Chapter 6: Minnesota

Terry called me one evening just after I’d finished a crappy camp dinner. I’d been spoiled by the superb cuisine at Jed’s. I must have been near a cellular tower. Terry’s first words to me were, “Jim, where are you?”

I told him I was in southern Minnesota aiming for North Dakota. I could hear a scurry of activity behind him as he passed that information along to Ellen who I could hear talking in the background. I could also hear the rapid click of computer keys. While I waited for Terry to reengage, I thought I might actually get through a new state without having sex.

Terry came back on the line and launched into a long explanation of why he’d called and interrupted the reverie of my motorcycle journey. “Nashville Records wants to put out an album of songs that are just you and they want to do immediately – like yesterday; actually, there’ll be two songs you did with Crystal on the album, but the rest will be just you. Anyway, we’ve sorted through all the photos we have – you know, like from the concerts, and they’re unhappy with them. They want more to work with; you know, album cover stuff, and supposedly candid pics for an inside extra.”

I heard a further side conversation as I heard Ellen gave Terry some information. Terry came back to me on the phone, “Look, in St. Cloud, turns out there’s a photographic outfit we’ve used in the past. A place called Reber Images; they used to be in LA, and are one of the best in the world for album and PR photos. I’ll text you their phone number in a minute.”

I said, “So, should I call or drop in for a sitting; do I need an appointment?”

After a minute and more conversation with Ellen on the speaker phone, he said, “I’ll set up something for you. Stop by there tomorrow – just after lunch unless you hear from me. I’ll get the deck cleared for you for the afternoon. Sorry to eat into your travel time, but believe me you’ll appreciate it in the long run. The timing is perfect for this; there’s a lot of ‘buzz’ about you out there.” He made a couple of sounds like an old-fashioned cash register ringing.

I agreed, contingent on my not having to hang around St. Cloud for days waiting for a simple photo shoot. Terry and I joshed about the photographs the paparazzi guy got of the two of us screwing Crystal and Ellen under the stars in Branson.

I had a few minutes of affectionate conversation with Ellen, and then we ended the call. I felt a little intruded on – having some ‘real work’ in the middle of my journey, and I know I could have said ‘no,’ but I owed Terry for being so forgiving of my cross-country jaunt just when my star seemed to be rising the fastest. By the expectations I had for the trip as I left Dillon, I was behind schedule despite not having to be any particular place by any time.

I used my iPhone to check the weather, and the app informed me that fifty degrees would the peak high temperature in St. Cloud for the next few days, followed by another surge into the eighties. Lows for a few nights were expected in the thirties or high twenties. I rode into St. Cloud on my motorcycle wearing every piece of clothing I owned; I still felt cold even though the sun was out. Wasn’t early-September supposed to be warmer than this? I stopped in a pretty park along side the Mississippi River again, and left another envelope of Karen’s ashes. I held some pleasant thoughts about our time together, remembering a time when we picnicked on the Boston Common just so we could say we had. We laughed a lot as all the tourists stared at us, and we stared back.

St. Cloud, Minnesota, is a town that only pretends it celebrates summer; in fact, summer is only a short hiatus of a day or two until winter returns. Oh, the store doors are open and people walk down the sidewalks on sunny days in short sleeves, but deep inside everyone in the city is eagerly waiting for cold weather and snow. The town had been designed with winter in mind. Streets are wider to accommodate snow banks. Roofs are steeper to discourage heavy snow accumulations. Some public buildings have places to leave snowshoes or cross-country skis. Saltboxes dot the landscape near small slopes where a pedestrian or car might skid. A huge pile of salt sits ready for use at the edge of town. Many homes have snowplows ready to attach to the owners’ trucks. Home and municipal projects are rushed in the ‘good’ weather because the ground freezes six feet deep from November to May. Clusters of icehouses stand ready to be towed onto nearby lakes to house diehard fishermen. Snowmobiles are evident beside most homes. Many cars show evidence of engine block heaters. Yes, St. Cloud really wants winter weather.

For no particular reason, I decided the head of Reber Images would be an aging, bearded, gray-haired, rustic individualist photographer, strongly resembling the late-Ansel Adams. My mental image proved to be very wrong.

Brite Reber headed Reber Images. My old gray-haired master turned out to be a mid-forties powerhouse of a woman who seemed to be wired to a high voltage power line. Terry confirmed a Monday afternoon photo session starting at twelve-thirty in a text message to me and gave me her address. Brite had a large plot of land that had been a farm just outside St. Cloud, and her studio was in what had been a barn, years earlier before renovation. She heard my motorcycle coming up her long driveway and was standing in front of the barn with a large Nikon camera in hand taking a progression of photographs as I pulled up to park in front of the barn. When I’d stopped, she came up and thrust out her hand in greeting.

Brite stood just over five feet tall and had flaming natural red hair. Bright green eyes and lips shiny with gloss that highlighted the best features of her face, including her enigmatic smile. She had a small diamond stud in her nose and an artsy collection of earring studs in one ear. Several tasteful small tattoos were visible on one arm and an ankle.

She cheerfully said, “Jim, Brite. I spent a half-hour on the phone with Terry talking about the look and feel he and the record people wanted in your photos. At first, it was ‘just the usual stuff’, but as I asked deeper questions, I got more of an idea. We’ve got a full afternoon’s work, so come on, I need to put some makeup on you for starters.”

I followed Brite into the barn; amazed at the transformation the place must have undergone to become a fully outfitted photo studio and office. Brite led me to a makeup table and had me sit in a chair. She talked at me as she applied makeup – a rapid staccato of words about my colors, what parts of me needed makeup, shades, how she planned to hide a blemish or two, and so forth. When that didn’t occupy her, she talked about the various settings we’d start with for photographs, including my getting back on the motorcycle and riding around outside while she captured my image. She also produced from a large clothing rack a selection of ‘country’ clothing appropriate, she deemed, for a country music star riding a motorcycle.

At first, Brite was all business and efficiency – makeup, staging, clothing I should wear, and my experience with photo shoots – nil. After the initial barrage of questions and instructions, she slowed and our interaction became friendlier and less controlled. She had me fill in how I’d met Terry and Crystal, what my singing background had been, and a lot of information about myself. She’d read the People magazine article, but wanted more details. I expressed my own surprise at my meteoric rise and sudden fame in the country music field. Brite didn’t seem the least intimidated with my new status as a star, a point I appreciated in a large way.

I turned the table on her as well, learning about her education in photography, including being tutored in the profession by her late father. She moved to LA to start Reber Images – a last piece of advice he gave her before dying. She did “cheap portfolios for wanna-be actresses and actors,” but over time the quality of her clientele rose and so did her reputation. Soon, she had a following and was thought of as the next Annie Liebovitz. Her mother got ill – so she left LA, and moved back home to St. Cloud only to support her mother though her final days and death shortly after she arrived. She didn’t mind traveling, so now she lived in St. Cloud but traveled all over the world photographing some of the stars in the entertainment field as well as heads of state and other famous people – always by appointment. After she turned the barn into a huge studio, she could even lure some of the stars to St. Cloud.

We spent two hours outside; a third of the time with me on or around the motorcycle; a third with a guitar she magically produced, sitting on a fence, on the bike, near the barn; and a third lounging under a large tree in front of the century old farm house. At that point, Brite said, “OK, let’s go inside and project these on the big screen and see what we’ve got, and then we’ll do some indoor shots.”

I followed Brite into the studio, marveling at how well her khaki shorts fit her trim butt. Good things come in small packages. I had a couple of little fantasies as we walked and then let them evaporate into thin air.

Brite loaded the memory cards from the camera into her large MacIntosh computer, and immediately made a backup of the raw shots. Next, she projected them onto a large screen high-definition television. Seeing myself blown up to bigger than real life in some shots was disconcerting. Brite studied every shot, commenting on what she liked or didn’t like about the shot, particularly about how I posed or looked. A half-hour later, we were back outside to fill in some ‘missing shots’ as she called them – poses that might be used but were missing from the portfolio of images she’d already taken.

About three-thirty, she moved us inside. “The shadows are getting too long out there; we could work around them, but we’ll make our own in here with the lights and strobes.” One corner of Brite’s studio retained the rustic structure of the old barn: stalls, beams, ladders, loft, and even hay. I spent a lot of time on the ‘barn set’ as she adjusted lighting and flashed away at me – standing, sitting, leaning, tilting, rising, climbing, jumping, and laying in the hay, with and without guitar, or a few other ‘country’ props. After a couple of hundred pictures, she again went to the computer to project and critique them.

While she looked at that batch, I roamed the studio. She had an office in one corner of the barn in what had been the tack room. One wall was lined with pictures of famous people she had photographed. In stark contrast to the celebrity shots, another wall contained only three large poster-size pictures of Brite standing in the nude against a stark and glowing white background with dramatic side lighting. She was oiled all over to reflect the light and highlight even the most subtle lines, muscles, and curves of her gorgeous body. I stared, mesmerized by the beauty of the three photographs.

Brite came up and stood close beside me; “You like?” she asked without a trace of embarrassment.

“They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. They reveal all, yet are so erotic, sexy, and dramatic without being ... well, pornographic. Are they for sale? I must have them. They’re some of the most beautiful art I’ve ever seen. You took them of yourself, I presume?”

“Yes, they’re self portraits. I’m flattered by your comments, and thank you for the compliments.” Brite laughed, adding, “And, no, they’re not for sale. If they ever are, I’ll let you know.” She smiled at me, only this time the smile was warmer and more personal than anything we’d exchanged earlier. I hoped I hadn’t insulted her in some way with my remarks about her photographs – her art.

Brite said, “All right, now we’re going to do some cheesecake photos so you’ll appeal to all the fair maidens out there in country music land. You do have sex appeal, you know.” She ran a finger down my back and onto my butt.

“Huh?” best described my reaction to her comment.

Brite rolled back a large sliding door in part of the studio to open a section of the studio one could only call the ‘Bedroom’. The room was ‘masculine’ because of the selection of lamps, books, bed linen, furniture, and décor panels used on the set. I stood amazed at the work that had gone into the set.

I asked, “What do you use if you’re photographing a female? This set is so masculine.”

Brite knowingly smiled and pointed to a couple of photographs of several different young women stretched out on the bed, a few were naked. One of them was Jessica Alba. Except for the bed itself, practically everything else looked different: lamps, décor, accessories, chairs, and frilly bed linen. The set looked completely different with only a few simple changes. “I store the props for this set and a couple of others down below; there’s a lower level to the barn, and fortunately an elevator.”

She gave me some instruction about initial poses, and had me take off my shirt. My chest needed some makeup. She added powder to my chest and shoulders. When she came to the scar from the bullet wounds I’d incurred in Alabama and the others, she asked about them, and I told her the story about how I stopped a rape and caught a bullet in the resulting fight. As I told her the story, Brite put some stage makeup on the entry and exit wounds so they wouldn’t show as much in the photos. She looked sympathetic and a little awed by my willingness to stop such a dangerous felony and to have been in Special Ops, a career that gave me a few other ‘dimples’ from bullets and shrapnel.

Brite took some test shots as she adjusted lighting. She then posed me on and around the bed, taking about fifty shots as she had me move about looking pouty, sexy, lonely, over sexed, and many other emotions she suggested. I tried to be a method actor.

“OK, now lose the jeans,” she instructed.

I asked cautiously, “Brite, did Terry say anything about what had happened in Branson?”

She looked at me with a big grin on her face and snickered. “Yes, he told me you all got your asses on film by some hotshot paparazzi guy that snuck up on all of you, but you did a little recovery exercise and kept a lid on things. You are one lucky bastard. If those shots had gotten out, your ass would be grass by now.” I think she liked the risks we took by the outdoor lovemaking; I even detected a touch of ‘wish I’d been there’ in her comments.

I continued, “I’m being a little cautious about cheesecake shots being too cheesecake, if you know what I mean.”

Brite said in a more serious tone, “Look, we’re not doing porno, but we are doing a ‘spicy’ series. These may never see the light of day other than on my computer in a doubly secure file – each file is encrypted, the computer is encrypted, and the network has a very high level of security from outside hacks. My computer guy tells me I have better security than the CIA, and from the standpoint of national security that worries me.”

She went on, “Terry believes that sex sells. I know he’s leaked a couple of semi-nude shots we did of Crystal to the tabloids to goose up album sales. He wants some erotica of you for the same reason. It’ll be discreet, and I use Photoshop on the final shots if you’re worried about your junk showing or your face being identified. In most, you couldn’t even identify who the model was. Come let me show you some examples. I’ve done this before.”

She pulled a large loose-leaf album off a nearby bookshelf piled high with other albums and proofs. She thumbed through a few pages and then aimed me at an entire section. There were dozens of photographs of Crystal initially wearing frilly lingerie; in subsequent shots she wore less and less clothing until I found a couple of dozen nude shots done in Brite’s bedroom set. In other photographs in the album were some of my favorite country music stars, male and female, lounging around her set, or outside wearing next to nothing, and often nothing. All were tasteful, but arousing. I capitulated; particularly after Brite showed me a photographic release form that gave me final say over the release of such photographs to the public.

As my jeans disappeared, Brite complimented me on my physique. “You know, I’ve had dozens of other men in here, many younger, but you have the best physique of any of them. The muscle tone in your upper body and legs is a photographer’s dream. I won’t have to ‘work around’ a couple of layers of blubber and beer.” I instantly thought of the hours I usually spent each week running and doing heavy upper body exercises.

She had me launch into a series of poses around the bed wearing my briefs. I silently thanked my mother for always having me leave home wearing clean underwear. Brite ran me through various poses on the bed – everything from feigning sleep to ‘awaiting my true love to join me in our coital nest’ as she put it. There was a lot of ‘move this arm, raise your leg slightly, twist or turn this way or that, or pull the sheet across your lower body – that’s it,’ in her instructions. She’d come near with her camera, and nudge one of my limbs or my head one way or another, or drape the bed sheet ‘just so.’ Look up there, over there, at me, away from me. Hold the guitar, set it beside you, use the guitar to cover your ... um, your middle. She roughed up the covers as though I’d been sleeping in the bed and as though I’d even had a companion.

Brite backed up her camera’s disk and checked her shots on her large screen as I looked over her shoulder. She’d given me a towel to wear around the studio as a concession to my modesty. She had indeed captured a spirit about me particularly my sexuality.

Happy with the results so far, Brite said, “I want to try something else now; you’ll have to trust me that the results will be sensitive and appropriately confidential, including the handling of the raw shots.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I said. “What should I do?”

“Get naked, please,” she said in a polite but commanding voice.

I dropped the towel and stepped out of my briefs. I heard the sharp intake of her breath as my genitals came into view.

Brite said jauntily, “You liked the look of the nude photographs I did of myself, right?”

“Yes, but...”

“Well, we’re going to do some of you. I don’t want to waste that beautiful physique without trying something really daring,” Brite interrupted. She stepped over to the makeup area and returned a few seconds later with a bottle of oil. When she opened it, the aroma of vanilla filled the area. “We’ll start by oiling you up head to foot, and don’t worry there’s a shower right over in that corner bathroom so you can clean up afterwards. This is flavored ... it’s, err, tasty and not like regular body oils.”

Brite poured some oil on her hands and came up in front of me. She reached up and slowly applied the fluid to my face, ears, and neck, being careful to keep it away from my eyes. She took each arm and rubbed the lotion into every nook and cranny right down to the tips of my fingers, and then did my sides and chest.

She judiciously moved behind me at that point and oiled my upper back, working her way lower and lower to my buns. She talked about my nice, tight butt as she lubed up the area, worked down to the back of my thighs to my calves and ankles and feet

By this time, I wondered how Brite would handle the obvious parts of my body she’d skipped. She didn’t disappoint me.

Brite scooted around in front of me while still down by my feet. Somehow, she managed to ignore my rising cock nearly at her eye level. She worked her way upwards, doing my feet, ankles, shins, knees, and quadriceps.

Having a beautiful woman touching your nude body can be exceptionally stimulating and arousing, even in what was supposed to be a professional setting. As she spread the oil, I thought of her luscious body as portrayed in the large blowups in her office. I could feel a surge in my dick.

She stopped and looked up at me from her kneeling position. We smiled at each other, both seeing the trajectory of the rest of the day. I thought how pretty and sexy she was; I wanted her, and I could see her attraction for me in her eyes.

Brite’s oily hands moved up and engulfed my swollen cock and ball sack. She massaged the oil deeply into the shaft and every aspect of my groin, pulling on my penis, and rubbing my sack with both hands. She delved deep into my crotch, coating my inner thighs. She worked the oil into my pubic area and up over my abs. She returned to my cock over and over, apparently urging the continuing hardening of my shaft.

Brite rose, pulled my head down to her level and kissed me hard. She whispered in a sexy voice, “You turn me on in so many ways. I feel you on many levels, but we have photographs to take before we play.” She stepped away and surveyed her handy work with the oil. “Perfect,” she pronounced in a wavering voice.

She had me stand in front of the same large, bright, white background she had posed against for her own sexy photographs – a light box with several kilowatts of bulbs in it behind a huge translucent panel. As I stood, she moved light stands around on either side of and over me. As I posed ‘full frontal’ at her request, she stood back to assess the shadows and how my muscles reflected the light. She made a few more adjustments. In the meantime, my rampant dick decided that since the stimulation had left, it would quiet down.

“All right,” Brite said, “Now we do a few shots.” The camera clicked at irregular intervals as she moved around in front of me. She had me do some poses and muscle flexes to highlight parts of my body and sometimes to hide my penis: “Pull your tummy in, tighten your fists so your forearms flex, now flex your whole arm, do some isometrics, turn your left leg to the right, turn your back more towards the camera,” and more. I tried to honor each request, but I started to interpret it as a sexual order I must obey.

Brite finally stood and started to fit the camera to a tripod. When her hands were free, she peeled her top up and off her, tossing it onto a nearby bench. She wore no bra. There in wonderful reality were the taut beautiful breasts I’d seen in her photographs.

She came and kissed me, taking one of my hands and placing it on her tit. “Massage me,” she commanded. I did, adding my mouth to the stimulation of her left breast.

“I’m getting you all oily,” I exclaimed as I pulled away slightly.

“That’s the idea,” Brite said with a coy smile. She pushed her shorts and thong down, kicking them aside, and then picked up the bottle of oil.

Her nudity astounded and aroused. She pleaded, “Put oil on me. Don’t miss anyplace.” I took the bottle from her hand, and started the oiling process. I started with her chest, allowing a few drops of oil to roll down the slope of her breast and cling to each nipple before dropping into the heated space between us. My hands cupped each mound in turn, rubbing the slippery liquid into her smooth skin. I could feel her nipples harden to the consistency of large pencil erasers beneath my palms.

I pulled her to me, and we kissed passionately. As we did, I oiled her back, focusing on her firm and perfectly shaped cheeks. I could feel her Kegel muscles clench as I ran a finger near her anal opening. She pulled away and gave me a sly grin. “Maybe later for that,” she whispered in a teasing tone.

I knelt, as she had, and did her legs, paying particular attention to her pussy, even inserting two fingers into her cunt. Brite closed her eyes and held onto my head to steady herself. We had each other’s attention. I stood and kissed her again. I could smell the wonderful aroma of her arousal now, mixed with the subtle aroma of vanilla from the oil. I tasted my fingers and found her nectar enticing.

She spoke softly, and I could tell it took a great deal of willpower to postpone our further touching, even for a minute: “Stand back by the white screen. I want pictures of the two of us together.” She looked me over again, and said, “My God, you are a Greek god – an Adonis.”

Brite quickly aimed the camera on the tripod at where I stood, focused, and then came, and joined me. She came and stood in front of me, her nipples just grazing my lower chest. She looked up at me, and I heard the camera click. She posed us several more times and used her hidden remote to trigger each shot. After two dozen, at different angles, Brite came into my arms and we enveloped each other; I heard more shutter snaps.

Brite reached down and fondled my already stiff cock, pulling and massaging it, aided by the earlier application of oil she’d applied. She knelt in front of me, and took my cock in her mouth, gradually working until my entire shaft disappeared into her mouth and throat. Somehow, she didn’t gag. Throughout her ministrations to me, I kept hearing the quiet click of the camera shutter as it recorded yet another photograph.

Brite rose and pulled a tall, stark white stool over to where we’d been standing; she hiked her small frame up on the tall seat, spread her legs, hooked them on the edge of the seat in a sexy pose, and said, “Eat me!” I did, with great delight. She moved her legs around, and changed the angle of the two of us relative to the camera. She had me extend my tongue to the maximum and just touch her shiny clitoris with it, as the camera clicked. I added two fingers deep inside her to what I was doing with my mouth, and still more shots were taken. I hit her G-spot, and Brite writhed atop the stool for me as an orgasm swept over her.

A minute later, Brite directed me, “Stand in front of me, and prepare to drive your cock into me. Just hold it at my entrance – barely.”

That was an easy directive. By now, I panted almost as much as she did in anticipation of our union. Now, it was the tip of my shiny steel shaft that barely touched her clit; I rubbed the nub of flesh with the end, and then I didn’t even need to direct it with my hands my shaft was so stiff and ready for penetration. I moved around in front of her for over a minute in various pre-penetration poses. Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer – I thrust into her body. Apparently, she had the same idea, for her body surged towards me as I my cock drove into her velvet tunnel. We joined, and like her, I felt a wave of happiness and pleasure sweep over me.

We fucked; having her warm cunt wrapped around my shaft felt wonderful. The friction of her sheath hit all the right spots along my rod. I found myself in heaven. Brite kept moaning, and urging me to fuck her harder and faster. I joyfully complied.

Brite had her second orgasm only minutes after we started fucking. After the pleasure washed past her, I kept pumping my shaft into her as she held onto my shoulders. “Oh, God, you didn’t cum. I want to bring you off – in me.”

She had another orgasm, and a few minutes after that yet another. “Oh, shit,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know I could have more than one orgasm in a day. How can you make me do this?” We kissed and toyed with each other as our groins slapped together. We went on and on. I changed our position, having her bend over the stool as I took her from behind. I sat on the stool, and she straddled me facing one way, and a few minutes later, the other way.

Brite pulled us to the bed, re-aiming the camera as she passed by it.

“My ass,” she pleaded. “Fuck my ass. No one’s done that to me for years; be gentle. I only did it once; I can’t even remember whether I liked it, but I want you to have it – to have me in every way you want.”

I grabbed the bottle of oil and used it to lubricate her ass and my cock. I bent her over some pillows, and slowly pushed my cock into her hole. The head slowly slid past the opening, and then past the ring of sphincter muscles that I coaxed her into relaxing. Brite vocalized what she felt, “Oh, Jeeze. Oh, wait; Wow! Wait. Oh, Crap! Whoa! Uh oh! No. Yes. Push. Jeeze. You’re in. More. Less. Gently. Slower. Faster. Oooooooooooh fuuuuuuuuck!”

I went carefully, treating her like fine porcelain just the way Kim had shown me. When I finished my first long penetration of her ass, my entire cock resided deep inside her. I described what I saw from my side of things and how it felt. Brite wiggled her ass at me. I then started to pump into her. At the same time, I reached around and fingered her clit and inserted two fingers into her vagina. Brite let out another chain of expletives and instructions that boiled down to ‘more’ and ‘harder.’

Brite came again. I could feel her entire pelvis spasm around my cock as she writhed beneath me.

I pulled out, cleaned myself, and started to fuck her pussy again. Now, the sweat from our exertions mingled with the oil. We smeared the resulting mix all over each other.

A few minutes and many kisses later, I announced my intention to end this segment of our fuck with my own orgasm. Actually, I’d had two climaxes without ejaculation, but I needed the final release. I focused on the magnificent feeling of her sex sleeve, particularly the way the tiny irregularities inside stimulated the sensitive edge of my mushroom head.

I came deep inside her. I took ten deep and energetic thrusts into Brite, spoke my own words of pleasure, and the jets of cum pulsed through my cock and splashed the inside of her tight cunt filling her to the brim. To my surprise, Brite came too. Our bodies contorted as the waves of pleasure washed over us.