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This is a follow-up, not exactly a sequel, to my story, BeachCombing, which you might want to read first, but that I’ll try to recap and move on.

In BeachCombing, my wife, Anne (ok, not her name, but the name I used in writing a story about us), and I visited a nude beach on vacation. We met Rick, a naturist local resident, on the beach, and that led to an MFM evening of pleasure for all three involved. Shortly after that, I regret that Anne exited my life, for unrelated reasons I’m not going to explain here. Life’s complicated, as I’m sure you know.

I was majorly bummed for a while, but I remembered that nude beach adventure with fondness, and it had nothing to do with my finding myself alone, working along through life in my job in city government, enjoying watching my adult kids thrive (from a distance), and just basically getting along.

Since I’d written Literotica stories before, I took it up again, and after a couple of months on my own, I posted the BeachCombing story, sort of an homage to that great day. As you can see if you look it up, it got a pretty good response, and requests for a follow-up. It turns out there’s a story there as well, involving Rick’s wife, Linda. But again, this isn’t that story – maybe I’ll get to that one someday, and it’s a great memory as well.

More to the point, I’d taken some photos that day on the beach, before Anne and I met up with Rick, and had induced Anne to take a couple of me, just as a lark, all with my cell phone, so mostly just snaps – no real posing or artistry to it, and nothing even seductive much less pornographic. Being on a nearly deserted nude beach, nude – and taking photos and having photos taken – was admittedly a turn-on at the time. In later months, I occasionally retrieved the photos in the computer, just to reflect and enjoy the memories. One day, while reading over a story in the Illustrated category that included actual photos of actual people, it occurred to me that I could crop and add some of the photos, resubmitting the BeachCombing story in an illustrated version, without showing Anne’s face, nor mine. I rationalized that doing that wouldn’t really be a violation of any personal privacy, since we’d both be unrecognizable unless a close comparison were made of the photos and us nude, which wasn’t going to happen, naturally.

Accordingly, I registered under a new author name and, with an intro that said it was a reprint of someone else’s work, edited to include the new author’s photos, I cropped and inserted and republished the story, confident I’d protected the various identities and hopeful that the “Illustrated” readers would appreciate the story as much as the “Exhibitionist” folks had. It took no more than a day after the story was published for the scores and comments to accumulate. Checking back the following day, I was stunned to see one comment: “Ah, I recognize you! Both you and ‘Anne’ are looking good, tiger!”

Yikes – someone claiming to have recognized me, or her?! How!? I immediately retracted the story, and so unless you happened to be reading that day, you never got to see or read it. Then I sat back and waited, I wasn’t sure for what.

I figured that if it were just a bluff, no harm had been done by my pulling the story, and nothing further would transpire. If it were true, I’d erased as well as I could, and I’d just have to deal with whatever if and when it came to pass. I realized that if the word got out here locally, my city management job could be on the line, despite my having done nothing illegal or unethical, but just for the city to save face and move on from me, who would be branded a pervert at least – porn writer, indeed! How in the world someone might think they recognized either of us, with our heads cropped out of the photos was beyond me. Worse, since ‘Anne’ and I had lived in the same town for years, and never anywhere else since before we’d met, if it were true, it might well be someone from around here – that didn’t change the best case, but it sure made the worst case even worse!

Over the next week or two I still worried, but less so with each passing day of silence on all fronts, including no further responses or messages on the site.

Then a couple of weeks later, I attended a gathering at a friend’s home. It was the typical wine and snacks, people milling around, several conversations going along in groups, while others, me included, just sort of drifted and chatted and moved on. After about an hour of unremarkable but pleasant wining and munching, I went to the guest restroom down the hall from the great room and kitchen where most of the folks were. I relieved myself of some of the wine, flushed, washed, dried and exited, finding Catherine, an old friend of ‘Anne’s’, waiting outside the door. I figured she was just in line to use the facilities, so stepped aside to walk around her back to the party. She stepped back herself, not quite blocking my way, but obviously not moving into the bathroom.

I sakarya escort remarked, “Hi, Catherine. Nice gathering,” or something similarly innocuous. She smiled at me and said, “Nice tattoo, Mike! Like I said, looking good, tiger!” And with that, she breezed by me into the bathroom and I heard the door click locked.

I was as stunned as I had been when seeing the initial online comment! OK, I had been recognized, and it had been due to that damned tattoo, that I hadn’t even realized was visible in the picture. I’d gotten it years ago when in the service, and it had become a somewhat regretted but accepted part of me that I didn’t even notice it or think to blur it out for the story – I was all focused on the faces and mostly on ‘Anne’s’, since she’d have had a fit if she knew I’d posted a nude photo of her on a website. OK, and rightly so. But the tattoo – it’s high on the outside of my thigh, such that you wouldn’t see it unless I were wearing really short shorts, which I never did, all my gym shorts and bathing suits being the long baggy type, so I was sure that neither Catherine nor anyone in town had ever seen it or even knew of it.

I left the party right away, got home, and reviewed the photos I’d used. Sure enough, about half of it was visible, and that not really identifiable unless you knew what you were looking for – so how in the hell did she know about it?

Moments later, my cell phone rang. “MIke, you left in a hurry – why didn’t you stick around?” Catherine’s voice said, and I could hear the teasing in it.

Still not convinced of the situation, I said, “Oh, I’d just had enough wine, I guess.”

“Nothing to do with the tattoo remark?”

“What – did you make a tattoo remark?” I blustered.

“It’s really cute, from what I saw, until you took down the story, that is. You’re probably wondering, but ‘Anne’ told me about it a long time ago, and I was curious then, so she described it. When I read the story and saw the photos of you both, with the tattoo peeking around there, it came back to me and I guessed it might be you. And then when I read the more intimate descriptions of you two, I knew it had to be you. Of course, there are parts of you, and her, that I had only heard about until then, but like I said, you looked – make that look – good!”

I knew I could continue to deny, but I also knew I was busted!

What I worried about was what she had in mind to do with the information, not knowing if maybe she’d managed to copy the whole story herself and so now had proof of the whole thing. I certainly didn’t want the photos to get out, and I didn’t want the story, or the fact that I wrote erotic stories in my spare time to get out. I had to delve further to know just what to do.

“Ah, so from what I gather, you were told about a tattoo I have, and now you have connected it with some story with photos that you think is about and of and by me?”

“Yup, that about sums it up. The fact that the photos were at the beach, and mostly of ‘Anne’ in the nude, but with one memorable shot of you full frontal up to the shoulders, should tell you that I’m not just making this up. Oh, and I did some Sherlocking, and found the original story under your other name, so now I’ve managed to read all your submissions, you naughty, naughty, but so erotic, boy!”

She was right on having seen the story, and now no doubt had busted all my stories, which are pretty personal and all containing some truth, some maybe not so true. Dammit.

“So, what now? I’m glad you enjoyed whatever it is you enjoyed, and if the guy in the photos was attractive, I’m flattered.”

“Well, I’ve given that some thought, and I’m thinking you should come over to my place next Saturday, say at about 10 in the morning? and we can discuss it further.”

“Ah, ok, see you then. I trust that, uh, until then I can trust your discretion?”

“Oh, absolutely!” she laughed. “This isn’t about exposing you – you’ve already done that! I just want to chat, find out about the whole story with the fisherman – that really sounded hot – that sort of thing!”

“Not sure what fisherman you’re talking about, but ok, I’ll see you then,” I mumbled, still bluffing, and hung up, thoughts racing without getting anywhere, really. I was busted, she’d kept quiet this long, maybe she really was just sort of voyeuristically interested.

Catherine, for the record, is about 5’5″, maybe 130, 140 well-toned pounds, brunette, average figure, probably C cups thanks to the very few extra pounds she carried (and maybe even some “work” – they did look fine and she was wealthy, so that was a possibility. . . ), and those apportioned nicely between breasts and tush. She and ‘Anne’ were good friends, although Catherine was always the teasing, adventurous one of the two.

Catherine’s husband, Dan, is a workaholic real estate developer, frequently traveling around the country but also locally izmir escort involved and perceived as a pillar of the community, with charity support and club doings. He makes a lot more money than I do, but he is also frequently absent, working I guess, from seeing her go to various activities on her own, like the cocktail party that night. They live very well, out on the lake in a house way bigger than they need, and from what I’d heard, both of them drink a bit more than they should, but there are no rumors I’d heard of fights or infidelity or anything, just living well and busy at things that aren’t with each other all that much. Dan’s weight has crept up a bit over the past decade or so, so he has that soft country club golfer thing going. Fun at a party, hardly a threat. Basically, nice folks that I’d lost track of when I found myself socially solo.

The following Saturday, I was up early. I showered, dressed in thin loose beige linen trousers and an untucked oxford cloth button down with sockless topsiders (it was warm weather again by then), and drove over to her house. I should insert here that in this regard, I’d become way paranoid and so had my cell phone in my pocket, along with another fully charged power supply – amazing how small they can make those things these days. I’d pretested it, and with the thin linen trousers and the thing adjusted, I’d gotten it so that while unobtrusive, it could pick up reasonably close conversations even when pocketed. My plan was to get enough incriminating conversation on my phone that there would be no way that Catherine and Dan would want the truth known, at all. Socially, they had even more to lose than I did, since his business and their fancy lifestyle depended on the bigwigs who kept very straight laced lives publicly, regardless of any private predilections. I could lose a job, but I was solo and could find another somewhere in the country, and for reasons that don’t matter here, I wouldn’t starve even if I never worked again.

I’d forgotten, not having seen Catherine for maybe a year and never having been to their house, just how well they did live. I parked in the gravel circular drive, walked up onto the porch of what I’d call a McMansion, where the main door was open, a screen door closed against the flying vermin, I guess. I hit the record button on the phone in my pocket, and rang the bell.

“Come on in, Mike! It’s Open!” I heard a female voice call and stepped in, managing to close both doors behind me. “I’m back here – in the kitchen!” she continued. I followed the voice and found Catherine attending to a blender of something or other at the counter. She was in a yellow gauze kind of material sort of a sundress that was backless, with no sign of a bra and no sign of any tan lines on her nicely toned back or shoulders. She left the blender, wiping her hands on a dish towel and came over to me. I registered that the sundress buttoned all the way down the front from a scoop neck that gave a hint of cleavage. Even more enticingly, the material was thin enough to show, if I used my imagination a little, the darker outline of her areolae, and it was soft enough to definitely show two nipples pushing outward. The bottom several buttons and one top one were undone, suggesting wonderful territory within. She offered, and we shared a quick hug and an air kiss on her part, a cheek kiss on mine (I never did understand air kisses, so when offered a cheek, I go for it). Returning to the counter, her hips made that dress do all manner of lovely movement, and I couldn’t make out any panty line or shading, despite the sun shining in ahead of her on her way, letting me see her legs through it. Very sexy indeed.

I hauled my head out of there, reminding myself that I was here to figure out just how to deal with this discovery of my alter ego erotic author and amateur nude photographer, including exposing my own junk – what an idiot I’d been to post that, even for a day!

“Care for an Orange Blossom?” Catherine said, twirling around when we got to the kitchen, and likely seeing me staring at her. “I got a head start,” she added, picking up a half full glass of the concoction. I could see the pitcher of orange juice and the bottle of gin next to the blender.

“Sure,” I said to the drink offer, deciding that I wanted not to put her off in any way. Catherine poured a fresh one for me (gin, and with just a bit of a zing – just the way I like them) and said, “I’ll bet you’re wondering just what’s up, huh?”

“Well, yeah.” I answered.

“Well, like I said, I’d like to hear from you just how much of that BeachCombing story was real and how much you made up. What I read, and saw, was really hot.”

“OK, so you read erotic stories, I take it, and read that one? Did you happen to copy it when it was there?”

“Would I do something like that?” she cooed, then pointed at the wall behind me. There, projected on the bare white wall from floor mersin escort to ceiling, was the photo of me naked, my unimpressive dick hanging down, the shot cropped off at the neck, but me sure enough, with the tattoo showing. I had to admit, they had a nice projection system, and with my being about 8 feet tall in the photo, it was probably the only time I’d have such a prodigious sized soft dick – if you ignored the rest of the scale, that is.

“You know, I’m going to have to have any and all copies of the story and all the photos. From both of you. Any way you can assure that?”

“Well, you’ll have to take my word for it, I suppose, but don’t worry – there aren’t any except on the little memory stick that’s in the projector now, so that part’s simple. Besides, how would I explain having them without embarrassing myself in the process?” I didn’t object, but knew good and well that she could expose me anonymously without any risk to herself.

“OK then, give the stick to me now, please.” I said, as firmly but without real anger as I could.

“Oh, we’ll get to that, I promise. When you leave today, this will all never have happened. But before you leave, we have some, uh, things to cover – or uncover!” she laughed.

“So, you’re blackmailing me to get the story and photos back?” I wanted that to be clear on the recording.

“Ooh, you make it sound so nefarious!” Catherine giggled. “I guess it’s sort of blackmail, but we want it to be a fun sort of blackmail!” Hoping the recorder was working, I had what I needed – her admitting to intentional blackmail, never mind that the payoff wasn’t going to be in money. I breathed a sigh of relief, which probably sounded like resignation to her. She continued, “I just think it’s a hoot that I caught you with not only your pants down but pants nowhere to be seen, and that I’ve discovered I know someone who has as dirty a mind as I do!”

“And what’s your price?” I pressed.

“Mmm… Well, first off, I really do need to check and make sure that you’re really him,” she said, pointing to my naked image on the wall. “After all, you might be an imposter!” and she laughed some more, as if there were any credence to such a theory. “So, I think it’s time for you to get naked, since naked seems to be the only way I can really check for authenticity!”

She leaned back on her bar stool, Bloody Mary in hand, for the show. I had no real out that I could think of, and as I reflected on it, I realized that being nude here, with an attractive woman, might just work out very well indeed. Proceeding slowly, I shucked off my shoes, standing on a thick rug about 8 feet away from her. I calculated I needed to make the depantsing thing something that wouldn’t expose the recording that was still proceeding in my pocket.

“Before we get too far, is there a restroom I could use? My morning coffee is working its way.”

“Sure, right down the hall, first door on the left,” Catherine said.

I went down the hall, closed the small guest bathroom door behind me, and took a long leak, thinking. Taking off my shirt and pants, I checked the phone that was still recording, closed the app, turned the phone off, unplugged the power supply and tucked it in the back pocket inside my handkerchief, restowed the phone in one front pants pocket, my keys still in the other, rolled up the underwear in the pants and the pants in the shirt, making a small thick tube out of the ensemble. Then I washed and flushed and exited, walking back down the hallway naked, with the clothes in hand.

Reaching the kitchen, I nonchalantly (I hoped) put the clothes aside, hoping that after my feigned reluctance, the surprise of my nudity would keep her from noticing the pants altogether.

“Ok, then, here you go!” I said, and stood, arms akimbo, in front of her. With all the concern I had about how to pull this off, I was anything but excited at that point, and my appendage was merely dangling.

Catherine squealed in delight – “Perfect! Now, I’ve got to check this out up close!” She jumped off her stood, leaving her drink behind. Now I was standing, feet a foot or so apart, embarrassed – if a guy’s going to be naked, the least he could do is have an erection, right? Maybe I could just relax a bit, now that the recording was a done deal.

She circled me, eyeing me up and down, then studying the tattoo carefully, looking back and forth at the projected image on the wall. Then she softly brushed her hand over the tattoo, and I jumped at the touch.

“Hey, I don’t recall touching being part of the deal,” I said, not much meaning it at all.

“Oh, well, then, recall I said ‘first off’ I needed to see you, not that first off meant that was all – and I don’t recall your saying not to touch!” She grinned, proud of her logic maybe, maybe just enjoying the power moment that was going on.

She proceeded to stroke the tattoo, and as I said, it was high on my thigh, and stroking there was certainly close enough to be stimulating neighboring nerve endings as well, and sure enough, I felt a swelling taking place, maybe from the touching, maybe from the exposure – I didn’t care – it was a nice feeling, of course.

“Ooh, it gets bigger!” Catherine chirped happily, obviously no longer focused on the tattoo.

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