by Robin

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Heterosexual, Zoophilia, Furry, First, Bestiality, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, .

Desc: Sex Story: A story of a woman's fantasy realised and the making of the film

My dotage was not so far advanced that I couldn't get the old boy to polish up quite nicely into some semblance of erectile muscle and throbbing gristle. Occasionally, he would even put out for me and eject a thin stream of jizz, but it needed the stimulant of my past life to get him going these days. As it had become a habit of mine, I had been reviewing some of the old footage of films we had made. Robbie was long gone now; the abuse of narcotics and booze had caught up with him. But, we made some films all right!

The one that had just run out on the videotape was by far the best that we had done. Seeing Buffy locked with her dog, seeing her with its cum running from her, had reawakened the memories. The scene with the horse though, had me gagging to shoot a wad into my palm. I managed to climax when I rounded up the film as Robbie and I fucked the good lady. The replayed scenes came back to me as if it had been yesterday and as I gentle rubbed my shaft, hoping to be able to complete the act, the memories did indeed play in the background, complete with the smells and noises. Afterwards, I slept and relived the day again in sharp focus. My memory is as good as it ever was. The following is what happened on that magical weekend.

The day didn't look promising. Grey cloud cover hung in the air, blanketing what weak sunlight was left of the morning. Rain had passed through during the night, leaving the pavements slick with moisture and shiny in their smoothness.

We trudged on with our collars turned up and hats jammed down hard over our foreheads, leaving little of our faces exposed to the chill wind that the Atlantic cooled, before throwing to shore. It was days like this that we seriously wondered if the money was worth the trouble. The perfectly sunny days where it felt good to be alive, let alone filming had been temporarily forgotten in our miserable condition.

My Cameraman grunted something to me, but it was inaudible, I didn't stop to find out what he said and would have left it at that, but he either repeated it or said something else, only louder this time.

My answer, "how the fuck should I know", didn't help the general mood of the day. I mean, how am I suppose to know how much further it was, did he think I was having de-ja-vue, or something was the line of questions going through my soggy mind.

We are good friends on the whole. We had to be I guess. In our late teens, we had partnered up to film Viet Nam. Two completely raw ingrates thrust into a conflict that had little to do with our idealised notions of push button warfare. After too many body parts, we became inured of the daily scene, just took the shots and fucked off out of there. We had been a partnership since then. Robbie took the shots, I gave them words, and together we sold the stories and together got pissed and or stoned from the proceeds. Thirty years on, we were still a partnership, but only part time now. Our respective women had other ideas and limited our freedom. It wasn't so bad though and probably saved our lives, which we would have pissed away or had leaking from our drunken bodies, in an alley, after a binge.

So, together, we made a formidable pair. Chasing down the hot stories, getting into the tight spots even, sometimes, being so close to the action that we got stuck in the middle of it. Famine, war and natural disasters had been our speciality, not anymore. Christ, we were too old for that kind of mission. Besides, the younger photojournalists had learned the lessons we gave them well, and then improved on them. Crawling through the remains of a family in Sarajevo or Bulawayo was best left to those guys who felt nothing and slept at night.

Our quarry these days, actually proved to be more lucrative. The porn industry had really taken off with the advent of video. What used to be a seedy, backdoor arrangement was now a multi-multi million dollar, in your face, industry. Home PC's and the Internet had turned the already massive giant in to a super-nova of a business that employed a large percentage of the media. We were just another pair of hacks who, like hundreds before us, found a more comfortable way of making money.

We specialised. Actually, if you asked the majority of media journalists in the field, they all specialised in the extraordinary. These days though, nothing was extraordinary anymore, unless you had honest to God aliens, but that nut hadn't been cracked yet, only in fantasy.

But, we did specialise, we advertised for and got thousands of replies from amateur Housewives. We could afford to be picky and selected just five or six a year to have us come and photo shoot at their homes. I always found it amazing that the majority of the replies came from forty-ish middle class women who lived in places like Esher where money was nothing but a hindrance or a ladder to the next level. So many of the replies carried snap shots of an overweight lump of pampered flesh with a lascivious look in her eye. Even my Father wouldn't have raised an eyebrow at them, invariably; the picture and accompanying letter got filed under B.

Occasionally though, a window of opportunity would come from one of the hundreds of envelopes. Some very good looking women would be showing more than their mothers would approve of on an Instamatic Polaroid print. Strangely, the accompanying letters seemed to be the wildest. For some unaccountable reason, these attractive women would describe fantasies far in excess of most imaginations and certainly the middle-aged tub of lard.

It was to one of the former that we were headed. Buffy, as she signed, had sent a photo that looked quite professional. The lighting had been expertly placed through what looked as if it might have been Venetian blinds, casting shadow lines of her beautiful body. In all a very tasteful study of the female form, but the letter that went with it was far from tasteful and it was this that had attracted us more than anything. If her claims were even half way true, she could do with a stallion, what most women would find difficult with a small man.

Twenty minutes later, soaked through and seriously considering the possibility that the address did not exist, we arrived at her door. A Butler showed us to the drawing room of an Edwardian house. Her directions had purposely made us leave the perfectly dry interior of my car some two miles away. The fucking road passed less than sixty feet from the main gate. Wouldn't you know it, I thought, Frightened of the sodding neighbours.

Paintings that looked old, stared at us from their vantage points on the oak panelled walls. A large fire blazed in a John Adams fireplace and candles lit the room from candelabras set on sconces around the room. The Butler advised that the Lady of the house would be with us in a few minutes and would we please make ourselves at home.

Neither of us dared to sit in the Queen Anne chairs, but the heat of the fire drew us to stand on the parquet floor in front of the blaze, hoping to dry out a little.

Several minutes passed, then the door opened to admit a huge Irish wolfhound. Typically, he was full of exuberance and placed both paws on my shoulders with consummate ease in greeting. I stand five ten high; looking a dog eye to eye while vertical is a little disconcerting. I just hoped he was friendly.

"Byron, Get down." She hadn't entered the room, but obviously knew the dog well and knew it would have made its presence known in this manner. Bryon, we guessed was the dogs name, slunk away to an opposite corner and laid down.

She swept passed the edge of the door and into the room. "I really am most dreadfully sorry, Byron has a tendency to like people immediately and has no qualms about showing his affection. Please do accept my apology.

"Fuck me." Robbie whispered, "She is fucking knock out."

He was not wrong in his appraisal. The Lady of the house was a vision to behold. A low cut, full dress accentuated her loveliness and the pearl choker around her long neck was real. Her slender, almost delicate hand was extended we shook hands while introducing ourselves.

"I am Mrs. Taylor Smyth she informed us, although I much prefer to be called Buffy, it goes back to school days don'tyouknow and seems to have been handed down through the matriarchal line." This information was delivered with a slight shrug of her bare shoulders, a move that looked practiced and studied to illicit the exact response it caused my sensory array. "I do hope you liked my photograph, I had my Butler, Juan do them for me. He is rather good with a camera don'tyouthink?

Her manner of speech also had a desultory affect to my nervous system and almost left me bereft of the power of coherent thought.

Robbie was not quite so bashful, he never had been. They was luverly, and we wondered if there was any more you would let us 'ave?" I wondered at the sudden cockney style of talking, Robbie usually spoke fairly well. "See, we 're putting togever a portfolio of wimen and you would look good innit."

"We shall see." She dismissed him as easily as that and turned to me, raising an eyebrow as she did. "I really am quite keen on acting out the fantasy as described in my letter." She paused and raised her hand as if in defence. "Although, one does not actually indulge in these things you understand, on a regular basis, but I firmly believe that nothing should be allowed to pass untried unless it is absolutely abhorrent. I do hope you can help me in this little venture and find myself quite at the mercy of your expertise."

We had been recommended by Lady something or another to her, she had retained the card and that, as they say, was that.

"Mrs. Taylor Smyth..." I began.

"Buffy, please."

.... There is more of this story ...

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