“Michael.”  I knew her by the sound of her voice.  Picking up the receiver while in the middle of developing film, something never do, I had to concentrate carefully in order not to ruin my work and still talk to her.          

      
“Savannah?”

      
“Yes, it is.  You do remember me?” she replied. 

      
It had only been three weeks since I’d seen her.  “How could I forget?  I imagined her smiling that coy half smile that revealed so little.

      
“Would you be interested in doing another photo shoot?” she asked.

      
“Another?  Of course.  When?”

      
“As soon as possible.  I have an anxious lover.”

      
“So, he liked the other photographs?”

      
“I’ll tell you when I see you again,” she said, skirting my question.  “When can you do it?”

      
“I think tomorrow afternoon, but not until after five.”  I remembered that I was booked solid.  Actually, I liked it better putting her at the end of the day.  I wouldn’t have to squeeze her in-between other clients.

      
“I’ll be there then.”  She hung up, and I could already feel a surge of sexual arousal pumping through me, making my penis throb happily.

      
For twenty-four hours I thought of nothing but Savannah appearing for me in the buff.  I pulled from my files her proof shots and thumbed through them one by one, finding myself masturbating to the images on the paper and even more to the lusty quality she radiated through them, as if they were alive and moving, her limbs and lips reaching out to draw me inside them.  I wanted her with my whole being, every fiber in me breathing Savannah, whispering her name, letting its soft syllables woo me to the energy that surrounded her.  I forgot about my occasional girlfriend, Josie, I forgot about who Savannah really was and that some other man was behind her photographic quest.  I forgot that she was a client, I a professional.  I forgot my common sense, a reasonable thing to do when masturbating.  I simply forgot everything but she and I; my daydreams readily imagining a scenario in the studio, its finale: the two of us on the bed together, the camera sitting on the sidelines forgotten.  I ejaculated to the picture of her rosy lips covering my stalk, her tongue dancing on the tip and how after she was finished, she’d fall against the bed like a limp flower past its glory.

      
I considered my moments of pleasure self defense.  With the edge off my arousal, perhaps I could objectively do the work she was paying me to do.  I wondered if she had any idea how deeply she affected me.

             
Savannah arrived the next day wearing red: a severely cut silk suit, her hair already abandoned to its liberated state and her lipstick this time a wicked crimson.  I was impressed by the change as she gave off the allure of a much harsher woman, though I still detected the same sweet shivering vamp beneath her brave attire. 

      
“And did your lover enjoy the photographs?” I asked when greeting her.  I was anxious to know, wondering if the speedy repeat performance was because the prints were somehow lacking.

      
She hesitated.  “As far as they went.”

      
“As far?”  I sought her explanation.

      
“He wants some more stark,” she explained.

      
“I see.  And how do you see that?” I asked. 

      
“Could we?”  She motioned to the curtain that separated the outer salon from the studio.  I nodded, and followed her inside. 

      
I’d already placed the bed in the same position as it had been four weeks before.  On seeing it, Savannah moved directly to it and stripped it of its sheets down to the bare striped tick.  If it was stark she wanted, that certainly worked.  “And the flowers,” she added, moving to the blue bouquet beside the bed.  Picking them up she handed them to me.  “He’s a very fundamental man, I think.”  She was musing to herself, though speaking loud enough so that I could hear.  “Can you begin taking pictures as I undress?” she inquired of me.

      
“Whatever you’d like,” I replied.  She was less personal this time, perhaps even more nervous, and that formal attitude served to keep me at a distance, though I’m not sure that I could remain distant from her regardless of her efforts.  Savannah had invaded my psyche like some alien virus, the molecules of her elemental form having trickled through my system, implanting an erotic imprint that fused so completely with my own, I knew I’d be forever altered.  If she needed distance now, for whatever reason, I’d give her that privilege, but I knew we’d come together in other ways.  I would be patient.

      
Retrieving my cameras, I loaded both the black and white and color, and worked on focusing the shutter.  She waited, sitting on the bed as demurely as she had the time before.  When I finally nodded for her to begin, she rose from the bare mattress and began to unbutton the black buttons on her red suit, moving slowly as if in time to music.  Music would have made an appropriate background for her efforts, but she didn’t seem to need anything added.  Her head slightly cocked, her face blank and passive, she continued unlayering herself before my clicking camera.

      
The jacket, the sheer blouse, the bra carefully removed were discarded on the bare floor beside the bed.  I was struck by the motion of her breasts swaying for my camera’s eye.  I sensed her shudder once they’d been completely bared.  The nipples tightened, her face became flushed.  She was embarrassed, as though she believed herself indecent. 

      
Was she listening to some inner voice? Were the words of her lover directing her?  For an instant she’d hesitate before continuing, and I wondered if she wasn’t fighting with herself—or the demon that invaded her mind—over her next move.  Drawing her hands behind her back, her breasts jutting out, she released the zipper on her skirt and let the garment drop.  Except for a black garterbelt and lace topped stockings she was naked.  And unlike weeks before, instead of the soft bush of hair to protect the voyeur’s eye from seeing into her sex, she was shaved clean.  Vulnerable.  Childlike, though the garterbelt and stockings defied the childlike quality of her appearance. 

      
Savannah stepped out of the high heels, an act that diminished her stature even more.  In preparation to remove the stockings it was necessary, but I was beginning to understand that this calculated unveiling was designed to play inside her thoughts, transport her to a destination where she could continue with the shoot as her lover required.

      
She performed these steps in silence.  As I moved about her snapping photographs, I caught as many angles as possible.  She wasn’t playing for the camera, only for herself.  If I were to accurately convey her sexual sense it would have to be a random act, some moment that occurred by chance where the camera for that instant caught the nuances of her erotic attitude.  Once she finished undressing, she climbed on the bed and began to move for me.  On hands and knees, Savannah swayed her hind end.  Catlike, she clawed at the mattress.  With her shoulders pressed to the bed, her ass still raised, she reached back for her bottom cheeks; and then grabbing the flesh in her fist, she squeezed hard, letting out a whimper, as if there was someone else doing this to her.  She pulled at her cheeks so the camera photographed her anus, clear as day, and the shaved pussy and the wetness that could be seen there.  That display complete, the beastly blonde dropped to her back, parted her thighs and began masturbating. 

      
The camera snapped more pictures as she pinched her nipples and her fingers drove deep into her hole and pulled out only to slap her pubic mound with a harsh thwack. 

My body jolted, as if she was slapping my genitals. For an instant, I put down the camera  to catch my breath.

      
She hissed, seeing my vexed state, bidding me to continue.  So I resumed. 

      
After that brief pause, her body drove her toward its a climax, forgetting me altogether.  I wondered how many times she’d played with herself that way, how many orgasms had swept through her needy female form.  To the end, it seemed no more than a dream from somewhere inside her fantasies, driven by that mysterious lover.

      
Again, I would have made love to her, dropped my camera, thrown off my clothes and brought myself a pleasurable climax between her thighs.  Yet even more this time, I couldn’t bridge the barrier that came between us.  Perhaps another time when I finally had at least a tacit invitation.

      
I left her when it was clear her climax was over,  taking several shots just as she was recovering her sanity from its brief hiatus.  I’d have been remiss not including photos of her at just that moment of consciousness, when she had the presence of mind to smile at me.  Returning the room fifteen minutes later, she’d just finished the last button on her blouse, and was bending down to retrieve the red jacket.

      
“Would you like to have a cup of coffee?” I asked her.  My question came as much a surprise to me as it was to her.  She was startled by it, but then smiled.

      
“Yes,” she nodded.  “Yes, I’d like that.”  She put on her black pumps and then looked for her purse that had been tossed in a chair.

      
For the life of me, I had no idea what I’d say to her, but if she felt comfortable with the invitation for coffee, I suppose I could find some words.  I admit, I simply wanted to be with her a while longer.  To have her disappear again for months or forever, no, I wanted just another few moments of her time before she was lost to my life.

 

Submitted by: Lizbeth Dusseau & Pink Flamingo

Copyright 1999, All rights reserved. No part of this writing may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.