled closer. "I dunno, you didn't do so badly." And then, "when will the pictures be developed?"

"I should have them in a couple of hours." He swung his legs off the bed. "Look, some of us really do need to get some work done this afternoon. So..." reassuming his stern Victorian butler persona... "can I now assume that there won't be any repetition of your dour behavior?"

I nodded sweetly. "No sir. I mean, yes sir. I mean, sorry sir. But - hey, I do have a question for you. When you did decide to risk it... carrying on with our photos, that is... what made you choose that particular option?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously."

"I learned long ago... there's this prejudice in society that blow-jobs are somehow the guy's way of asserting some form of dominance over a woman; that she's - not demeaning herself by doing it, but expressing her submission. I've never believed that. I think it's the guy who's being the submissive; it's like a cat or dog rolling over and showing its tummy when it wants to prove it's not a threat. There's sharp teeth in there, a mouth can do a lot of damage to a dick. So any guys who offers himself to be sucked is actually offering more of himself... trust, faith, love... than I think even he's aware of."

I looked at him. Again, Helen and Terry came to mind and, in their case, that last word made sense. But Ray and I? "Love?" I echoed.

"Well, yes." And then, lightly, "plus, it feels so good that it's worth taking the chance. Oh, and by the way, that last photograph..." he stuck out his tongue in imitation of my pose. "I have a client in Japan who'd pay me a small fortune for that, if he thought it was genuine. So if you do ever think about biting my prick off, just remember. You'll be the one who's paying to have it sewn back on."

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