Gabe had had many strange photography assignments for the eccentric, but very rich Mr. R, an avid collector or erotica, but this was perhaps the most challenging. The money was better than good, however, and when he’d put a little thought into it, Gabe saw little problem in the execution of the assignment. It was something different. He might even enjoy it.

When Ms. Tulip came off the stage at the Bourbon Street female impersonators’ club and swished into her dressing room that Saturday night, Gab was waiting for her. The meta hunk had worn a muscle shirt barely covering the firm bulges of his torso and a silky pair of shorts that barely held the bulge of his ten thick inches. So, when he asked her if she’d come pose for him for photos, her quick answer was, "Honey, you can take me anywhere you want and do anything you want to me." She would have cause to reconsider that comment.

They went straight out to the alley and Ms. Tulip hiked up behind Gabe on his motorcycle, stiletto heels and all. "She" wrapped her arms around Gabe and hugged him tight. By the time they reached the plantation house on the Mississippi, Ms. Tulip had fully examined every curve and hard muscle of Gabe’s torso under his muscle shirt and had determined for herself that everything in that bulging basket at his crotch was the real deal. She was purring when they stopped in front of the old mansion.

Gabe had a room set up with still cameras pointing from different angles at a floodlit ivory chaise lounge backed by a white curtain. These cameras were set to automatically fire off photos at seven-second intervals. He had another handheld camera for close-up shots.

Ms. Tulip hadn’t liked the idea that Gabe wanted to photograph her as she was rather than the image she wanted to display, but she made only one demand in compensation as she stripped down to black silk net stockings, garter belt, and stiletto heels and wrapped herself in a red silk lounging robe.

"If I show it all, Dear Boy, you must as well. I want you to be nude for the photo session as well."

And then when Gabe had stripped down, her response was. "Holy, Mother, Jesus, Joseph, Herod, and Pilate, you stud you. Is it legal to be as beautiful and big . . . everywhere . . . as you are? Love the rings in the ear, nipples, and navel, and, Oh my God, there too. Come to Momma, you horse-hung beauty, you. I gotta have me some of that, Baby."

"Photo shoot," Gabe answered. "Concentrate, woman. You can keep the pout if you want, but drape yourself on the chaise, please. Back to me. Yes, like that. Robe off your shoulders and look back at me. Yes, just like that. A beautiful woman; soft shoulders, beautiful face, brunette hair flowing down your back. Work it for me, and I’ll work it for you."

Click, click went the cameras.

"Okay, same position, but let the robe all the way down to your waist. Beautiful rounded shoulders tapering down to that tiny waist, and glowing, golden tan skin. Right."

Click, click, click.

"Half turn around, now. Show that nice perky tit. Yes, that’s nice. Now full around and lean back into the chaise. Arch your back to me; give me a full frontal on those nice tits. Now, fingers to tits and work them. Luscious red nails against the glowing skin and big, pink taut nipples. Wonderful. Make love to the camera.

Click, click, click.

"I’d rather make love to you, Sweet Cakes,"