Picture Perfect

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

"What do you mean, you won't?" Carlos demanded, squinting into the sun.

"Just what I said," I replied.

Carlos was a gorgeous guy, with dark, wavy hair; a deep, tropical tan; even teeth, as white Chicklets; broad shoulders; a deep chest; a flat, firm belly; strong arms and legs; and firm, compact buttocks. He had quite a lovely cock, too, over seven inches erect and circumcised, with a big mushroom head and the biggest balls I've ever had the pleasure to behold—or hold. We'd been lovers, sure—what model hasn't made love to her photographer? In fact, for the last couple of years, we'd been a couple. I'd have thought he'd understand my decision not to strap my own cock and balls down between my thighs, the glans pointed past my anus, but he didn't understand. He didn't understand at all, and he was anything but supportive.

"You have to," he insisted.

"No, I don't," I countered. "I read my contract. There's nothing in it that says I have to emasculate myself to model Va-Va-Va-Voom Bikinis."

"No one's asking you to emasculate yourself, Barbie."

"Tucking my cock and balls under my perineum is the same thing, isn't it, symbolically?"

Carlos sighed. "No. Now, come on, please. Be reasonable. There's only another hour of sunlight left."

Behind us, the waves rolled in, high and green, crested with foam and smelling of the sea. We'd arrived later in Tahiti than we'd anticipated, but Carlos wanted to get whatever pictures he could. Superstitious, he believed that a photo session's success or failure was determined by how things went the first day. He was nuts that way. All artists have their peculiarities, I suppose. Maybe mine was my refusal, this time out, to tuck my genitals "out of the way," as Carlos often expressed his request to hide my cock and balls between the lower cheeks of my most decidedly round, feminine bottom.

"You're right, The light is fading—fast. You'd better make the best use of it."

"Barbie, I am not kidding!"

"I'm not, either."

"Damn it! For a shemale, you have a huge cock—and big balls, too. Their outline is clearly visible through your bikini bottom; the bulge will ruin any shots I take of you.."

I shrugged, listening to the crash and roar of the waves tumbling upon the golden sands. "Just shoot me from the waist up," I offered.

"You know I can't."

"Well, then, I don't know what to tell you."

"You've never protested before."

"Maybe I've developed a little self-respect."

"I'm just asking you to pose. What's disrespectful about that?"

"I'm a shemale, Carlos. A chick with a dick. That's who and what I am, and I'm not going to deny the truth about myself to anyone any longer. I'm not going to be a photo eunuch anymore."

"Your career's over," he predicted, looking at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "Mine probably is, too." He made a few adjustments to his tripod and his camera. He glared at me over the instruments of his art. "Could you manage a fucking smile, at least?"

I didn't much feel like smiling at the moment, but I did. After all, I am a professional.

 

An hour later, Carlos had taken all the photos the waning sunlight would allow, and we drove back to our hotel in his van. Not a word passed between us. We rode the elevator together, but acted as if we were strangers. As the doors slid apart, I touched his hand with mine. "If you want to talk—"

"I don't," he said angrily, jerking his hand away.

We walked in opposite directions down the hall to our respective rooms. I hoped to hear a knock on my door that night. Angry, Carlos might be, but he was also a passionate man who appreciated the thrills that only a transsexual could offer him. The fact that the knock never came underscored just how perturbed he must have been.

 

The next morning, the scene of the previous evening repeated itself, with Carlos demanding that I tuck my cock and balls between my legs like a whipped dog and my insisting that I would never again be a "photo eunuch." He'd have to accept me just the way I am.

Finally, he saw that I meant what I said, and he filmed me in an assortment of bikinis and in various poses. I wore a hot-pink string bikini, sitting on the beach, the waves rushing around my ass and thighs, with my hands flat on the sand and my back arched. I wore a red suit, sat atop a mound of rocks, with the sea crashing around and below me as I stretched my arms toward the cloudless azure sky, smiling dreamily in the sun. I wore a bra and bottom set printed with a lovely floral pattern, my genitals a clear bulge among the flowers. We took many other pictures, of course—hundreds of them.

Carlos never said a word except to bark commands as to how to position my arms or legs or which way to hold my head. He was colder than the sea, which brought gooseflesh to my arms and legs and bottom. At the end of the day, he repeated his dire prophecy concerning our future careers. They were over, he predicted. I'd ruined both my own future modeling prospects and his continued career as a photographer by my asinine insistence on "exhibiting" my cock and balls while "pretending" to be a woman. His words hurt worse than I can say; they also showed me, again, as if I needed the reminder, the depth of his anger.

I wanted to kiss away his frustration and fear. I wanted to hug him to me, and whisper away his anxieties and concerns. I wanted to lick and kiss and suck his thick, hard prick. I wanted to make wild, passionate love to him, to feel his cock deep in my ass. I wanted to feel the warm flood of his semen over my bare buttocks and my naked back. I wanted him thrusting deep and fast and hard inside me, so that I was rocked and hammered and pounded before him, my tits jiggling and bobbing and my genitals shaking and swaying. I wanted him to take revenge on me, brutally and savagely, through sex. I wanted him to know that, despite my refusal to acquiesce to his demands that I castrate myself, even symbolically and temporarily, he was the decision-maker in regard to everything else. In our personal lives, and especially in the bedroom, Carlos was the man; he was the person in charge, and I would submit to his will, whatever it might be. By taking me brutally in the ass, Carlos could reassert his dominance over me, and things would be well between us again.

Instead, he remained stern and taciturn all the way back to the States, and, let me tell you, it's a long, long way from Tahiti to L. A. when a girl's seated next to a pissed-off, dominant man like Carlos!

 

A week later, we were on the verge of breaking up when Carlos received a telephone call from Lou Letterman, the photo editor for Va-Va-Va Voom Bikini's summer catalogue. With a look of doom on his face, Carlos indicated that I should pick up the extension.

With a huge feeling of foreboding and trepidation, I did as Carlos directed.

"Carlos?" Lou bellowed. "You still there?"

"I'm here, Lou."

"These photos you shot—they're—"

Carlos shot me a look of pure rage. Here it comes, I thought.

"—fantastic!" Lou finished. "Better than I'd expected. They're picture perfect! In fact, Barbie's the cover girl for our summer catalogue!"

"I don't understand," Carlos mumbled. "I thought you'd be pissed. I thought my career was over."

Lou laughed. "Over? My boy, it's just begun!"

Carlos looked stunned.

"Just this morning, Emily told me she wanted to broaden the company's client base by appealing to the transgendered market, which, as you might not know, has become huge. She loves the photos you took of Barbie, especially the shots of her in that floral bikini, where her cock and balls are clearly defined. Why didn't you tell us she's a transsexual?"

Emily Patterson was the company's chief executive officer. If she liked the pictures, Lou would like them, too. If Lou liked them, shouldn't Carlos? I looked at him, hoping he would.

"I didn't know how you'd respond to such news," Carlos answered Lou's question.

"Are you kidding? Male, female, or shemale, she's sexier than hell!"

Carlos grinned at me; all the worry and fear were banished from his tanned, handsome face as he displayed his bright, even smile. He said goodbye to Lou, sprinted across the living room, and planted a kiss on my lips, squeezing my ass in his strong, firm hand. My heart leaped.

"Let's make love," Carlos invited, his eyes bright.

"Promise to be rough?"

His grin widened. "If you insist."

"I like a lot of man in my man," I said.

He kissed me again, cupping my cock and balls in his hand. His fist closed around my genitals, gripping them firmly, almost painfully. "And I like a woman with the balls to be herself," he answered.

The sex was brutal—and wonderful.

  

  

  

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