by juanwildone

***

A chance viewing of a photograph triggers a profound
change in a woman's sex life. (MF)

***

In a drab and dreary bank, at a nondescript desk worked
a plain and rather ordinary woman named Helen. As
supervisor of the safety deposit vault, Helen conducted
the business of banking in a professional and
appropriate manner. In fact, accepted procedures,
polite conversations, and appropriate behaviors seemed
to pervade all aspects of Helen’s life – even her
marriage.

But today was a Friday, and it was nearly closing time.
Outwardly composed, Helen felt the low buzz of
anticipation build inside her. The bank doors opened
and Helen swallowed in anxiety. She forced herself not
to look up. The gentle tapping of a cane grew louder.
Helen stood and greeted her final customer of the day.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Williamson. How may I assist you
today?"

During Helen’s 27 years with the bank, she had observed
Mr. Williamson visiting the safety deposit vault
countless times. But it was only after Mr. Williamson
broke his hip that it became interesting. He required
physical assistance during his visits and asked that
Helen accompany him.

The new routine of Mr. Williamson's visits was always
the same. Helen would turn the keys, pull the safety
deposit box from the wall, and place it on the table.
She would then open the lid and step far enough away to
grant him privacy.

Mr. Williamson, the skin of his aged hands translucent
like parchment, would pull a photograph from the box
and hold it unsteadily before him. His fingers would
trace across the surface. Helen would watch Mr.
Williamson's face gradually lighten, his eyes shine
brightly, and his bent frame slowly straighten. The
slightest of smiles would play across his lips, then
purse into a kiss. He would slowly return the
photograph to the box and close the lid.

Like the monotonous flapping of a bellows returns a
dying ember to bright flame, the repeated visits
aroused Helen's curiosity.

Today was no different than any other. Helen pulled the
box, opened the lid, and stepped back. Today was no
different as Mr. Williamson picked up the photo, looked
at it, traced the image with his fingers, smiled and
blew that silent kiss.

But today was different, because something completely
unexpected happened. Mr. Williamson dropped the
photograph. It sailed right out of his hand and
seesawed down to the floor, landing face down.

"Oh," said Helen in the quietest of voices. "I'll get
it."

Helen bent swiftly and picked up the photograph. By
every code of professional conduct and customer
privacy, she knew she should not turn the photograph
over and look at it. But Helen did turn it over and she
didn't just look at the photograph - she studied it.
She simply couldn't help herself. The photograph itself
looked old, and yet the image was fresh and clear.

A girl in her late teens or early twenties seated on a
park bench. Behind her, a long line of palm trees edged
a white sand beach. The girl's face seemed innocent and
carefree. Helen was drawn to her eyes, and she found
herself looking deeply into them. The girl's eyes were
wide in astonishment, or was it something else?

The girl wore a simple sundress. The dress, unbuttoned
and pulled slightly to the left, revealed … a perfect
breast. The girl's left hand, which had just pulled the
material aside, had a finger extended beneath a very
erect nipple. There was something about the finger,
though; Helen noticed that it was somewhat blurred.
When Helen realized that the girl was stimulating her
nipple, she felt her own nipples respond.

Helen's gaze lowered along the line of opened buttons
until she arrived at the very center of the photograph.

The girl's right knee was bent with her right foot
tucked just under her left leg. Her naked thighs led
you to her exposed cunt. A wild patch of pubic hair
crowned softly bulging lips - spread apart by the first
two fingers of the girl's right hand.

Helen's focus dimmed, her hand trembled, and she gasped
as a mild orgasm shivered through her. The stale air of
the vault filled with the strong scent of Helen's
arousal.

Mr. Williamson carefully took the photo from her hand
and returned it to the box.

That night Helen practically raped her husband.

"What was that all about?" her husband inquired
afterward.

"I needed it," Helen told him simply.

Helen found that she needed it quite often. At first,
her husband responded to her - gratefully,
enthusiastically, vigorously and repeatedly.

In time, his interest waned.

Helen's did not.

The photograph had enflamed something long dormant
within her. Her comfortable life, at one time so safe
and satisfying, now seemed leaden and mundane. She
engaged in wild flights of fantasy regarding the girl
in the photo. Helen began writing stories about the
girl. Many of the stories were romantic and sensual.
But some of her stories were sluttish, and the scope
and depth of their depravity frightened Helen.

***

7th of June - He was waiting for me in his office. I
tried to put him off - to tell him that it was over. He
wouldn't listen, or I wasn't very convincing. He simply
unzipped his trousers and pulled my mouth to his cock.
I felt him grow hard in my mouth and I smiled to myself
at my talent. He fucked my mouth until my eyes watered
and then he pulled his wet prick out.

"Did you bring it?" I nodded meekly as I pulled the
sterling silver cake-serving knife from my purse. "It
was a wedding gift, from his parents, I've never..."

He turned me around and bent me over his desk. I was
squirming beneath him as he slid his hand up my legs.
He tore my panties off, and then stabbed me with his
cock. I was holding onto the edge of the desk as he
pounded into me. That was when I noticed that his
office door was ajar. Anyone could walk in and see us!

He held the silver handle of the knife before me.
"Better get it wet. You know where it's going." My
sphincter muscles clenched and spasmed.

I was late getting back to the bank. His cum was
leaking from my cunt and my ass. He told me to bake my
husband a birthday cake, on this his special day, and
be sure to use the knife. I could hardly wait to get
home.

***

Helen didn't tell her husband about Mr. Williamson or
the photograph, nor did she tell him about the stories
she wrote or the fantasies she had. But she also didn't
hide her diary very well. A few weeks after Helen had
begun writing the diary, her husband began fucking her
again.

Sometimes he squeezed and pulled too hard at her
nipples. Sometimes he pounded her cunt relentlessly
until she was satisfyingly sore. And sometimes when he
ignored her pleas of "too much," when he sent her
soaring to heights unimagined, she would find him
glaring at her...as if she had done something terribly
wrong.

Late one evening, after a deliciously savage fuck that
left her husband fast asleep and Helen desiring more,
she was inspired to write a new story in her diary.

She went to her desk and opened the drawer. The diary
was there, but it was upside down. Helen thought for a
moment. That was when she knew. "He's been reading my
diary. He thinks I'm having an affair. No, no - he
thinks I'm a slut!" Her hand was between her thighs in
no time at all. Her orgasm was the most intense she'd
ever experienced.

In the afterglow of her delight, she thought of the
photograph and all the changes it had caused in her
life. She decided she wanted a photograph of her own.
She wanted a photo of herself looking like someone's
slut. She wanted a photograph that her husband could
find.

She took dozens of photos of herself with a friend's
digital camera until she had the one she liked. In the
photograph she was sitting on a pillow leaning back,
her arms draped across the headboard of their bed. Her
hair, which was usually pulled back or done up, was
loose and disheveled.

Her make-up was different, too. It was softer and drew
attention to her eyes. Bright red lipstick enhanced the
fullness of her lips. A black lace corset pushed her
breasts up and forward, one nipple spilling over the
top. Garter straps hung uselessly, and a single black
hose was gathered around her left calf. Her right leg
was bent and splayed to the side revealing her cunt.
But it was the expression on her face that made this
particular photograph the right choice. She looked very
satisfied.

Helen left the photograph where he couldn't miss it -
especially after she told him where to look. She had
sent him in search of some old costumes for a Halloween
party they'd been invited to attend.

At the party that night she flirted shamelessly with
every man there. During the drive home the tension in
the car was suffocating. Quietly unbuttoning the top of
her costume, she turned to him and asked if there was
anything wrong.

Without saying a word, he pulled the car over to the
side of the road. He opened her door, beckoned her out,
grabbed her, and threw her face down into the back seat
of the car. He tore her costume off and fucked her.

When they got back home he fucked her again and
continued to fuck her throughout the weekend. He even
fucked her in her ass.

That night, his cum trickling from her anus, he slammed
the diary on the night table. "Me or them," he roared.
"I won't share you."

"But honey," she began.

"I know everything," he said. He jabbed the photo
before her eyes. "See!" The photo shivered in his
hands.

"You, I want you," she said meekly.

She did have one simple request.

In a drab and dreary bank, at a nondescript desk worked
a plain and rather ordinary woman named Helen. For too
many years Helen had gone about her duties in a
thorough and efficient manner. Papers were marked as
they should be, filed where appropriate, and the
business of banking conducted in a professional, and
otherwise unremarkable, manner.

On this typically dull day, Helen returned to her desk,
having just helped a new customer with her safety
deposit box.

There were two voice mail messages waiting for her.

The first was from her husband; thank God he didn’t
leave his name.

"I want you. I want your soft lips. Lips I will kiss
until they’re swollen with desire. I want your breasts.
I want to caress them and hear you moan as your nipples
respond to my touch. I want your cunt. I want to hear
you cry in ecstasy as I fill you again and again."
There was a pause and a trembling sigh. "And then I
want your wrists and your ankles because I am going to
tie you to my bed."

Helen unconsciously crossed her ankles and rubbed her
wrists. She found the mental image of herself tied
spread eagle to their bed very exciting. When the image
changed to her tied face down, she shivered
uncontrollably.

She played the second message. Her husband’s voice was
pitched low, just above a whisper. "And I bought a
video camera today."

END