We were standing at the airline counter, redeeming our tickets to New York. The clerk was going through his list of canned questions, looking up only to snatch glimpses of the Grand Canyon--the 16 inches of Millie's creamy-white cleavage (I measured it while she giggled). She was wearing a shockingly short microskirt and an incredibly low-cut T-shirt top, with a stretchy sling bra that offered very little support for her swaying, wobbling football tits.

Actually, they're bigger than footballs. But never mind that now.

Anyway, he was surreptitiously ogling my wife's huge knockers, at which I took no offense--what non-gay male wouldn't ogle her?--and asking us his routine questions.

"Have your bags been out of your sight at any time this morning?"

"No," I said.

"Are you carrying any explosives, fireworks, dangerous chemicals, or other prohibited items?"

"No."

"Do you have big t--uh, a projected return date?"

"One week from today." Millie and I exchanged smirks.

"Reason for your ti--uh, trip?"

Millie leaned forward--the clerk did not look at her face--and said excitedly, "I'm going to New York to pose naked for CURVY magazine!"

The clerk looked at her face then, his eyes wide. "Jesus Christ," he said. "I'll buy it!" Then he blinked and said, "I'm sorry. Please don't tell anyone I said that."

We both laughed. As we walked toward the gate, I leaned over and whispered, "Next time just say 'business,' baby."

She just giggled.

The plane ride was routine, except for the number of men who kept finding reasons to walk by our row of seats. There were three seats in our row, and the poor old bastard that was sitting on the other side of Millie was sweating and fidgeting before our plane ever left the ground.

Her breast kept brushing his arm, and I noticed that instead of pulling it in to give her room, he actually moved it toward her a fraction. He finally moved to lean against the window so he was partially facing Millie, and pretended to read a book. He didn't turn a page for the whole flight. His boner was visible even through his baggy, pleated pants. I'd guess he was about 80, but the plumbing obviously still worked. On the other hand, if all women looked like my Millie, the Viagra people would go broke.

After the plane landed and people were getting up and retrieving their carry-on bags from the overhead bins, the guy just sat there and frankly stared as Millie reached up over him to get ours. She handed them to me--then leaned over him and asked in a breathy, insinuating voice, "Did you enjoy the flight?" Her tits were dangling about a foot from his face.

"Y-yes, I did," he stammered in his old, cracked voice." "Very much."

She smiled, leaned in, and kissed him full on the mouth--and gave his hard-on a long squeeze as she did it. "Bye," she said as we turned to go.

"B-b-b-bye," he said after her. His face was a mask of total shock, and he was shivering a little.

"Damn, baby," I said as we walked down the aisle, "I hope the paramedics are ready. I think you gave that old guy a heart attack."

"No, I didn't. He just came, that's all." She looked back at me and smirked.

"Oh." I watched her generous ass roll and jiggle beneath her short skirt as we went on, and I wasn't the only one.

I was smiling, and I guess I looked pretty smug. It didn't matter, though. No one on the plane was looking at me.

We took a cab to the CURVY offices from the hotel, and the cabbie--a swarthy Middle Eastern type, big surprise--spent more time looking in his rearview mirror than at the road. I don't think it was adjusted to look at the traffic behind us, either.

As we got out of the cab, I counted out the fare and was adding another five. "What's that for?" asked Millie.

"You always tip cab drivers," I said. She knew that.

"Oh. Well, let me do it." She handed me her big purse. I knew what was coming, and I stood back to watch.

Millie leaned into the cab and said, "You want a good tip?"

The cabbie nodded, his eyes suspicious. He had probably heard "Don't sleep on the subway" and such "tips" many times.

"How about two good tips?" asked Millie, and to the cabbie's shock--and that of several passersby--she pulled up her top and bra and flashed him. She shook her bare, massive milkers in his face for a second, then quickly covered herself. "How's that?" she asked as she adjusted her bra.

"Lady, dose are da best tips I ever got!" He must have been in New York a long time. His accent was pure Brooklyn, not Pakistani. He looked at me. "Keep da money, mister," he said. "Dis ride was on da house!" he rolled his eyes skyward. "God is great," he said as he put the cab in gear and pulled away.

I handed her purse back. "I thought you wanted me to make you do things," I said. "You seem to be having a lot of fun on your own."

She shrugged, and some guy walked into a light pole. "It would be more fun if you were giving me orders," she admitted. "But I'm enjoying myself anyway. We're in New York, and I thought I'd let myself go a little. Is it okay?"

"A little?" I looked back at the guy picking himself up off the sidewalk. He was still staring at my wife. "It's okay with me, Big Tits, but I think you're going to be keeping the doctors busy while you're in town."

She giggled. I love that giggle. "Besides, you haven't made me do anything."

"Okay," I said. "Take off your underwear."

She goggled at me. "Now?" she said. "Right here?"

"Do it."

She hesitated a moment. The street wasn't crowded, but it was a long way from empty. Looking around with that expression I knew meant fear, embarrassment and pussy-gushing excitement all at once, Millie handed me her purse again--then abruptly pulled up her short skirt, exposing her pink thong panties, and skinned them down her plump, pale thighs. I don't think she could quite have been arrested--her skirt came back down with her panties and her pussy was never exposed--but it would have been close. At least a half-dozen men, and even a few women, stopped dead in their tracks to watch.

Millie handed her panties to me in a wadded-up ball, and I put them in my pocket. "The bra too," I said.

Standing right there on the sidewalk, in full view of her appreciative audience, she pulled one arm inside her sleeveless top and unfastened her bra. She slipped the strap down that arm, then slid her arm out again and reached around to deftly yank her bra from the other armhole. As she handed it to me, there was a small round of applause from around us. Millie, her face pink, gave the watchers an ironic curtsey. Her enormous tits, now quivering entirely free under her low-cut, stretchy top, swayed seductively. Her softball nipples and long, erect tips were clearly visible, probably from across the street.

A car rear-ended a tour bus as we stood there. The gaping tourists in the windows of the bus didn't seem to notice. "Shit, let's get inside, Millie. You're going to cause a traffic jam." We were standing directly in front of the building where CURVY magazine was located. She grinned and we walked in.

The CURVY offices were on the thirty-fifth floor. As we rode up in the elevator, Millie gave my ass a squeeze and whispered, "Thanks. I needed that. It's more fun when you order me."

Jesus, I thought. I could tell her to strip naked in Times Square and do Jumping Jacks and she'd do it. I shook off the dizziness; it was getting to be a regular thing.

The CURVY offices were nice, but hardly palatial. The walls were decorated with pictures of beautiful, chubby women--clothed, though not modestly--and there were a couple of sofas with coffee tables in front of them. Copies of the magazine were piled on the tables. Beats the hell out of the dentist's waiting room, I thought.

We walked--or in Millie's case, jiggled--up to the receptionist's desk. The young woman behind it, no lightweight herself, looked up and her eyes widened. "You must be Millie Wilson," she said.

"Uh-huh. We have a ten o'clock?"

"They've been waiting since eight. Right this way."

We followed her swaying hips down a short hallway, where she knocked at a closed door. "Come," said a masculine voice, and Millie giggled.

"I bet I will," she whispered as the receptionist opened the door.

"Millie Wilson is here," the girl said. She favored me with a grin and a wink and returned to her post.

We went in. It was a surprisingly small office, and the man behind the desk was already standing. When Millie walked in, his eyes sprang open and he said, "Holy cow! ...Er, no offense."

Millie laughed. "Mooo," she giggled. "Wanna milk me?"

"Hey, that's MY job," I put in.

The guy just gaped at us. He was maybe fifty, a little overweight, but still had all his hair--that, or a really high-quality rug. He finally recovered and put out a hand with a slightly disconcerted smile. "Uh, hi, uh, I'm Frank DeMarco," he said. "You're Millie, and you are...?" he looked at me inquiringly.

"The luckiest guy on the planet," I said. "I'm her husband, Jeff Wilson."

He looked at Millie, then back at me. "You'll get no argument from me, Mr. Wilson," he said with an envious shake of his head. "Can I call you Jeff? Have a seat, both of you."

"Jeff is fine," I said. "Let me see the contract."

"Right down to business, huh?" he said. "Here you go." He handed me a folder that had been lying on the desk.

"Yeah, well, my wife is in a hurry to take off her clothes and get in front of a camera." Millie blushed and, of course, giggled.

"Oh, it'll be a while before we're ready for that. Our hair and makeup people get a turn with her first." He looked at her and smiled. "Though I don't know how they can improve on what I'm seeing."

"Thank you," murmured Millie, oddly shy now.

I was reading the contract. Every word of it. DeMarco knew better than to hurry me, and he chatted with Millie as I read. "You know about the interview?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. That'll be fun. They'll ask me a lot of sexy stuff, right?" She was glowing with anticipation.

"Sure. How far will you go? Do you want us to write some of it for you? Our readers like it pretty raw," he said with a surprising air of apology.

Millie smiled at him with a deceptively innocent air. "Oh, no. I'll tell you anything you want to know." Then she grinned wickedly. "The nastier the better," she said.

I noticed he kept glancing downward. The little tease--well, okay, BIG tease--had let her tiny skirt ride up and was showing off her pale, fleshy legs--plus giving him a partial peek at her shaved, pantyless crotch. The sexy, minimal sandals on her pretty feet weren't helping matters.

"You can make up things yourself if you like," he said.

She smiled. "I won't have to."

I was halfway through the contract, which was three pages long on legal-sized paper. "I see a problem here," I said.

All business again, DeMarco said, "What's that, Jeff? It's all pretty standard."

"Well, my wife isn't, as you may have noticed... It's the part about the videos and DVDs."

"Videos?" said Millie. "I get to do videos?" Her eyes sparkled.

"Says here she gets a flat fee," I said. "That's no good. She gets 15% of the gross receipts, or no videos."

DeMarco looked at me for a long moment. Then he looked at Millie. "Done," he said. "We'll just charge more for "em. They'll still sell like hotcakes. Let me see that." I handed him the contract. He crossed out a paragraph and made some notes in the margin, then handed it back.

"Do we need to initial that?" I asked.

"No. I'll have it retyped before you leave and we'll use that one. Is that all?"

"Dunno. Haven't finished reading it." I resumed my perusal, and DeMarco turned back to Millie.

"Do you think you'd like to do some videos?" he asked.

Millie was bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, and excited. "Oh, yes! What kind? What would I do in them?"

His eyes slid over to me for a second. "Anything you want," he said. "Some of our girls do hardcore, but you don't have to." He glanced at me again. I said nothing; I knew what her answer would be.

But I was wrong. "Hardcore? What's that?" she asked innocently.

He told her, and she shook her head rapidly, finally shocked. "No, no," she said. "No way. That's only for my husband."

"Maybe WITH your husband...?" said DeMarco.

This time I was shocked. That had never occurred to me. Millie and I looked at each other. She seemed as unsure as I was. "We'll talk about it," I said, "and we'll get back to you. No promises."

"Fair enough," he said, and turned back to Millie. "We'd like some nice softcore, for a start," he said. "Posing, showering, maybe exercising or dancing, that sort of thing."

"I can't wait," she said. "Ooo! This is going to be fun!"

"How about--er--feeling yourself up, or working with a dildo?"

"I brought my own," said Millie brightly. "Wanna see one?" Before he could answer, she pulled one from her purse. It was her favorite--about a foot and a half long, as big around as a flashlight, and studded with marble-sized bumps.

Demarco, the veteran, was speechless. He finally just nodded.

"Got another problem," I said.

"What?" he said, his eyes still on the dildo.

"First-time payment only. No good. I want another payment, at least half the original amount, every time you run any of her pictures."

He finally looked at me. "But that's--" He stopped and looked back at Millie. "Okay," he said abruptly, and held out his hand. He crossed more out, made more notes, and handed it back. "Jeff, I want you to know, I've never made these concessions for any other model."

I looked at Millie, and so did he. She looked back at us innocently, still holding up her big, bumpy dildo. Her big eyes were wide. "What?" she said.

DeMarco and I looked at each other, and he gave me a wry smile. "Anything else?" he said archly.

"I think that's about it," I said.

"Do you want us to use her real name?" he asked. "I'd advise against it."

"Ask her," I said.

He turned to Millie, who said, "What's wrong with my name?"

"It's not that, sweetheart," I said. "You just don't want creeps to find out where you live or call you or stuff."

"Oh." She blinked. "I never thought of that." She thought for a second. "How about using my real first name, and making up a fake last name?"

"That's what a lot of the girls do," said DeMarco. He looked at her appraisingly. "Say, I have an idea," he said. "I was just thinking, something Irish; it goes with your beautiful pale complexion and your pink cheeks. How would you like to be a redhead?"

Millie blinked, then smiled. "That would be fun," she said.
"Okay, then. If we're agreed on the terms...?" He looked at me.

"Good to go," I said.

"Great. Let's get you to hair and makeup." We all stood up. Millie was all but dancing with excitement. "I presume you'll want to be there through the whole process?" he asked, addressing me.

"Up to my wife," I said.

Millie gave me a sweetly mischievous smile. "For everything but the photo session," she said. "I want to surprise you when the magazine comes out."

As we walked down the hall, Millie asked, "Can I do the video today, too?"

DeMarco shook his head with a glance at Millie's wobbling, swinging tits. "Not today, honey," he said--followed by a quick glance at me. I shrugged. "Honey" was okay, but nobody gets to call her "Big Tits" but me.

"You're going to be tired," he said. "You'll be surprised how much work a good photo shoot is. You guys are in town for the week, right?" It was a Friday.

"Yup," I said.

"How about Monday for the video, then?"

Millie was disappointed that she couldn't do it that day, but she shrugged. "Okay," she said.

We went into the prep room. Two technicians were there, a man and a woman. Millie was handed a terry robe and told to strip. "Do you want me to leave the room?" asked Demarco.

Millie already had her top off. "What for?" she said. "You're going to see my pictures, aren't you?" As she pulled her skirt down and stepped out of her sandals, all three of their mouths fell open. Millie stood proudly naked and smiled at us.

"Jesus H. Particular Christ," said DeMarco.

"Mother of God," said the woman.

The other guy's plucked eyebrows shot up. "Oh, my," he said, flapping a limp hand at his face. "Suddenly I understand why most men are straight. You are a goddess, girl."

"I'll, uh, be in my office," said DeMarco. He looked shaken and stirred. "Call me when her hair is done and you're ready to do the makeup consult, Sheila."

Millie wrapped herself in the robe, and the woman went to work on her hair. I sat in the corner and read some back issues of CURVY, trying to stay with the articles and interviews. My dick was hard enough already.

A little later, I was standing behind her as she looked in the mirror. Millie as a redhead was enchanting. "I like it," I said. "I really like it."

"I do too, Jeff! Doesn't it look natural?" And it did. No phony fire-engine red here; her hair was a a vivid carrot-orange, but subdued by being mixed with blonde and light brown. It looked like she had been born with it, and it did go perfectly with her skin tone. Millie's short hair had been fluffed out as if it had a bit of curl to it, and she looked as Irish as County Clare. "Very, very nice work," I said to Sheila, a middle-aged, motherly type with graying hair in 60s-style braids.

"Thanks," she said with a small smile. "Excuse me." She more or less elbowed me out of her way, and began looking at Millie's face critically. She keyed a number on her cell phone, said "We're ready, Frank," and a moment later DeMarco came in for the consultation. He began eyeing her face, too. The other guy was just sitting there, watching.

"Well, we definitely want to go with the fresh, natural look," he said. "Maybe down the road we can try out the slutty hooker thing, but not this time. What can you do, Sheila? Doesn't look like she needs much help to me. "

The woman stepped in and looked at Millie's face even more closely. Millie sat patiently, looking straight ahead as ordered.

Finally, the woman stepped back. "Nothing, Frank," she said. "A little light eyeliner and mascara, a touch of lipstick, and that's all she needs. Perfect skin, like new ivory. Not a blemish on her. She doesn't need blusher--she has roses in her cheeks all the time, and she blushes a lot anyway." Right on cue, Millie did, eliciting friendly laughter. "Look, she even has dimples," said the woman as Millie smiled and showed them.

"She has a little hint of a double chin," Sheila went on, "but that comes with the curves, and that's the way we like 'em, right? This girl--Millie?" Millie nodded. "Millie has the most perfect face you've ever brought me. If all your models looked like this, I could phone in this job."

Millie was blushing furiously, of course. "Okay," said DeMarco. "Do your thing with the eyeliner and whatever. Shouldn't take long. Alex, you're up. Lose the robe, Millie."

The woman waited as Millie shrugged out of her robe. She then sat naked as the woman went to work on her eyes.

Alex, the gay guy, came forward with a slightly disdainful air and began to examine Millie's body--from inches away. He started with her arms. He inspected her carefully from shoulders to fingertips, and then he knelt down to peer at her legs, moving methodically from her pink toes to her fleshy thighs. He and the woman moved automatically to stay out of each other's way; it was clearly a dance they had done many times before.

He stood back to wait as Sheila finished Millie's minimal makeup, then said, "Stand up, sweetie. Lift your arms. High above your head. Good." Millie stood, and Alex began examining the rest of her, close up with a bright handheld light.

"What's this about?" I asked Demarco after a few minutes. Alex had finished giving Millie's ass the spotlight treatment, and was now examining her tits. I wasn't feeling particularly jealous, just curious. It would have been hard to be jealous of Alex anyway, even if I was wired like that.

The guy was obviously as gay as a Castro Street parade.

"Will you bend over for me, sweetheart? That's enough, thank you." He was kneeling next to her, shining his light on her hanging breasts from underneath.

"Alex is our body makeup man," Demarco told me. "I don't think a straight guy could handle it, but Alex is immune."

He overheard us. "I'm not immune to perfection, Frank," he said. "Stand up straight, sweetie. This girl is flawless. She has this cute little beauty mark just over her butt crack, a little to the left--" he pointed--"but I swear that's all. Her nipples are absolutely ENORMOUS--but they're perfect. And how she can have boobs this big with no stretch marks, I don't understand."

"I almost always wear a bra," Millie said in a tiny voice. "At least, till lately."

"Well, keep it up, sweetie. They hang low, but they still stick out like a sailor's wet dream. Never seen boobs this big that are still so firm. Most women your size, they're down to their knees."

He turned to us. "She doesn't need anything from me either, Frank. Marble-white skin so delicate the veins show through, but not too much--a big, round ass without a hint of cellulite--that perfect bald pussy--did you shave this morning, sweetheart?"

Millie nodded and pointed at me. "I shaved her at the hotel," I said.

DeMarco grumbled under his breath, "Nice work if you can get it."

Alex went on: "I've never seen skin like yours, sweetheart, and I've been doing this a long time." He turned back to his boss. "Frank, tell the photographers to be careful and not fuzz her up. She needs a razor-sharp focus.
There aren't any flaws to hide. Even with that, you're going to get complaints that she's airbrushed. Women just don't come this perfect."

Millie was smiling shyly--and blushing like a stoplight. DeMarco grinned and said, "Alex, you're beginning to worry me. Are you still gay?'

Alex sniffed and drew himself up, offended. "You don't have be straight to appreciate a work of art," he said huffily. Suddenly he spoke without the affectation. "Frank--I mean, she doesn't even have calluses on her heels, man. All big women do. Her feet are like a child's. I've never seen that before."

"I take care of my feet," said Millie timidly. We all looked down at them, and after a moment Millie giggled.

"What?" I asked her.

She giggled again. "Well, I'm standing here naked with my tits and ass hanging out and my pussy shaved, and everyone's looking at my feet!"

We all laughed, even Alex. "They're gorgeous, silly," he said, flapping a hand. "Just like the rest of you."

There was an odd moment when no one spoke; and then Alex abruptly turned to leave. He picked up his bag--at least it was tan leather, and not pink--and headed for the door. "Well, ta-ta, people," he said with an airy wave. "Call me when you have a girl who needs me, Frank. This one doesn't."

At the door, he stopped, turned back, and spoke to Millie once more. "Have fun with your shoot, sweetheart. I've never said this before, but I'm looking forward to seeing it. 'Bye, now." He wiggled his fingers in a wave and was gone.

Sheila looked at DeMarco. "Did you see that?" said the matronly woman with the braids.

DeMarco was still looking at the door. "Well, I will be dipped in shit," he said.

"What?" Millie and I said together.

"Alex is the most critical human you'd ever want to meet," said DeMarco as Millie slipped back into her robe.

The woman said, "I've never seen him speak directly to a model before. He always just criticizes them as he works, talking about them like they're not even there. He's usually pretty rude about it, too."

Demarco did a dead-on impression of his gay employee, flapping his hands limp-wristedly: 'Look at those lumpy thunder thighs! This bitch has stretch marks like ruts on an unpaved road! Oh, yuck, her skin looks like unbaked bread dough!' Stuff like that." All three of us laughed.

"He seemed very sweet to me," said Millie.

"You're special," was all anyone could say, and I did. Demarco and Sheila both nodded slowly, looking at her. I think we all felt it at that moment. Millie stood there barefoot in her white terry robe, covered from chin to mid-calf, and she was still incredibly sexy.

"Well, if we're all done in here, it's time to go to the studio," said DeMarco after a moment. "Are you ready, Millie?"

She nodded excitedly and bounced up and down on her toes for a heartbeat. Her smile was incandescent.

We walked across the hall to the biggest room yet, a full-out photography studio. One wall was set up with a large sheet of seamless paper, pale green. It covered the floor, curved up against the wall, and on up to the ceiling. I saw other rolls of paper in different colors, and various pieces of furniture and props. Chairs, bits of metal scaffolding, ladders, even a small set of kids' monkeybars.

Off to the side was a bedroom set, and nearby was a large shower stall open on two sides. There were lights, aluminized umbrella reflectors, and of course cameras everywhere.

The wall behind us was done up to look like ancient stone, and it had shackles hanging from it. I noticed some bondage equipment around--a rack of leather straps and hoods, coils of rope, wooden frames and stocks, and something that could only be a rack.

Millie's eyes were as big as saucers as she looked around. She pointed to the dungeon wall. "Can I do some of that?" she asked breathily. We had only experimented a little with bondage at home, but it turned her on like a lightswitch.

Demarco blinked. "Wow," he said. "The girls hardly ever ask for that. We usually have to pay extra..." He shook his head as if dazed, and then answered. "Sure, honey. But not today. We'll save that for a special feature down the road." Then he smiled at her. "I think we're going to be giving you a lot of work. For a long time. And we're going to make lots and lots of money."

Millie, honest to a fault, waved her pretty hand and said, "I don't care about that. I just want to show off and feel sexy."

Demarco blinked at me, speechless again. I just smiled.
The photographer and his assistant had come out of the darkroom and were waiting to be introduced. "Millie, this is Ed. He's been our chief and best photographer for many years. There was no question about who was going to get this assignment. Had to be Ed. Ed, this is Millie Wilson. We're going to call her Millie O'Rourke."

"An Irish lass! I like it. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wilson. May I call you Millie?"

Ed was at least 65 years old, slender and slightly stooped, with gray, thinning hair and an aquiline nose that fit well with his old-fashioned courtesy. Millie was instantly taken with him.

She laughed. "If you're going to be taking naked pictures of me, Ed, I guess you can call me by my first name." She offered her hand, and he shook it politely. I was surprised he didn't kiss it instead.

"Millie, this is my assistant, Leon." A tall young man with a mop of thick black hair came forward and smiled. "He's invisible."

"Huh?" said Millie.

"I mean that neither of us are to see him. You are to ignore him completely and concentrate on me. He does what I tell him, adjusting lights and reflectors and so on, and he is very good at it. But he is as much a tool of my art as my cameras, and he knows this. He may occasionally ask me a question; I am teaching him my art, and that is part of our arrangement. But to you he will say nothing, and you will say nothing to him. Is that clear?"

Millie looked troubled. "That seems rude to me, Ed. It doesn't seem right to just pretend someone's not there."

Ed looked at Leon, who spoke for the first and last time, from what Millie told me later. "It's all right, Mrs. Wilson. Ed is right. You have to concentrate on his instructions and forget about me. Ed is very serious about erotic art, and I can't be a distraction. My feelings won't be hurt. I learn by watching him. I just hope I'm half as good as he is some day."

Ed smiled at him paternally. "I saw your last shoot, boy. You're coming along." Leon beamed. "Now back under your Harry Potter cloak, Leon. We have work to do. Change that seamless to the ocean blue. Now that I see her, I want to bring out her eyes."

Millie turned to me. "Time to go, Jeffie. You'll be a distraction, too." Ed nodded with approval as she put her hands on my chest and stood on tiptoe to kiss me--carefully, so as not to smear her lipstick.

"Everyone out," said Ed, and Sheila, DeMarco, and I were all herded to the door. As we left, I caught a glimpse through the closing door of Millie dropping her robe to the floor and walking naked toward the blue background.

Through the door, I heard Ed's voice: "Oh, my dear sweet Lord. Thank you." And even a muttered "Holy shit," from Leon.

I knew the photo session would take at least four hours, and I had planned to take in some sights and maybe hit a few adult novelty stores to see if I could find Millie some new outfits or toys. I knew she'd call on my cell if they got done sooner.

On my way to the door, though, DeMarco beckoned me back into his office. The new contract was ready. I skimmed it--can't be too careful--and I signed on the dotted line as Millie's agent of record. There was another line for her to sign when she and Ed were finished.

After I signed, he closed the door. I looked at him inquiringly. "I have a question," he said. "Please don't be angry or offended. I assure you, it's business."

"Shoot," I said.

"It has to do with you and your wife doing hardcore."

"We haven't talked about that yet."

"I know, but this could be a deal-breaker from my end."

I started to ask what it was, and then I got it. "You want to know how well I'm hung," I said.

"Got it in one," he said.

"Nine inches, about yea big around." I held up my thumb and forefinger in a very familiar and easy to remember position.

"Measured on the top or the bottom?" he asked.

"On the top."

He smiled and nodded. "That'll do," he said. "That'll do. Lot of pros don't pack that much meat. Okay, that's all."

"I thought of something," I said. "If Millie agrees to that--and I don't know if she will--one thing that might make the difference is if you can come to our home and tape us there."

"That's doable," he said instantly. "We do location shoots all the time for the magazine. No reason your place couldn't be a location for some video work."

"I'll try to sell it," I said.

He looked at me. "You're a funny guy," he said. "Most men would hate for their wives to do this kind of thing. Especially guys with beautiful wives like yours."

I smiled. "It makes her happy. I don't mind if other guys just look, and that's all she wants. She'd never let some other guy fuck her. But she likes showing off what she's got and making them want to."

He nodded with a grin. "She's a cockteaser."

"To the bone," I said. "Turns her on like a high-tension line, and then she fucks me like I'm the last guy on Earth and she hasn't had a cock for ten years."

He shook his head. "To have her in my bed every night--man, I can't imagine what that would be like."

"Bed, shower, living room, kitchen, back yard... No," I said. "You really can't imagine it."

I left him there, smiling wistfully, and went out to the street.

The photo session lasted for seven hours. When I got back to the offices after four, they were taking a break for a light meal.

Ed looked a little frantic; turns out he had decided Millie was his Beatrice, his Mona Lisa, his Elizabeth Barrett--not the love of his life, but the inspiration for his greatest work, the raw material from which he would craft the greatest porn pictures ever made. He had that slightly wild-eyed look of something between genius and madness. I had to promise him that we'd stay in New York for as long as it took to create his masterwork.

Leon looked okay, but he seemed a little haunted, too. It occurred to me that he was seeing things now that would stick in his head forever. I didn't hear him speak for the rest of that day. He either stared at Millie or the wall.

Millie was in better shape than any of us. She was energized, all but humming with sexual energy, and still looked fresh as the well-known daisy. I had never seen her so happy.

After the snack, the three of them went back into the studio. As she left, Millie whispered in my ear, "Now I get to do the dildo stuff!"

I found my own hands were shaking a little as I sat down in the lobby to wait. It seemed like a long wait, because it was.

When they were finally done, Ed and Leon came out first. Ed looked like a man who had seen God and had an appointment to see Him again. Leon just looked like he'd been hit by a train. Neither of them said much, other than Ed announcing their intention to go down the street and get drunk together. Apparently they had reached a new plateau in their artistic collaboration.

Millie came out looking kind of dreamy-eyed, tired and relaxed, and her newly red hair was still stick to her sweaty forehead. I knew that post-multiple-orgasm look, so I just took her in my arms and held her. She leaned her head on my chest gratefully. "So how many times did you cum?" I whispered as I hugged her.

She breathed it in my ear: "I lost count around thirty-five or forty," she said, "but we were almost done by then. The best ones were after that. That's why I lost count."

I looked down at her, and she smiled up at me almost sleepily. She looked a little stoned, to tell the truth. "Did you have a good time?" I asked, stupidly.

She giggled tiredly. "Sure," she said, "but the best time will be when you see the pictures."

I looked at her skeptically. She kissed me then. "What do you think kept me so turned on, silly?" she asked. "All through it, I just kept thinking, 'Wait till Jeff sees THIS one!'"

I hugged her again and spun her around a little, and then I got her dressed and took her back to the hotel. We ordered dinner from room service, and she slept till noon the next day.

We stayed in New York for two weeks, not one, and left after promising to come back in a few months, when they called us. Millie did seven more photo sessions and five videos; one was a location shoot in the Catskills, the only one I got to see. Millie posed in the shallows of a small creek, and seemed to spend most of her time bending over, squatting, and just generally spreading her legs. Her tits were the stars, but Ed and Leon were in love with her ass and pussy, too, and Ed seemed to have a thing for her pretty feet and hands. That was okay with me. I did, too.

We finally met some of the other bigwigs at CURVY, like the publisher and some of the board members. After seeing Millie, they wanted to attend one of her photo sessions, of course; but Ed wouldn't hear of it, and DeMarco, the executive editor, backed him up. "If her husband doesn't get to be there," he said, "why should you guys? You'll just have to wait for the magazine to come out, like everybody else."

They offered Millie an exclusive contract, so she wouldn't work for anyone else. I guess they knew a gold mine when they saw one. We held out for four times their initial offer, and they finally coughed up. They weren't complaining about it when we finally shook hands.

We finally went back home. I had already quit my job by then, of course. When Millie and I left the City, we were carrying checks for more than I made in two years. It looked like between Millie's modeling fees and residuals and the projected income from her videos, we wouldn't need my puny income any more.

Millie agreed to the hardcore shoot in our house, too. On the plane home, we discussed it in low tones. Crowding with other passengers wasn't a problem this time; we were flying first class.

"We have work to do, baby," I said. "Look at this." I pulled an object from my carryon bag.

"What's that?"

"That, Big Tits, is a state-of-the-art digital video camera."

"Ooo!" Her eyes twinkled.

"They want us to produce some special footage."

"Us fucking?" She looked at me as innocently as if she had just said, "Birthday parties?"

"No," I smiled, "But you're close. Do you know what a 'facial' is?"

She blinked. "Sure. That's when you go to the spa or a beauty salon and--"

"Not that kind." I explained it to her, and she giggled and licked her lips, eyes sparkling with delight.

"That sounds yummy!" she said. "So every time you shoot--

"Well, not *every* time," I said with a smile.

"You know what I mean," she said petulantly, waving a hand. "Every time we do this--I jack you off all over my face while I try to catch your sperm in my mouth?" She looked at me expectantly, all innocence.

"That's right. From different angles and distances. They want lots of closeups, but lots of shots of my cum squirting and dripping all over those big tits of yours, too."

"Sounds like fun!" She might have been a teenager agreeing to go to a movie. "But what are they going to do with this stuff?"

"Well, if we have enough footage for them, they're going to come out with a special DVD called 'Millie Eats Cum'."

She giggled. "That's so nasty! I love it! What else can we do?"

"Whatever," I said. "They said they can use any footage of you at all--reading, cooking, cleaning, gardening, brushing your teeth, whatever."

She blinked. "That's weird. Why would they want that?"

"Makes you more of a real person. Millie, a year from now there's going to be about a million guys out there in love with you. They're going to want to know everything they can about who you are and what you're like and what it would be like to know you. It'll make you seem more real to them, and make your naked pictures seem even more intimate."

She was blushing again, predictably. "Oh," she said. After a few moments of digesting that, she said, "Jeff, this is kind of scary. I'm starting to feel like it can't be real again."

"It's real, baby," I said. "But the one that oughta be scared is me."

"Huh? Why?"

"Because every one of those guys' fondest wish is going to be taking you away from me."

She smiled and looked at me like I'd said something really stupid. "That," she said with authority, "will never happen."
"Some of them are going to be rich," I said. "And great-looking. And hung like a T. Rex."

She laughed. "And they'd never have given an ugly fat girl who wore old lady's clothes and never looked anyone in the face a second glance. And they'd never let me show off for other guys. And they'd never, ever, ever love me like you do, and I could never, ever love them like I love you."

I just looked at her, struck dumb once again by my incredible, amazing, totally undeserved luck. "Well, all righty then. Never mind."

We both laughed, and then we kissed for a while. I considering asking Millie is she wanted to join the Mile High club, but decided against it. The trick there is not to be noticed, and when you're with Millie, that doesn't happen.

After a while, I said, "There is one thing we have to do to get ready for the hardcore shoot at our house," I said.

Millie was instantly all ears. Well, all ears and tits. "What?" she asked.

"We need to rehearse. A lot."

It took a half-second, and then she giggled. "Now that you don't have a job, Jeff, I don't see why we can't rehearse all day."

The "fasten your seatbelts" sign came on with a bell tone. The plane was coming in for a landing.

"Exactly what I had in mind," I said. "Now take off your panties."

She did, without a second's hesitation. "Now stick that vibrating egg up your pussy and hand me the remote."

As she did so, I said, "I want to see how well you keep your composure as we get off the plane, wait for our bags, and walk through the airport while everyone's staring at you."

I cranked it over to High, and she closed her eyes and bit her lip. "I can t-tell you right now, J-Jeffie," she whispered, "Not v-very w-w-well..."

She was right. It was fun to watch, too.

Flying can be fun. Even the dull, tedious parts.