Foovay's Floozies

Posted By Summer Foovay on December 26, 2009

Firey Louise

“I was a matchstick girl – when I met Warren.  No, really I was!” her laughter was like the rest of her; big, full chested and round; it seemed to boom around my lofty studio.  “There I was, bare headed, bare footed, in that thin little shift that was my only dress at the time.  That horrible thing!  How I hated it!  It had all the style of a burlap bag with armholes – in fact, that’s probably what it was at one time!  Well, as I said, it was all I had, and so I had rather outgrown it and my legs stuck out the bottom like fat little matchsticks!”  She laughed again, kicking her thick legs up in the air.

She was romping all over the brocaded divan, her generous curves and thick mane of fiery red hair seeming to fill the room with her heat and passion.  I despaired of ever capturing on film her sheer zest for life, let alone the heat of her passion for Warren.

“I don’t know what he saw in me, unless it was my hair.  It was long then – it has never been cut – not since I was born.”  She ran one hand underneath that crimson cape and spread it over her arm casually shaking it, teasing the tangled curls into some sort of order as she spoke.

We had been working together for hours, trying to get just the right photo for “her Warren” as she said, “to keep him nice and warm at night when he’s got to be home with the Ice Maiden”

“He was with some other businessmen, and he bought every single one of my matches.  They laughed at him and he winked, then bent down and told me to stay right where I was until he returned.” She gave a bark of laughter, like the foxy little vixen she was.  “Little did I know he wasn’t coming back for hours and hours.  Until after dark!  I was half frozen and I needed to pee and oh, I was so hungry!  But I waited, right there, just like he said.  I knew! I knew from the minute he bought all my matches, that Warren was the man for me.  The only man, ever!” She brought her feet abruptly flat to the floor, her eyes now wide and steady on mine, her gaze quite serious.  “The only man, ever.” She emphasized.

I wondered then if this wildly sexual wench was actually trying to put me in my place – as if being a rich man’s kept woman was a higher station than my own.  I may have begun as a whore, but I was now a professional in my own right.  I owned my own business.  Photographing women from whores to mistresses, and sometimes even wives.

Maybe that was her issue.  For though she trumpeted that Warren was the only man for her, she surely knew that she was hardly the only woman for Warren.  Warren, I knew for a fact, had quite a collection of my photographs – purchased from various ladies of pleasure whose favors he enjoyed.  And while he may have been keeping Louise in high style on her side of town, uptown there was a wife whose desires would always come first.  Something else Louise waxed verbose about.

“That Ice Queen!  He says that she has only slept with him once – on their wedding night!  And he says he almost expected her to display the blood stained sheets from the windows – you know, like they used to do in the old days to prove the bride was a virgin, and that the marriage had been con-con-con-“ the redhead stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

“Consummated?” I supplied, my voice flat.

“Yeah – that’s it!” she snapped her fingers and grinned.

I liked Louise.  But a full day of attempting to get her to sit still for the few moments the camera needed to capture her was really beginning to tell on me.  Especially since she chattered non-stop.

If it wasn’t bright birdie cheeping about how much she adored “her Warren” it was harsh cawing about “that Ice Queen” that was his lawfully wedded wife.

“Every holiday – every holiday he has to spend with that dreadful witch.  And then there are the balls, and the parties, and the social events – and of course, she has to go to The Continent, to get her dresses made, don’t ya know!”  Louise’s full lower lip protruded in a pout but couldn’t hold it for long before spreading into a wicked grin.  “Sometimes when Warren orders her dresses, or well she orders, but then he calls and he has them make two.  One to her dried up stick measurements, and one for me.”  She preened and wiggled, well aware of her sexy voluptuous curves.

If everything said about the wife was true, she really was quite a bitch.  However, if I was to judge the veracity of Louise’s’ statements by what I knew personally to be true of her adored Warren compared to her description of him, I thought the wife just might not be the horrible witch she was being made out as either.

As far as Louise was concerned, Warren was saint and satyr combined, with a generous dollop of business genius poured over all.  She seemed quite unconscious that every time she spoke of him she put her hand between her legs and stroked, her legs opening and closing like the wings of a bird, her sex swelling and growing red as the hair around it as she masturbated, either unconsciously or just completely uninhibited by my presence.

She was kind of turning me on – if only I could have somehow turned off my ability to hear her endless, irritating chirping.  I entertained a brief vision of her bound to a four-poster bed.  And gagged.  I wondered if Warren ever had a similar idea.

Her little whimpers and finally a birdlike hiccup noise brought me back and I realized I’d been daydreaming instead of trying to focus on Louise through the camera lens.  Blinking, I shook my way out of the hood and peered at her over the camera.  She was licking her fingers.  Her swollen pussy gleamed with dampness.

“I’m sorry” she simpered, clearly not at all apologetic, “I just can’t help it when I think about Warren.”  She leaned against the arm of the divan with a sigh, smoothing her tangled tresses – and I finally got the picture.

Category: Dixie Jones Photographer, Louise, Warren
Tags: masturbation, matchstick girl, mistress