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Archive name: sari9.txt (MM/girl, ped, rom)
Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
Story title : Sari's Side of the Story: Photo Exposure

--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
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The Sari Saga: Photo Exposure (MM/girl, ped, rom)
by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)

***

The continuing story of a young girl's sexual 
development. Sari very nearly loses the place - as well 
as other things.

***

The Japanese photographer introduced his colleague. "This 
is Mr. Karishami Tohaku." He spoke in a solemn voice 
leavened with respect like someone delivering the eulogy 
at a funeral. There seemed to be an unusually long pause 
between the first and second names. It was as if he were 
having second thoughts about the whole project or about 
having the man meet any girl. "Karishami Tohaku." The 
name was repeated without the pause, but with added 
pride. "Tohaku is one of our greatest artists." He then 
exchanged glances with the other man, and the faintest 
ghost of a smile danced along his lips. "In many fields!"

Karishami beamed. "You are a very beautiful girl," he 
said in a heavily erotic voice, as if he were demanding 
that I remove my clothing and wrestle with him on the 
divan in the corner. He shook my hand and held it in a 
sensuously firm grip for longer than politeness or 
political correctness required. "Koji has told me a great 
deal about you," he continued, "and I have to admit it: I 
agree with everything he has said." His eyes seemed to 
dart up and down as he looked at me with something like 
undisguised lasciviousness on his round face. It was 
plain to see that he was stripping me with his eyes, and 
taking his time over the ritual removal of each piece of 
clothing. I was amused, but I was also extremely excited. 
There was a savage beauty about the man. "For once in his 
life, he has not exaggerated!" He laughed boyishly.

The fashion catalogue photo-session had gone smoothly. 
Matsumoto Koji had taken about a hundred shots. The 
younger of the two women I had met on the previous visit 
brought the various bits and pieces to wear. She helped 
me dress to the best effect. There were tartan school 
outfits with extremely short skirts and semi-transparent 
rainwear, union suits and underwear to suit every 
conceivable taste. And all this was done in an open-plan 
corner of a film studio the size of an aircraft hangar 
with only a small screen to shield my nakedness and 
occasional blushes from prying eyes. The openness and the 
sheer immensity of the place was a bit overpowering, but 
truly exhilarating.

It was later in the afternoon, after an extravagant 
lunch, that the photographer escorted me through 
corridors, suffocating in their narrowness, up metal 
staircases whose steps produced unmusical chimes as we 
climbed, and along a vertigo-inducing catwalk until we 
finally reached his hideout where he introduced me to 
Karishami. The name meant absolutely nothing to me. Koji 
seemed disappointed when I did not swoon or dance with 
adulation. The two men conversed in Japanese and while 
they were still talking a third man appeared, a huge Sumo 
wrestler type, as thick around the waist as he was tall. 
He was not introduced. The other two greeted him 
untypically with barely the customary bow and a nod of 
the head. 

The photographer grunted, "That is Endo Dayu." It was not 
really intended to be an introduction. With something 
like contempt in his voice, he added, "He does not speak 
English. He is from the censor's office in Tokyo." 

The Sumo wrestler sat on a high stool and wiped the 
wobbling jaw with a spotlessly white handkerchief. It was 
obvious that the metal staircase and the tight corridors 
had been exacting for him. 

"The laws governing the portrayal of female minors are 
extremely strict in Japan," Koji explained. "And we have 
to be very careful. There must be no pubic hair shown, 
for example, and any nakedness has to hinted at rather 
than manifest - under a blanket or behind a curtain, that 
kind of thing!" He threw the fat man a hostile look. "And 
Endo enjoys his work." He sniggered in a childish way. 
"At least, he likes to keep Tohaku and me in our proper 
places." 

It was explained to me in intricate detail, by both the 
photographer and the artist, what they had in mind for 
me. Several times the proviso was emphasised that I could 
call a halt to the proceedings whenever I wanted, and 
that the final products, the photographs and the line 
drawings, would be subject to my approval; if there was 
anything I disapproved of, it would be scrapped 
instantly, including negatives and schemata, without 
question or comment, certainly with no censure. The theme 
throughout would be one of mild bondage with implied, if 
not explicit suggestions of carnality, sexual slavery and 
sado-masochism. 

"There will be a pronounced difference," said Matsumoto 
Koji pensively, "from what we have been doing for the 
fashion catalogue people." I could not miss the renewed 
exchange of amused glances and the wispy smiles. 

It was the summer vacation from school, and Lor was still 
in the United States, so what the hell! The photographer 
took a few shots at random and the artist made a couple 
of rapid line drawings. I could not get rid of the 
feeling that they were simply going through the motions 
to satisfy Endo Dayu, and that the real work was to be 
done later - in another location, I suspected. The fat 
man nodded his approval when it was all over, there were 
hand-shakes and polite bows and the party was over. 

Matsumoto Koji and Karishami Tohaku took me back to 
Middleton, to Lor's parents' place, in a sleek, low-slung 
sports car that had no rear seats, only a triple front 
seat. Koji explained that the grand limousine and the 
P.G. Wodehouse chauffeur were otherwise engaged. Then he 
suggested that if I had nothing better to do, he would 
pick me up the next day and we could join Karishami at 
his private studio in Hampstead. 

I asked casually, "Will Mr. Endo Dayu be there?"

Koji seemed surprised by the fact that I had remembered 
the name. It had only been said a couple of times, almost 
in passing, but I have a fair memory for names. The two 
men again exchanged glances before Matsumoto said, "Well, 
we thought not!" He spoke apologetically. "We thought 
perhaps we could express ourselves, artistically, of 
course, much more freely in his absence." Again there was 
the exchange of sheepish looks. "That is, providing you 
agree. If you would rather."

I cut him short. "No! No need to bother him! That will be 
fine!" 

Sandwiched between these two good-looking men, I was 
feeling really sexy. And I think it showed.

The remainder of the journey was spent in small talk. 
Several pointed questions were asked about my mother and 
my boyfriend. The answers about the former - that she was 
still on a mini-world cruise with grandma Jaksen - were 
greeted in sullen silence, but the two men appeared to 
brighten at the news that Lor was still in America and 
likely to be there for some time. Several times the 
driver mistook my knee for the gear change stick; on each 
occasion the hand lingered slightly longer and brushed my 
already abbreviated skirt very delicately farther up my 
thigh and stroked with increased pressure. Again, I was 
amused, but more than that. I found that each time he 
touched me I widened the gap between my knees; I was 
inviting his hand to feel me. I was rubbing my leg 
against the other man. I could sense the heat being 
generated inside my womb and the moistness seeping out to 
my panties.

When we reached our destination, Karishami eased himself 
from the car first to let me out. Koji touched my elbow 
to restrain me for a moment, then leaned over and kissed 
me lightly on the open mouth. He rubbed my breast.

"Thanks for everything," he said. 

His tongue pushed past my lips. I responded 
appropriately. His hand slipped the full length between 
my splayed legs and cupped my mons veneris. I felt his 
finger slip into the groove of my pudenda and slide back 
and forward. I knew I was soaking. And inviting.

I nodded when he asked, "You're sure you are all right 
for tomorrow?" He was studying my panties.

Tohaku grinned as he watched. When I finally left the 
car, he also held me delicately by the shoulder. "Do I 
get a kiss too?" 

I nodded. His kiss was more lingering and with much more 
tongue. His knuckles very gently brushed up and down 
against my breast. Then he climbed into the automobile 
again. The pair giggled childishly as the car sped away.

That night in bed I thought of Lor and longed for him 
with a depth of yearning I had never before experienced. 
I could picture every detail of his face as I edged 
myself towards sweet sleep, but the faces of Matsumoto 
Koji and Karishami Tohaku kept intruding, and then the 
face, and other parts, of Jefferson Jackson Joe Louis. It 
was the big black boy who finally came out on top, so to 
speak, as I slid into unconsciousness; it was as if he 
were there in bed with me, as he had been in my tent on 
the last night of the expedition, only now I could feel 
the entire length of Sir Roger slipping into me and 
sliding back and forth. In the morning I knew for a fact 
that I was not going to be able to hold on to my 
virginity for very much longer. And in the cold light of 
day I knew that, first and foremost, I still wanted Lor - 
but not necessarily to be the first! And most certainly 
not to be the only!

The smell of incense in Karishami's studio was 
overpowering. It was also altogether different from my 
preconception of what an artist's patch should look like. 
Koji, as arranged, picked me up at nine o'clock and was 
on his impeccably best behaviour. There was coffee and 
cream cake as soon as we entered the compact room which 
was made seemingly smaller by the heavily embroidered 
tapestries on the walls. A thick lace curtain obscured 
the view outside and acted as a defence against prying 
eyes. The lighting was uncomfortably bright; when I 
screwed up my eyes against it the artist apologised 
profusely and dimmed it until it hung like a ghostly glow 
around the edges of the walls and ceiling. A television, 
with a screen that seemed impossibly wide for such a 
confined space, flashed its bright colours in a corner; 
there was a programme about interior decoration which 
both men ignored as if they were totally oblivious to 
there being a television there in the first place. 
Somewhere !
in the middle distance oriental music was being played on 
instruments I did not recognise. 

The entire atmosphere of the place was disorienting. As I 
sipped my coffee and nibbled a piece of absolutely 
exquisite chocolate gateau I began, increasingly, to feel 
giddy. I stammered an apology. I laid my cup and saucer 
on the small table in front of me with some difficulty. 
The two men were looking at me anxiously. The room and 
the furniture, the fabric on the wall, the curtained 
window and the peculiar lighting advanced and withdrew in 
a crazy kind of dance and the music in the background 
reached a crescendo then disintegrated into silence only 
to creep up on my consciousness again with even louder 
twanging and banging. The faces and the places on the 
television screen became distorted, and the interior 
decorations seemed to be spilling out from it on to the 
thick carpet.

If I lost consciousness it could only have been for a few 
seconds, but I felt overwhelmed by an intense sexual 
desire. It was the kind of sensation I have almost 
constantly when I am alone and in an intimate situation 
with Lor, only a seeming hundred times more intense. It 
was the kind of feeling generated inside me when 
Jefferson Jackson Joe Louis came to my tent on the 
expedition. I felt a most peculiar kind of thrill at 
being alone in a cramped room with two obviously over-
sexed men.

"Christ, Sari!" exclaimed the Japanese photographer. "You 
had the shit worried out of us." 

I had fallen backwards. He had wrapped a supporting arm 
around my shoulder. My school blazer had been removed. 
The two three buttons of my blouse were undone and my 
skirt was brushed back to expose my panties. His 
companion was attempting to rub some life back into my 
hand. My hand was low down, on my pubis. 

"Do you pass out like that often?" He made the question 
sound like some sort of accusation and he was having 
second thoughts about using me as a model. He almost made 
it sound as if I had somehow tricked them.

"Of course not!" I snapped more brusquely than I had 
intended. "I can't remember ever passing out!" There was 
something intensely erotic about the close attention of 
the two men, especially with Koji's free hand inside my 
blouse very gently massaging my left breast. I could feel 
my nipple hard and erect against his touch. "I think it 
was the heady mixture of bright lights and incense." I 
felt a lot better just talking about it. I was recovering 
my composure rapidly. I even laughed. "And that stuff you 
put in my coffee!" 

It was meant to be simple a bit of meaningless prattle, 
but there was the familiar exchange of glances, and I 
realised that it had been more than a mere wild guess. 
Koji pulled his hand away from my breast. The front of my 
blouse still flapped open.

"It was only a relaxant," declared the artist. "It is 
perfectly harmless. In fact, many physicians recommend it 
as being highly beneficial." He grinned sheepishly like a 
schoolboy caught in the act of cheating. "It is used a 
lot in Japan, and it was in our coffee too!" He held his 
hands above his head in an act of surrender. "It was 
wrong of me. I should not have assumed such a liberty. 
Please forgive me!"

I thought, under the circumstances, with the sexual 
surging inside me, for instance, that it would be best if 
I aborted the proceedings. 

"I wonder if you would call a cab for me." I was aware 
that my words were slurred ever so slightly. "I think it 
would be better if I went home." 

My emotions warred against my words. I wanted these men 
to force their attentions upon me and provide me with the 
kind of sensations Jackson had given me. No, more than 
that: I wanted them to rape me. My shoulder was jerking 
violently. The visions of the previous night returned. I 
could feel their impregnating semen spurt into me.

The two men protested in a competitive babble. Matsumoto 
Koji finally said. "Please stay, Sari! Please!" I could 
have sworn there were tears forming in his eyes. "You are 
extremely beautiful! We have never had a model as 
alluring and sexually attractive as you. Or as young!" He 
glanced at his colleague. "We can offer you ten per cent 
gross!"

Karishami Tohaku nodded his assent.

"And apart from anything else," added the other man, "I 
think both of us are madly in love with you." 

I stared at them. I was sure it was meant as a joke, but 
there was no sign of amusement on either face. Jefferson 
Jackson had also sworn his undying love for me. I was 
still slightly confused, but not too much to feel 
convinced that only Lor Oldmann's protestations could be 
trusted beyond the speaking of the words. There was no 
doubt that Jackson Louis won on lust, but these two 
Japanese courtiers were pretty close on his heels.

"But I swear, we shall be on our best behaviour." Tohaku 
beat his chest. "If that is what you want!"

The shoulder jerking had subsided slightly, but the face 
of Jefferson Jackson intruded itself on my mind. And 
quite suddenly, I decided at that moment and in that 
place to lose my virginity! It was more than just a 
longing. It was a definite resolution.

I nodded. "Right," I said. "Ten per cent and I'll stay!" 
My heart was racing, and breathing was becoming more 
difficult. "We must kiss!" I was aware that my body was 
radiating sexual readiness and willingness. "To seal the 
contract!" I knew there was pleading in my eyes. 
"Please!"

I was only vaguely aware of one of the men, I honestly do 
not know which, lifting and laying me on a futon. I 
remember both men, one lying on either side of me, 
holding me in their arms and kissing me as passionately 
as I have ever been kissed. One man sucked my breasts, 
while the other groped under my skirt. I felt the thin 
ribbon of silken material that was my panties being drawn 
away from me. I had convinced myself that the boat was 
about to be pushed out and both these men were about to 
fuck me. I had also convinced myself that I was actively 
willing them onward to my own deflowering. I needed sex 
as much as I needed air. Fingers were sliding into me 
with embarrassing ease, lubricated by my love juices.

Then it happened again. And it was every bit as dramatic 
as the cougar attack at the end of the American 
expedition. I had my mouth open to receive Tohaku's cock 
when Lor's face appeared in close-up on the television 
screen. He had been awarded something called the Great 
Belt and the Black Baton for winning his grade in the 
world Li-tchai championships in Boston. Koji had removed 
his trousers. He was astride the futon and had raised my 
legs. He was directing his manhood to my maidenhood. I 
pushed them both aside and sat up. The woman's voice-over 
on the screen said that it was the first time in nearly a 
hundred years that the top prize had gone to other than a 
Korean or Japanese contestant. I gaped at Lor's image 
before shifting my gaze to the photographer and the 
painter. 

Karishami Tohaku also gaped open-mouthed at the 
television screen. "You know him?" His cock still erect, 
stuck from the open flies of his trousers.

I gasped. "That's my boyfriend!" Breathing had become 
impossible.

"He does Li-tchai?" the artist asked. A strange look of 
wonder spread across his face. "Your boyfriend does Li-
tchai?" And he miraculously became limp.

"In Japan," stated Matsumato, "Li-tchai is called the 
Kamikaze of the martial arts." He also had lost his 
erection.

"And so?" demanded his colleague. "It has the highest 
fatal accident rate of any sport in the world."

It was obvious that both were having second thoughts 
about my immanent seduction. 

"Kamikaze has a double meaning," explained Koji. "It is 
'the divine wind' that blows from heaven to rescue those 
who are in danger, and it is the divine mission of those 
who are prepared to sacrifice life itself in the rescue 
attempt." He stood up and away from me as if he were in 
danger of contacting some terrible disease. He pulled on 
his trousers. "All senior officers in the imperial army 
from the end of the nineteenth century had to earn a 
baton in Li-tchai." His eyes widened with wonder and 
respect. "Only the most outstanding warriors in Japanese 
history were awarded the Great Belt."

One thing was certain: love-making was over for the day. 
The divine wind had blown across the Atlantic by way of 
satellite television to rescue me from the fabled 'fate 
worse than death' and I was to retain my virginity for 
some time to come. Irrespective of what I wanted.

***

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The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not "real life." Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a 
fellow convict in their local prison.
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