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Status: Finished  |  Genre: General Erotica  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Piers wants the attractive Marketing Manager Lauretta to pose nude for him. She is not sure what to make of such an offer. Piers is in a long-term relationship with her closest friend. Lauretta would prefer to push the matter out of sight but Piers has the sort of charm which follows her around - and he is unashamedly persistent. When she finds him outside the door to her flat, she realises that the issue has to be addressed more urgently than ever. And that she may need to work a little harder to maintain her self-control.

Even from a distance of twenty-five yards, Lauretta could see that it was him. Piers Hudspith was leant with his back on the porch. More worryingly, the camera equipment was stashed at his feet in four different sized bags. It was clear that he wanted the photographs - the ones she was meant to pose for and at the same time keep secret.

It was all too much. She had known him now for nearly five years and everything had until quite recently been perfectly normal. She was a Marketing Manager and Piers a highly respected free-lance photographer - one of the best around. They worked together on a slew of projects and in all that time he treated her as just another colleague. So why this and why now? 

She remembered that, in fact, everything changed when he started dating one of her friends - except that this was not just any friend. Mariella was her closest friend of all - a friend she met from way back in school. She and Lauretta were known to be exceptionally close. Even people in their friendship group remarked on how close. And worse than anything else, she knew that Mariella totally adored this man. Her friend would blow a stack if she knew about his wanting to photograph her.

Lauretta couldn’t figure it out. Why would Piers want to risk what he had with Mariella and for this? Why had their dealings with each other changed to something so tacky? Perhaps he thought she would be flattered by the whole idea. Some chance. 

Lauretta stopped for a moment and observed the figure from afar. She would definitely need a little time to think this through. One option was to take the bus back into Oxford. She could just as easily put in an extra hour at the office. Or maybe she could go to a cafe in the area and wait the thing out there. All she wanted was to head up to her one-bedroom flat. ALONE.

She hesitated and bit her lip at the aggravation of it all. No, but it was all so screwy, so almost unbelievable. And yet something told her that the whole situation would be much better dealt with straightaway - before it could get any worse.

She watched him checking his iPhone. She knew he didn’t have her mobile number. Keeping her professional and personal life seperate was an old but useful habit - and the more so in the present context.

She watched him leaning on the porch wall and hoped he was getting impatient. He deserved it. The guy had actually gone so far as to pitch up at the place she lived. There he was, stood waiting at her own front door - and looking for all the world like some gum-snapping teenager who was bored with life in Toytown. The indolent pose wasn’t threatening at all, but the stillness of it seemed to carry home some air of confidence she didn’t much like.

Lauretta was sure that telling this guy to walk would be the best thing for him. It was a Friday afternoon and, honestly, she could do without her weekend being ruined by some menopausal jerk. She felt another surge of antagonism and started walking to where he was stood. 

Her first-floor flat was part of a large Victorian terraced row. People could usually hear any sort of altercation in the street. Not only that but her insufferably nosy landlady lived on the ground-floor. That was too bad. But then Lauretta recalled it was a Friday and the wizened old bat would be out visiting friends in the area.

She quickened her pace towards the house and was intent on simply barging past Piers if she could. To be embroiled in any sort of argument might be the worst thing she could do. She knew she had to get this right. The problem was that Piers might say enough to blag his way into the hall. And if he got that far, he could just as easily - and worryingly - follow her up the stairs, apologising as he went.

What would be her options then? Was she meant to plaster this guy with more abuse and then push him and his equipment back down the stairs? Was she meant to come on like some lesbian cage-fighter and start pummelling his ears? 

It was five-thirty-five on a hot July day and she was having to contend with a forty-something male photographer who wanted - and expected - her to pose for him in various states of undress. Like she’d ever done that before - for anyone. 

She felt the adrenalin strum at her abdomen. She felt it prickle under her sense of resolve. She was both agitated and at the same time tired of the way the whole thing seemed to poke up through her thoughts, as if she herself had something to be ashamed of.

Lauretta felt her face tingle as she briskly crossed the road to within twenty yards of the house. How she wished things could just go back to normal. And as she walked she mused on what had happened that fateful night two weeks ago.

Piers Hudspith earned a small fortune from selling limited print-runs of his nudes and landscapes to the oil baron set. It was said he brunched with media moguls, and even counted politicians amongst his many contacts. He and Mariella had been together for more than a year now and Piers himself had redesigned the flat they shared. It was more future than it was fake. That’s what people said about them and they usually meant it.  

And so the way Piers put the question to her that night was a shock. Particularly as he made it seem so natural. After the first bout of confusion Lauretta could now see that she failed to deal with the issue honestly. Her indignation - what little there was of it - seemed to find no proper outlet. In fact, she hadn’t said a single word. He probably took that as a ‘maybe.’

Lauretta had been invited round for supper that night. She remembered how after the meal Mariella was somewhat indisposed with a late-night business call. Promising to be back in a little while she took the phone into a neighbouring room. This left just herself and Piers who suggested they repair to the living room. They sat on opposite sides of the sofa with a large marble-topped coffee-table foisted between them.  Lauretta noticed, however, that a slight edge had emerged below the usually innocuous line of banter. It was as if Piers was in the throes of working something out. 

And then from nowhere he asked her that question. He asked her if she wouldn’t mind posing for some art photographs.

She wasn’t sure in that one moment if she’d heard him right. There was no one thought which she could hold down long enough to salvage the conversation as-it-had-been. The distracting nature of the question cheated her of any credible response. She could not talk her way past the first absolute shock of it.

“We could start off with you in any sort of plain white underwear; and then push on to something more diverse,” he said, and waited.

The almost casual way he went about referring to the issue struck against her awkwardness afresh. She felt herself blink twice in protest. 

She was twenty-six years old but felt in that one moment like some gawky teenager. She was old enough by now to have dealt with her fair share of intrusive males. But on this occasion - strung out on her own lack of a response - she just sat there with the blood fanning out across her face. 

The word ‘diverse’ was like a wrecking-ball, and yet it was so vague. The whole scenario was just so unexpected - and cheap. He wanted to take explicit photographs of her - but had somehow managed not to say so outright. 

She then heard Mariella tendering some final set of instructions on the phone next door. Lauretta wished her friend would hurry back into the room. As a Marketing Manager she was used to pressure - but not like this. The living room seemed to collect around her in a medley of small sounds. There was a stiff breeze and the Victorian bay-windows rocked in their frames. She could hear the embedded din of the traffic from the Woodstock Road. And try as she might, she could not unpick her thoughts. Her face stung. How her face stung.

It was stinging now.

She fished for her keys and readied herself for what might be an uncomfortable few moments. She neared the small, paved garden and briskly walked to the gate. Piers was wearing an expensive hand-made shirt and jeans. She had seen enough of him by now to recognise some of the favourite items from his wardrobe. He was a man who usually dressed well and indeed was considered handsome by all the women she knew - not that it mattered. She didn’t rightly care how much he was prized by other people. It was more important not to foul up her relationship with Mariella - that is, if she still had one.


She put her hand on the wrought iron gate and observed how caught up in his thoughts he was. Piers was staring rather blankly at the period tiles ornamenting the lower half of the porch wall. As she pushed at the gate it chimed upon his moment of abstraction. He glanced expectantly up and nodded. He took a strap from one of the heavier, grey lens bags and set it firmly on his shoulder. Grasping the other three bags in a more improvised manner (as if she might soon fall to some assistance anyway) he started walking down the path to greet her. 

Lauretta offered no response. She dearly wanted a handle on the whole deplorable business.

“We should make some sort of start right away,” he said.

She avoided all eye-contact and stepped curtly to the door. Piers hovered behind her, still struggling to manage the four bags on his own. One slipped off his shoulder and had to be hoisted back into place.

She inserted the key but felt him lurking over her shoulder. One of the bags nudged the back of her thigh.

“I’m heading up to my flat now,” she said, but with a thick and slightly nervous taint to her voice. It made her seem as if she was mired in the difficulties of the moment. 

It was a shock therefore to hear him fit himself around some anger of his own.

“So what’s this? Are you sore at me for asking something so obvious? As if it wasn’t normal to what I do? I take photographs of the people and things that interest me. Are you going to bust me in the chops for that?”

She sprung the latch and veered around to face him. His aggrieved tone had more than rattled her. She had the front-door key in her hand. It occurred to her that maybe she should scratch the word ‘scumbag’ on his lightly-bronzed forehead. Perhaps doing so would provide the sort of clarity which was its own starting point. It would be good to have the thing made perfectly clear and in a way that was not open to interpretation - even by him. 

She swallowed hard, trying hard to claw back her composure.

“I don’t know what you hope to achieve by all this, but I’ve had a long day at work. And now I want to head up to my room,” she said, before tersely adding, “alone.”

His expression eased back a little and he smiled. 

There was a pause.

“I’m not here to blow sunshine up your skirt. I’m here to take the photographs I want.”

Lauretta shook her head, amazed at the effrontery of such.

“Piers, that is not a reasonable thing to say.”

“I want to start off with a few things that are more suggestive. Top button undone, that sort of thing.”

“I’m not interested.”

“How would you know that without at least trying first,” he said, with the sort of casual assurance she usually loathed in men.

“Piers, pack up your stupid questions and go home.”

For once, he seemed to bridle at her confident reply. It was a spur to yet more awkwardness and heat from his side of the porch.

“Are you going to get into your bully-pulpit and give me a hard time for wanting a few photographs?”

She almost gasped at the forthright way he asked the question. Some men really were better being dropped down a hole.

“You’re not connecting the dots, Piers. Your idea that I should pose for you has tanked. So get used to it.”

“I could get used to it, if I could be sure it was the right thing to do.”

“You’re being insolent,” she said, perhaps a little too firmly, and pushed open the door. She heard him follow her across the threshold.

Here was the situation she had wanted to avoid.

“Can you help me with the bags, Lauretta?”

She turned and glared at him. He was now stood in the tiled hallway and was lifting his puppy-dog eyes in her direction.

“What are you doing?” she said tartly.

“Don’t give a friend that ‘bite me’ look. All I want is a few photographs.’

She almost snapped at the chutzpah of this last remark. Having book-smarts was no guarantee of anything anymore. You could have everything going for you and still be a dick-brain, she thought.

She watched him as he struggled with the bags. This very moment, she decided, would be the best time to make her exit. She could head up the two flight of stairs and quickly close the flat-door behind her. And if he hung around - if he didn’t go away soon - well, she would could always ring for Mariella to come and collect him.

Lauretta went on impulse. She turned on her heel and quickly headed up the stairs, taking the treads two-at-a-time. He didn’t move but shouted after her.

“That slag-heap of pride is not something I can use, Lauretta. It just gets in the way of stuff.”

She almost stopped to issue some tart comment of her own, but refrained. She only glanced back when she reached the landing and watched as he shifted awkwardly forward under the weight of the bags, trying desperately not to knock over the hallway table. He glanced up and their eyes met.

“Work, huh? Are you going to put in a shift for me too, Lauretta?”

Again she let the comment pass. Breathing more quickly now, she started fiddling for the flat-door key.

“Go home, Piers,” she shouted back at him as he clumsily yanked the bags up to the first-floor landing.

“What is it, Lauretta? You got some Tweety-Bird tattoo I’m not meant to see?”

He was at the head of the stairs as she finally sprung the lock to her flat. Lauretta turned and stood in the doorway, conscious that she was now in control. A part of her wanted to put some note of rancour into her farewell, but it wouldn’t come.

“What are you doing up here, Piers? Why are you demeaning yourself in this way?”

“I’m not demeaning myself. I’m just following my instincts. This is what I’m like when I’m in project-mode.” Breathing a little hard, he paused before adding, “I want those photographs.”

Piers set down the bags just a few feet away from her. She gazed at him, wondering how things could have deteriorated to the point where she was not really that angry anymore.

There was another pause.

After a while, he seemed irked by her apparent reluctance to say anything else. Perhaps it gave him nothing to work with.

“You’re no day at the beach either. Not when you’re like this,” he said

It crossed her mind to slam the door shut. But she knew it would be a hollow gesture.

“I don’t want to see you here again, Piers.”

“The photographs would be a guarantee of that,” he said, with the sort of reckless spontaneity that almost made her want to laugh out loud.

“The photographs are your idea, not mine,” she said. “I appreciate your blathering on as if they might happen but, believe me, they won’t.”

“The photographs are for both of us, Lauretta. Perhaps you should look at it that way.”

She edged out into a more friendly line of argument.

“Piers, there are people far more capable than me that you could ask -  the like of professional models, dancers. I am not the willing amateur you take me for. Choose from those women who can indulge this fascination of yours. I can’t. And I resent your thinking that I could. Or, for that matter, would. Go out there and find the person who can deliver on such a request.”

“But don’t you get it? At the moment, I only want to photograph you.”

“That isn’t relevant. The fact is, I don’t want to be photographed. Not even by you.”

“You’re not seeing it right,” he said.

“No, Piers, you’re not seeing it right. Posing nude is not my bag. Okay? I leave that to those women - those few women - who can fit themselves around the process without the least inhibition. I happen to have inhibitions. And I’m keen to hang onto them. Do you get that?”

“Sure, but then you might feel differently after I take the photographs. It’s something that has happened before.”

“That’s not a reasonable assumption, Piers.”

“I think you should do it, anyway,” he said after a pause.

Lauretta took a moment to gaze at the recalcitrant male opposite her. She wondered if slapping him might do some good.

“All I want is a few photographs. It’s what I do for a living.” 

Amongst the gloom of the landing, she felt herself weaken slightly. She couldn’t work it out. She didn’t feel any shift in her reluctance to pose for him. She only thought that perhaps it would be better not to make a big deal of it. He was right after all: it was what he did for a living. Perhaps by reasoning with him she could open his mind to the sensitivity of the issue from her side. It would help to break him from his tired fixations. Perhaps the most useful thing for them both was to let Piers Hudspith himself figure out what he meant by the original question. And with any luck, he would talk himself into realising what was wrong with the idea - and that Mariella was worth more.

“You have five minutes to explain your antics. Then you leave,” she said, and walked smartly off into the living room.

He followed her into the small well-lit room and glanced about him. He seemed to be gauging the intensity of light from the large bay window. It was diffused by the long white muslin drapes that Lauretta had ordered specially. He also scanned the various items of furniture, his main interest being in the sturdy blue sofa.

Lauretta was calm at last. What she took to be his posturing was utterly preposterous but at least now she felt that she had the measure of it. She could bring down the curtain on his hopes any time she wanted to - it was that easy.

And then he stepped forward without warning. The almost casual way he did so left her unprepared. He simply reached across and sprung the button on her jeans. It was a surprising move. The aggravation of it made her catch her breath. She felt herself blink twice in protest.

Piers Hudspith had opened her top button with a deftness that was wholly natural - and she was shocked to find him so indifferent to the impertinence of such. Lauretta decided to push the reset button - and to do so fast.

She stared distractedly down and fumbled with the metal button, trying to swiftly fasten up her jeans. Only just as quickly, Piers stepped forward and popped the button again. This was not a moment to dress up with other meanings he had probably decided. She found herself looking down at his hands, still not sure what was happening.

And then before she could look up and fix him with a stare he kissed her. He kissed her with the sort of confidence she usually loathed. She felt herself stiffen and recoil at the shock of it. And then almost without realising it, she was kissing him back.

 It was if she had been pulled free of her own contrariness - as if Piers Hudspith had the gift to fit her around any moment he chose. His lips were full and soft. She could detect the high orange-and-bergamot notes of the cologne he used. The slight stubble on his angular jaw passed enticingly across her cheek. He dusted the back of her neck with his hand. He then blew and nibbled at her earlobe. She felt herself wilt under the provocation of it all. She was snagged on her thoughts and couldn’t come free.

She let him linger over the act of kissing her.

And then his hands came up and lightly touched the bottom of her ribcage through the shirt she was wearing. It was done so delicately, almost as if he was nursing her through the small particulars of something that would take a while.

Piers had all but trafficked away her initial unease. Now, it seemed, he wanted to apply himself more fully to the act of photographing her. He stepped firmly back and she felt herself blush. His errant charm was too much. It unglued her from everything that seemed normal. 

She watched as he reached for his camera. He dropped the strap over his head and began the session. He pinched her arm in a cajoling, friendly way and immediately directed her to the antique sofa with its high back.

She allowed herself to be walked over to the one piece of furniture that seemed to interest him. The sofa would be his main prop for the shoot. First of all, he wanted a shot from behind. She was made to bend forward and grip the back-rest. He tinkered with the pose by getting her to straighten her arms. Then with his foot he widened her stance a little more and persuaded her to look back over her shoulder through tousled hair.

Piers moved out to the periphery of her vision and she heard a steady burst of shots. He immediately checked the material on the playback screen. She noticed how his thumbs nimbly shot across the press pads and control buttons as he made adjustments to the aperture and shutter settings.

Lauretta could still feel the kiss. The tang of it made her face tingle. She was letting Piers Hudspith have the photographs he so desperately wanted. 

Piers let the camera hang from his neck and now manoeuvred her into the centre of the small room. He placed himself at a diagonal and checked for framing. He then towed his thumb up-and-over her pubic mound. There was a fluency to the movement. It was as if he was an artist extending a charcoal smudge across her lower regions. And the directness of the moment seemed to linger. A part of her buckled in anticipation of what he might do next. She was dismayed at the same time as she was weirded out. And underneath all that she was aroused.  

Piers asked her to lift her top so that he could see her abdomen. She stared back at the request and blinked confusedly at him. It could have seemed like some last gesture of reserve, but he ignored it. He indicated that she should bunch up the garment in one hand and also undo another button of her jeans. She paused again but then gathered up the thin folds of her cashmere top and lifted them to just below her small breasts. The air leant in on the exposed patch of skin. She fumbled with the brass button of her jeans. When at last it sprang loose, it sent a small precocious thrill darting through her frame. She watched as Piers once more hefted the camera into place. He crouched and took a half-step back. A salvo of shots followed and she saw him switch from normal framing into portrait mode.

“Hand flat and horizontal,” he said.

Lauretta placed the flat of her palm on her abdomen. She let it ride one inch above her knicker-line. She looked down at the splash of cotton and lace poking up through the faded denim. Almost without realising it, she let her hand slide delicately down until it nudged the knicker elastic. A comforting, spry heat seemed to work its way over from the thin cotton panties. Their soft, accommodating feel was a turn-on.  She was moist and let her little finger lurk a few millimetres below the warm fabric until it touched a single pubic hair. The scabrous feel of it made her shudder slightly. 

Piers gestured to her that she should take off her top. He did so in a slightly off-hand way. The photographer in him was calling the shots. He didn’t even hang around to watch her pull the garment up-and-over her head. He was too busy reviewing the last few frames. His thumbs were once more jerkily precise as he scanned the material for any slight or nagging imperfection. 

At last he turned to her and nodded. The red bra was matched to the knickers and was lacy and snug. He seemed to more than like it, and yet kept from saying so. Lauretta stood there in the same edgy state of compliance. She watched him size up the light which was reflected on her lightly tanned breastbone. She felt the prickly heat of arousal push down from her face and neck. It probably made her look flushed all the way to her diminutive cleavage. She could feel the fabric of the bra bristle. She wanted - and indeed expected to be told - to take it off. Now all she wanted was for the still air of the room to encompass her breasts.

Piers hefted the camera into place and set to with photographing her from a variety of angles. Then with a yank of his head he indicated that she should remove the bra. Lauretta felt for the metal clasp. Her back tingled as she did so. She uncoupled the bra and her small breasts slid away. The room and everything in it flowed up towards her. Exposing her breasts to this man filled her with an electric fervour. She let her arms hang to the side as she dropped the bra to the floor. Lauretta then steadied her pose, as if by some extra moment of stillness she might intensify the experience. Her nipples were now stone hard. 

The camera clicked relentlessly away and Lauretta had a sense of not caring. She watched Piers Hudspith emptying himself into the act of photographing her bare breasts. The pleasure was sucking at her - the sharp metallic clicks narrowing her mind to what he might ask next. 

Piers stopped to change a lens and she noted how focussed he was - and how that sense of focus kept him from saying much. Lauretta felt her mouth go suddenly dry.

He fitted the lens and made some adjustments to the camera’s settings. Then he took her gently by the arm and backed her onto the antique sofa. This time she was asked to lie on it. Again, she let him fuss with her position. He draped her left leg over the high back, and arranged the silk and damask cushions behind her head. Her jeans were almost drum-tight on her legs as she sank invitingly back and then spread herself for him. 

“Hands flat and horizontal,” he said from behind the body of the camera.

Lauretta once more placed the flat of her hand two inches above her open waistband, letting it rest on her sleek abdomen. Once more she let her little finger stray until it extended as far as the sturdy brass button. The soft undulations of her abdomen rising and falling turned her on. And still the camera delved away at her prone and uncomplaining figure. The sharp, ascetic clicks seeming to find out every new and previously untrawled part of her. 

Piers let the camera hang from his neck as without warning he started to yank off her jeans. They stuck to her clammy thighs. He had a strong grip and pulled her further down the sofa with the effort of such. He hauled them all the way to her ankles. He then slipped off her shoes and tugged at the jeans until they were free. She felt the air of the room steal upon the exposed skin of her legs.  

Piers dropped the jeans to the floor, gazing at the dark mass of her crotch under the lacy knickers. She nudged herself back up the sofa and let him idly place her left leg over the high back again. He now worked at a quicker pace as if caught up in the frenzy of the moment. He started with a few choice close-ups but then zoomed out to catch her in full-frame. The biting intimacy of this new position seemed a spur to his imagination.

“Legs akimbo,” he said, somewhat gruffly and without so much as looking at her.

She widened her stance slightly, easing out into a position that was more provocative than ever. Lauretta was hollowed out with desire. She anticipated a pause in proceedings at some point, when he would put down his camera and take her.

Piers checked the playback and seemed satisfied. He then lifted the camera over his head and placed it carefully on the floor, as if he wanted to keep the atmosphere in the room undisturbed. He then settled his gaze on her cotton panties and leaned softly in. He took hold of the waistband of her knickers and peeled them off gazing the while at the soft tangled mass of black pubic hair.

Piers knelt softly in. He kissed her mouth and hair. He moved down and delicately kissed the tops of her breasts, and then sucked her nipples. She closed her eyes and shuddered, feeling her rash desires arrange themselves around the moment. He then gripped her upper arms and hoisted himself on top of her, letting his hand run down her midriff. He took hold of the scruff of dark hair and twisted it slightly, making her arch her back in pain. He slipped two fingers into her moist vagina and sought out the small nodule of her clitoris, rocking it back and forth. The pleasure surged up and Lauretta’s body bucked with the thrill of it. The enjoyment of the moment seemed to extend in one long sweep across her entire frame. Piers let himself down more fully on top of her. He began to ply her buttocks, gneading the soft white flesh and letting his fingers stretch and part her. She thrust her hips up at him, feeling her pelvis catch on the buckle of his belt. 

He tugged at the front of his jeans and was breathing hard. After a while, she felt his erect penis knock solidly against her groin. She felt the warmth of it radiate against her own skin.  She also discovered in that one moment that Mariella had not been exaggerating. Piers was big. She could feel how big as he shifted into position. He was big in a way that caused her to gasp as she felt the penis lurk against her thigh. It slapped dully against her abdomen as he now took hold of her shoulders and hoisted himself into place. An electric niggle of doubt ran through her as he then pushed it slickly home. She cried softly out, feeling its concentrated firmness rake and throb against the sides of her vaginal passage. The length of it was unreal. It touched a place far up inside her that was both new and indescribable. 

Piers started to tenderly thrust at her. She clung to his back and felt the hard ridge of his muscles rippling in the act. She lashed herself to his frame but then after five minutes let go. She was limp like a rag doll as he took his fill of her now, gripping her tightly by the shoulders and arms. He rocked stiffly back and forth. Occasionally he would ease up to something far more tender and allusive. He would lavish a slowness on her, widening the arc of his thrusts and drawing her down into something mazy and intricate. Then he would suddenly change the mood and went at her with renewed firmness. It seemed that Piers Hudspith wanted to draw out the act of having her and Lauretta lost all sense of time as one electrifying surge of pleasure seemed to blend with the beginning of another. More than twenty minutes seemed to have passed as he intensified his agile - sometimes hurtful  - thrusts still more. She felt his body gather itself under the strain of the moment, as he pushed more eagerly at her, making her cry out in anticipation. She yelped and arched as he finally climaxed. He tensed and shuddered and she gripped his forearms, wanting his ejaculation to last. She wanted the sticky torrent to cling to every moist, available part of her. He was hunched and taut as he pulsed his last into her.

Piers lifted himself off her with ease. She watched him grab the camera from the floor, checking for any significant change to the light conditions on the back of his hand. Lauretta’s body was crowing softly in the background. 

Then without warning Piers took her sternly by the arm and forced her onto her hands and knees. He hefted the camera into place and asked her to spread her legs a little. She altered her stance slightly and looked back at him through an unkempt tangle of hair. He obviously seemed to like her new-found spontaneity, and nodded. He asked her to maintain that position and not to move. He was now revelling in photographing her most intimate self as she looked back through the lens in an open, unambiguous manner. Every small beacon of sweat on her body would be there for him to pore over and enjoy. She imagined him locking the door to his work-room and revisiting this very moment. Being invited to their flat for dinner would never be the same again. The small-talk would go on and she would think of the photographs and the awkward narrative they contained. Hopefully, Piers could be counted on for his discretion. 

He checked through the images on the playback monitor and seemed content enough. But then his focus was clouded by something else. It seemed to bear down on his professional self and change his mood. She watched as he put the camera down and knelt on the sofa behind her. She suddenly felt his erect penis lolling around her moist and glistening labia. He eased himself in and she gave off a low, petulant sigh. She wondered if she would ever get used to the size of this man. It knocked and chaffed at every warm, accessible point in her.

He now bunched her hair in his hands and twisted. It pulled against her scalp but wasn’t painful. His doing so made her moan and she felt another errant tingle run across her shoulder blades. Piers took her roughly from behind. Again and again he thrust himself into her. He was filled with a peculiar, harsh excitement. Her hair was razor-tight on her scalp but he would not let up. Lauretta bit down on one delirious moment after another. She seemed to climax more intensely and at a faster rate than she had ever known before. 

Piers tightened into her again and she felt the warm pulsing of his semen as he shuddered his last into her. Then she heard him step away from the sofa and pause. She wondered if he was about to take more photographs. But, in fact, he only seemed to be looking at her. Gathering her in as a image he had claimed for himself - and on his own terms. She heard him pick up the camera and place it in the bag, zipping it firmly shut. Then he hoisted the bags onto his shoulders and left the room.

Lauretta turned over onto her back. She knew her throat was daubed red with the excitement of it all. She closed her eyes and was in a luxurious state of drift. She heard the door to her flat open and close. From somewhere the latch clicked smartly shut - sounding almost like a camera shutter. 





















Submitted: February 24, 2017

© Copyright 2021 Mark Stowey. All rights reserved.

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Short Story / General Erotica