Queen Bee: A Hotwife Breeding Cuckold Erotica

Sex sells.

It’s the old truth. Older than money. We don’t barter with beads and pelts anymore. We barter with glances, with access, with sacred skin.

The market for lust is a stable one, because the paychecks are handwired into the brain stem. Turn your nose up at it all you want, but at the end of the day, a good old-fashioned hungry look pays better than a resume.

My father’s high-art black-and-whites of war zones collect dust on shelves, while a single fuzzy photograph of a starlet’s nipple buys a beach house. I didn’t learn that in school. I learned it in the developer tray, watching pictures of strangers’ debauchery come to light.

This isn’t art versus commerce. This is commerce as art. And my well-tended gallery is the dank, airless darkroom where dreams are developed into dollar signs.

Horny as hell, sex-obsessed Americans buy and sell sex in cartoonish amounts.

Anyone who isn’t caught up in the movement is just another unwashed, malnourished sheep among us.

I’m only half serious.

In a free market, you can use a pornographic career to your advantage. There’s nothing wrong with making a car payment by showing a little skin. Being naked and having sex with other naked people.

Not my thing, but sexy ladies have hot streaks, getting them paid, getting the bills paid, and earning credit.

Printmaking is an art form that lends itself to adult content. Art, combined with the right collector to command a high price. Some of the best photographers in the world are adult shooters.

My own tastes are eclectic, but I refuse to be pigeon-holed as a pervert just because I offer erotic pieces to wealthy clientele.

My old man was a successful photojournalist. Avant-garde, creative, famous, he made his bones in a business that was unkind to those who asked for special treatment. The work made his name in a competitive market, stacking up awards and accolades.

When he hit a streak of bad luck, he lost dozens of years of talent. He was forced to admit to darker motivations.

I started learning photography at the age of nine.

My success or failure as a photographer is riding on my tattooed, pitch-black balls and six-inch man-meat.

I’ve sold art in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Honolulu, New York.

But now that my wife is the star of my latest “series” and I’m ready to get the most money on art, I would do anything to ensure my wife is safe and “clean.”

My wife is clothed, unless you count tight leggings, cleavage-bearing tank tops, and halter-style sports bras as masculine attire.

She’s on a keto diet and does cross-fit and kickboxing. She’s empowered and cocksure.

Before heading to a print show in L.A., I went out on a limb and suggested the idea of shooting “exotic” work with my sexy wife as a model—to make money for my “real” work.

To my surprise, she went for it.

“Oh hhhhh yesssss, we’ll get paid, Daddy. More money—more…more reveals. I can see myself doing it; I have the potential; I could do it. I can do it. Oh yeah, Daddy…”

It wasn’t until our first test shoot that I realized she was the Queen Bee.

That’s right, you heard it here first. Sasha is the Queen Bee-sexual deviancy baroness, sweet-spot-vegan babe of my world. Sexy as hell and craving dominance, she’s the star of the show.

My job…make it rain.

Not just metaphorically, in dollars or accolades. But to satisfy her “cervix ticker” and give her a high chance of getting pregnant.

“If I want to sell my art,” I told her one night as she passionately sucked down crazy-sex cocktails, “we’ll cash out for a bigger payday. We’ll stash the dough. I can fulfill my dreams of being a paid artist because you’re the star of all those black and whites in my portfolio, sweet cheeks.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she purred. “But you have to promise me…promise me you will sell for top dollar and we’ll cash out big by getting you crowned as artist-in-residence…but I want to see myself in the gallery. I want to see those black and whites—black, brown, and white—up on the wall…ohhh yeah, baby.”

I’m not sure if she was six martinis deep or really into her role as my muse model, but the fact remains… Sasha was along for the ride, but she needed…needed more.

She desired variety, unpredictability…and the domination from her Queen Bee.

My baby girl likes a challenge as much as I do.

Queen Bee is the dominant laying female in a healthy beehive. Her role is to get balled by the best drones—to breed freely and propagate the hive. Her genetic fitness is measured by how many drones she can fuck.

She’s a hard bee to please. You don’t want to mess with the Queen Bee.

My black and white series is pushing the right buttons, including Sasha’s.

But now, the three prints I’m making today are a major cash register, with her on the front cover.

Sex sells.

—-

My darkroom is located on the second floor of my no-frills apartment building, which means the lack of central air makes it a damn steam box in the summer.

In order to keep the room a hundred percent light tight, there’s no window unit, either.

I’ve installed a small air conditioner in the kitchen just outside, but the door is only opened once or twice an hour, if at all, so the darkroom has a tendency to be an ass cracker.

My quality of life is suffering, to be sure, but so are my photo developing endeavors.

Today, I’m developing the erotic art prints of Sasha and Mario.

I’m in the process of making the last three of twelve prints. Large, pricey 20x30 inches Matte Fiber prints slosh in their shallow developer trays.

After shining the image in negative on a piece of paper and only exposing it for a few seconds, I then put the big bastard in the first tray of chemicals.

A sheet of plain white photo paper becomes a black and white masterpiece in a minute or two.

This one right here is number two in the third series. This negative is a special take on sex, as it displays the process.

It’s Mario’s massive black cock stretching and invading Sasha’s lady business in a modified reverse cowgirl position.

Oh, let’s not forget, Sasha is my wife, who only agreed to be the female model after she poured a nearly full bottle of Riesling into an empty stomach.

Agitating the shallow tray of developer chemistry, I multitask. Shuffling around in my underwear, putting deep amounts of focus into my work... I hear creaks on the wood stairs just outside the door.

And then there is a knock.

That’s when I realize I’m in nothing but briefs… and I have a very strong, very present boner.

“Hey, I’m going to the store. Do you need anything?”

It’s Sasha.

“I could use some batteries if they’re on sale. Double Ds.” I shout toward the door.

“I think I can manage. Can I come in?”

“In a second, I have to move this to the final tray,” I say, transferring the delicate print from developer to stop bath to fixer, where the image becomes “fixed” into the paper.

After a minute or two, I’m able to sneak a peek at the image under regular light. I make sure the image is properly developed and not too light, then progress to the water bath.

When I’m finished, I approach the door, opening it a crack to let my eyes adjust to the cremated pumpkin-soup glow of the safe lights.

Sasha is standing back against the wall but moves toward me after a second. Her shirt is pulled down lower in the front than normal, and she smiles at me.

“Are these the double Ds you were looking for?”

She giggles, unabashedly looping fingers into her shirt neck and yanking it down, freeing her beautiful double Ds, much to the horror of our annoying nextdoor neighbor.

I quiet her with a hand on the small of her back, pulling her in for a kiss.

“Actually, I’d love those double Ds right now.”

She notices my ironwood.

“Heeey look who’s up! Haha! Anyway, can I see effective immediately before I go?”

“Sure,” I pull her belly button to mine. “Let’s close the door to see if there’s still light-sensitivity, though.”

Inside, I show her the prints soaking in the water. Test exposures from the same area as the print I’m already washing.

I point out the ripples of detail in the large-size prints, how sure I am the client will be pleased, and we’ll get our payout.

“Ohhh, is that what made you so excited?” she says, running a finger over the outline of my stinger in some paper-thin, designer unmentionables.

“A little, but mostly the double Ds.”

I wrap my arms around her from the back. My hands cradle her double Ds, which are supported by a lovely wire bra but covered by a nearly see-through V-neck tee.

I keep one hand on her chicken cutlet midriff, while the other finds its way under the shirt and bra and envelops a DD in my palm.

I feel my eel get more tortoise than hare.

Sasha studies the prints like they’re the first black and white negatives of Godzilla, just below the surface of the water.

Her hand becomes a submarine in my swim trunks, dipping into my waistband to rub the soft flesh, coaxing me into shark waters.

With her hand wrapped around me, I know what the future holds.

Semen. Lots of semen.

The closest print in front of us is a close-up of Malik’s legs spread, his big black cock spearing Sasha while her own legs are spread, stacked on top of his, reverse cowgirl style.

I extract myself from the daydream, only to discover I’m ejaculating in her hand.

I erupt on the table right in front of us, then the rest of my pent-up hotness dribbles down my leg and onto my foot.

Sasha finishes the milking process with a squeeze, handing me a kiss on the che