Annie’s Camera Ch. 03

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When Annie and I set up house together I knew, in part, it was because I wanted to entirely change my life. I had worked really hard through college, waiting tables when I wasn’t studying, and I had worked equally hard for the year since graduating. Now was a perfect time for a change. My job, an accountant for a large advertising firm, was really challenging and going well, but the rest of my life had been badly neglected. Sure, now I had Annie, but socially, physically, emotionally and spiritually, I was a bit of a wreck, so at 24 with my foot firmly planted on the bottom wrung of what I expected to be a very tall corporate ladder, I was due for a bit of a make-over and with my A-type personality I knew I would work hard to make it happen.

But, that said, by far the biggest change in my life was and would continue to be the inseparable duality of my newly discovered lesbianism and its singular focus, Annie. Three months after our first intimate touch and a month after moving into our new apartment, we were no longer experimenting with each other; we had fallen into a predicable pattern that was exciting, nurturing and naughty.

You have to give to get, I knew that, I knew that in getting the unbelievable thrill from having Annie as a fully obedient partner, I had to give her what she wanted: I had to feed her panty fetish. We never talked about it but when we moved in together, far from it going away, her fetish seemed to intensify. And it evolved.

I guess all couples develop a comfortable sexual routine together. We did, from the moment we set up house. I needed a lot of sex, it shocks me how much of it I need, and it was sex I crave, not warmth and love and intimacy: sex, raw sex, dirty sex, even degrading sex.

I hit on it the first night in our new apartment. I was naked on all fours on the bed, my tits and belly hanging down, my legs spread obscenely wide. It took her awhile but she finally got all the elements right and it became our standard: she would kneel on the floor at the end of the bed and lick and suck my rectum while she fondled my breasts and when the moment was right, I would lean my head down on the bed and offer her my pussy; she’d take my clit in her lips and suck until my shouting stopped. And then it would be absolutely quiet, me pressing myself into the bed, Annie pressing herself into me, her face on the small of my back. I loved it, it was the crescendo of everything I wanted and I felt so deliciously dirty it never took more than a few minutes for me to explode.

And then one night, things changed. When I was kneeling on the bed expecting the usual, Annie handed me a pair of panties and asked me to put them on. When I did, it made all the difference in the world … to her. What had been a delicious, easy and fool-proof way for me to quickly get off, now became a prolonged production. With my ass sticking out there for her, Annie made love … to my panties. Her fingers would trace lazy circles all over them, then she would follow their borders along my skin, poking under them in places, pinching the material, running her finger under them at the crotch, lightly pushing the material into my pussy, pushing the material into my anus. Only when she sensed my impatience did she take them off and get down and dirty with my rectum before biting onto my clit.

I didn’t really get her panty thing; I thought she’d get over it, especially when we moved in together. But she didn’t. I didn’t know it at first but when I started paying attention to it, her fetish seemed to be everywhere.

The first thing I noticed was that, just as when she lived alone, now she always had a pair of my panties under her pillow, even though I was pressed into her side every night. Didn’t get it. Then, after about a month of living together, I noticed that my panty drawer started to change. Going were the variety of panties I had; they were being replaced by cheap nylon granny style, either yellow or rose, with a thick cotton gusset. Then, after a few weeks I noticed that those were the only panties in my drawer, cheap nylon yellow or rose — all my usuals I guess had been pitched, and then I noticed that the drawer sometimes was really full of them and at other times not nearly so full. It kind of freaked me out a little and I was going to talk to her about this wierd panty thing but decided against it. Who cares if she liked my panties, she had already admitted as much. Big deal. And I told myself that it was no big deal when I discovered my panties … in her purse, then, when I went looking for them, in her jacket pocket and in her camera bag, always the rose or yellow, always the cheap nylon.

In fact, while initially I was a little troubled by it, after awhile I started to really like this panty thing of hers because it made our sex so much better. I am a taker, I want her to service me, sad but true and I had been feeling a little guilty that in my taking I hadn’t been doing much giving. As far as I knew, she rarely had an orgasm while free spin mine were as regular as the multiple-vitamins I took.

That all changed when I started to feed her fetish.

I didn’t like it that she left my panties on when she licked my anus. But I didn’t say anything, instead, one night I took my panties off early during a session and, as a result, had a better than average cum, but when it was over, rather than just collapsing on the bed like I usually did, I rolled over and used the panties to clean myself, like, really thoroughly, then I just dropped them there on the bed. That’s the only time I had to do it. From then on in I wore her yellow or rose nylon granny panties for no more than a few minutes before she took them off, licked, felt and sucked me to a predictably terrific orgasm then, when I rolled over on my back with my legs wide open, she would carefully, meticulously, clean me with them. And I loved to watch her do it, it just seemed to matter so much to her.

But things were far from perfect with us.

On a Thursday night I was talking to her pussy, as I often did, punctuating my sentences with nuzzling pecks. “I joined a gym today, I’ve tried it out a few times in the past month and decided to go for it.”

This surprised her enough that she lifted her head from my thigh and looked at me, “You’re kidding.”

“My birthday’s next week. You’ll want to get something special for me,” I gave a little tongue to my nuzzle, for emphasis. “I need something to wear in the gym so I thought we’d go out on Saturday and try to find it.” When she started to object I bit her on a lip, hard enough that she jumped and cried, ‘Heyhhh.’

It’s one of the great curiosities of our relationship that the lesbian, Annie, and the lover, me, have essentially changed roles: she is doing everything she can to conceal her sexual identify while I, in a giggly kind of way, am trying to create one. She’ll go out for the occasional drink, if the bar is dark enough, but she won’t, in effect, allow us to be seen together as a couple. It’s been like this from the get-go so I haven’t taken offense, but after a month or so of living together it has crossed the line of absurdity; we’re either a couple or we’re not, who cares what your family thinks? Well, she does, she doesn’t want them to get wind of her sexual aberration — the way they would think of it — before she could find the courage to tell them about it.

I knew Annie’s parents, I knew why she would want to keep her secret from them but she didn’t see much of them anymore so … and anyway, I was starting to feel like a second class citizen, “We’re going to the mall on Saturday, we’re going to pick out exercise stuff together; then we’re going out to dinner; then we’re going to a movie, you can pick it; then we’re going out for a drink and maybe talk to some people. Got it? We’re going to step outside these fucking walls together and we’re going to socialize.” I knew this would traumatize her but I didn’t care, my life needed to change and it wasn’t going to change without her.

I tried to cheer her up with my tongue but I wasn’t getting anywhere so I rolled away and pretended to be getting myself off but the atmosphere was way too tense for that and I was just about to quit when she rolled into me and started kissing the back of my frigging hand. “What kind of gym is it?”

“The exercise kind of gym,” I said, encouraged to go deeper.

“Men and women?”

“Ya, both.”

And it just hung there, her lips were on the hand that was slowly frigging but I knew they were pensive lips, not passionate, and that’s when it occurred to me. I roughly pushed her head away and sat up, looking down on her. “You’re jealous,” but I wasn’t certain I was right, it seemed too stupid and then it got more stupid, “Of whom, the girls or the boys?”

She didn’t answer and she didn’t look at me.

“Which?” I demanded.

She still wouldn’t look at me, still wouldn’t talk.

“Goddam it, which?”


“Both?” It took me a moment before I laughed, it took some time for her inanity to sink in.

This really made her mad; there was more fire in her eyes than I’ve ever seen before, “You’re not really a lesbian, Bets. You’re only a lesbian because I am.”

This really pissed me off: I’d given up a heterosexual identity just for her? “So I’m not attracted to other girls?” I laughed scornfully, “Want to bet?”

“Why are you so mean to me?” She pushed her face into the cover.

“Oh, get real. You won’t even be seen with me in public and I’m mean to you?” I started to get up, disgusted by the entire thing, “What a douche bag you can be.”

She pulled at my arm, “I don’t want to fight, Bets.”

I pulled my arm away, “Well, nor do I but I don’t want to be called a part-time lesbian, either. I either am, or I’m not. We’re either in this together, publicly or I’ll hook up with the girl on the fucking treadmill or the guy, for that matter, bonus veren siteler seeing as how, according to you, I can go either way.” I got off the bed and started dressing. “You know, it’s really cruel of you to treat me this way. You’re all over me in the safety of this apartment but you won’t be seen with me outside it. What does that say about me, about you, about us? You’re the fucking lesbian, why don’t you start acting like one. You’re supposed to be in love with me for fuck’s sake.”

“I am.”

“Behind these four fucking walls …” I stomped out of the room, grabbed my purse and left the apartment but I wasn’t even at the elevator when I started to calm down. She did love me, I knew that and I knew she was feeling real anxiety about coming out, fully out: I knew her parents weren’t easy people, but I found it depressing to be living a half-life, a kind of secret life. That just isn’t me.

Ten minutes after leaving our apartment I was having a glass of wine in the bar down the street.


I was sitting at the bar, ridiculously high up on a high-backed stool, half way through a glass of dry white wine. The guy, who was standing just a little behind me to my left, had his tie undone and had clearly had a few. “I’m a lesbian,” I said, dismissively. I don’t know why I said that, but as soon as I did, it felt good.

“What’s that like?” He rested his arm on the back of the stool beside me, as if he was waiting for a long, in-depth answer, or maybe it was just to keep his balance.

My first thought was to tell him to piss off, but the question was the very one I had been mulling at that moment so I swiveled to almost face him. “Do you know what bipolar is?” He nodded, “Well, it’s kind of like that, one moment I’m ecstatic, the next I’m depressed.” I took a sip of my wine, “Did you know that more lesbians commit suicide than gay men do? Did you know that?” He didn’t. “I don’t know why that is, probably something to do with the DNA of birthing, child-rearing, nurturing, domesticity. But it says something, doesn’t it.”

I had swiveled away, thinking about my answer when the guy said, “What about the sex?”

I swiveled back, studying him. “You married?” He nodded. “How is sex with your wife?”

He hesitated, unsure of how to answer, “OK, I guess.”

“Only OK? Why just OK? I mean, you’re pretty young, your wife probably still has some pretty nifty bits and pieces, you know, good tits, tight pussy, probably still looks really fetching …”

I was admiring my use of the word ‘fetching’ when the guy shrugged, “I don’t know, it probably has a little to do with the ‘been-there-done-that’ factor.”

I threw back the rest of my drink, “Ya, I hear ya. Sometimes when I’m sucking my way along the inside of Annie’s thigh — particularly when she really stretches to open herself up for me, like she does — and when I’ve lock my lips onto her hairy puffies, snorting in that magnificently musky aroma of hers before I start lapping-up those juices, ya, I often say to myself, God, it all seems so fucking monotonous. Am I right?” I looked up at him. The dumb fuck was slack-jawed and speechless. I pushed the spare change away from my coaster, picked up my purse and left.

Annie met me at the door, she was really excited, “I phoned them, Bets. They’re going to meet me for lunch on Saturday. I told them I had something important to tell them, then I’m going to take you out and get everything you want. You’ll be the best looking girl in the gym. They’ll be drooling over you, Bets, the women … and the men.”

I had been a long time since I had seen Annie this excited, “Do you want me to come with you … to talk to your parents?”

She shook her head, “No, I’ve got to do that, I should have done this years ago.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“Honestly?” She didn’t have to add any more, her eyes told the story, but she did, “I’m kind of excited about it. I’m not their little girl any more. If they don’t want to see me again …”

“It’s not going to get to that, Annie …”

“No, but if it does, I’m OK with it … but I’m not OK with hurting you any more. I know I have, it was stupid and I never will again. OK? Honest. I was just such a chicken-shit.”

She started to pull my shirt from my pants, but I pushed her hands away. I have a bit of a mean streak in me but that’s not why I did it. I did it because I wanted to wipe the slate clean: her thoughtless stupidity needed to be punished, otherwise, she might feel a lasting guilt — or so went my logic. And I had long planned her punishment, I just needed to come up with a reason to dispense it. This was it. I’ve asked her a few times before, told her really, to bring home a digital video camera. I wanted her to masturbate for me. And that’s what I told her.

“No way.”

“Fine,” I said, pretending indifference. “Don’t.” But I knew she would: guilt is a great motivator.

She phoned me at work deneme bonusu veren siteler the next day to try to weasel out of it, pathetically. Maybe laughing at her wasn’t the best approach but I was still a little pissed at her and I really do think she needed to make some considerable sacrifice to get back in my good books. And I guess she did too, because she lugged home the lights with the camera but she clearly wasn’t happy about it. “I’m not into this, Bets,” she said, obviously pissed off, “this is your thing, not mine.”

“And it was my thing, not yours to want to be seen in public with you.”

This really got to her, “Am I going to spend the rest of my life paying for that?”

I found her shame delicious. “No, just the rest of the night, that’s the point. One good cum on film and I’ll consider us even, until you do it again.”

“Can I eat first?”

“Anything that will get you in the mood.” And, at the prospects of directing this film, that’s where I was, in a good mood. I told her to set-up the lights in the bedroom while I made supper.

But she wasn’t exactly hungry; when she sat down she absently pushed her stirfry into three neat piles, chop-sticking the stragglers onto their peaks.

“Do you want to hear the storyline?”

She looked up at me for the first time since sitting down, “What storyline?”

“The movie story line. You’ll wear that cute red dress with the drop neck; you come into the bedroom; you slowly take your dress off, seductively if you can do it; you take my picture from the dresser; you sit down on the bed looking at it dreamy …” I looked at her to try to gauge her reaction.

“Get serious.”

She looked so uncomfortable I just laughed. What a fucking wuss. “I’m going to shoot the movie, Annie, get used to it.” At this, she sprang from the table, grabbing her plate which she almost threw on the kitchen counter before stomping off to the bedroom. But I was loud enough so she could hear me through the closed door. “Anyway, you’re sitting on the bed, you have a dreamy look on your face then you get up and light some of our candles, get some creams, then you lie down on the bed and show me what you’ve been doing to yourself all these years, I want to see it all, in technicolor.”

Strangely, I wasn’t bothered by her reaction, I guess I sort of expected it but it didn’t matter because I knew she was going to do precisely what I asked because I just couldn’t see a way out for her, so I went back to my stirfry and almost alternated my bites with drinks from my wine glass. I had just finished when she came back into the room holding her red dress, which she put over the back of a chair before she sat down, filled her wine glass, took a drink, sat back and looked at me, defiantly.

“That face will not make it into a single frame.” I said, sternly.

“Then you’re going to have to air-brush it out.”

Not the best thing for her to say. “So, what’s the deal here, Annie, I don’t get it.” I was using a voice I knew she feared. “You want to suck every crevice of my body and you want me to suck every pore of yours but masturbation is out? What’s up with that? I mean, you’ll masturbate with me, but you’ll never masturbate for me. I’m not getting this, Annie, particularly after you’ve admitted that for years you’ve been fucking yourself to sleep every night with my panties on your face. I mean, what gives?”

She sank into her sulky body droop, “I don’t like you watching me.”

“I can lick, suck, bite, eat … but I can’t look at you, which, of course, is pretty much what I’m doing 24/7 — looking at you in my mind’s fucking eye. Do you want me to stop that?” I waited for her to say something but it didn’t look like she was going to. “Because, I will, if that’s what you want, I’ll banish you from my fucking thoughts: no bum, no belly, no thighs, no tits, no smiling face that looks at me with love in her eyes, none of that …”

“So I go in to the bedroom with my red dress on …”

“Not any more.” I gave her my best pissed-off face, because that’s the way I was feeling. “Do you think I’d ever want to fire up the fucking computer to watch a girl I’ve forced to masturbate for me, sulk? Do you think I’d get a thrill out of that?”

“Come on, Bets.”

“Help me out here, Annie, there’s a lot about lesbianism I’m not quite getting, like the part where the two girls can’t be seen in public together, I don’t quite get that, and the part where one doesn’t want the other to actually see her body, I don’t much get that, either. Obviously, I’ve got it all wrong: I’d masturbate in fucking public for you if you wanted me to, that’s how fucked up I am. So, really, when you think about it, you should have given me a few of the fucking ground rules when you talked me into your fucking bed.” I laughed, sardonically, “I feel like such a stupid fuck, I mean, I thought this whole lesbian thing was about giving yourself to the other, you know, lock, stock and fucking belly. Now I learn, noooooooo, that’s not your kind of lesbianism, your kind is about a little panty-sniffing and controlled eating behind a closed door. Great, I may not be a quick study, Annie, but I think I’ve finally got it and I’m so just fucking embarrassed I expected more. Can you ever forgive me?”

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