My Ten Best Studies

"Will you drink that?" she asked me. At that moment I would have drunk oceans for her. I knelt beside her and began to lap at the sweet champagne. My flesh was against hers, soft and warm and supple. Her breasts pressed against the back of my head. Soon I was licking champagne from her thighs, and working my way towards the shaven curve of her pubis. I paused to watch a drop of champagne gather on her left nipple, then licked it away before it fell. On her lap it was warm and feminine, tasting as if it had been brewed by gods for conquering heroes.

"Now, photographs," she demanded, standing up and stroking her wet hair. "I'll stand exactly as I want, and you will point the camera. You're not going to tell me what to do." So I photographed her, as she wanted. She turned and stretched without instruction, as if she knew what I would have asked of her. Plate 9 in this book is a pose entirely of her own devising.

"I'm a rightful duchess," she said. She may have been truly insane, but for that moment (and many subsequent moments) I was entirely in her power, so allowed her to continue. Her cruel father disliked her, and was unwilling to pass on her rightful inheritance. He had sent her to work for the Duchess, and then both parties had conveniently 'forgotten' the arrangement. With no proof of her parentage, Dorothy was tied to a lifetime of servitude. I was still awestruck by her when she stepped behind the screen, put on her clothes, and hurried out to meet the Duchess.

"The second half will be finishing," she hurriedly explained to me, as she bustled from the room without a backward glance.

NIPPLES

The female nipple consists of a teat surrounded by an area called the aureole. Both parts can vary in positioning, shape and dimension, and can be affected by changes in temperature and emotion. In moments of erotic excitement the nipple with stiffen, much as it does when cold. In warm conditions the nipple will soften and become less pronounced. The condition of the nipple can be manipulated to suit the photograph, in much the same way that the male organ can be stimulated or cooled to produce a desired result. Generally it is preferred to photograph nipples in their aroused state, but there are some situations (underwear modeling, for example) when a softer nipple is desirable.

Kitty and Maria (plate 4) both had large soft nipples, barely distinguishable in colour from the breast. However, as this image shows, the judicious application of ice would raise gorgeous nipples, the size of half-grapes, which perfectly emphasise the perfection of the bosoms. I frequently place lights to emphasise the shadow of the nipple. The low angle lighting in Plate 6 ensures that the shadow of the right nipple is clearly defined on the left breast. I find this artistically satisfying, as well as being deeply erotic.

Again, I cannot provide detailed guidance on the correct way to photograph nipples. Be experimental, creative, and be prepared to take any measures to ensure that the nipple is in the desired state of arousal before shooting.

Kitty and Maria's nipples made my fortune. We discovered a male fascination with twins, and their photo-shoots were sold to some of the most exclusive magazines. There was, after one particular shoot, a small public outcry about the unseemliness of such behaviour between two sisters, but Maria assured me that twins were often physically close and that their sexual acts were in no way unusual. "I can't lick my own cunt," Kitty once explained to me, "but hers is exactly the same." With my personal experience of both, I judged it politic to avoid observing that Maria's was marginally tighter, and that the emissions from Maria tasted much, much sweeter. But I digress.

It was after this shoot that I bought twenty-four cases of champagne. Not twenty-four bottles, but twenty-four cases of twelve bottles. Little Dorothy had modeled for me six times, each time undressing behind the screen, enjoying the lights and the cameras on her tight little body, then slinking again behind the screen to dress. She was beautiful, and, although I could have taken advantage of her, I felt that there was something special about her. She was also a fantastic model, and I did not wish to lose her.

During these sessions she often repeated the story of her noble heritage, the cruel Duke who had send her to live with the Duchess. Dorothy had no proof, but the Duchess held all the paperwork, denying knowledge of it whenever Dorothy had the strength to question her. Dorothy certainly had the class and bearing of a noblewoman, but I later I discovered that some of her habits were those of the most brazen whore. This is why I loved her.

ART AND PORNOGRAPHY

The focus of this book has been the artistic nude, following the tradition of esteemed brushstrokes through the centuries. I will admit now that my career also encompassed the seedier end of the photographic market. Here is not the place to dwell on the sordid details of my second bowstring, but there is a need to say that many of the same skills are required for each discipline. Perhaps pornography is the more challenging art form. When directing a model you have almost absolute control over her movements, but a woman during intercourse is a notoriously unpredictable beast. At the moment of climax she may curl coyly in on herself, or throw her legs wide and point her breasts to heaven. The photographer must be prepared for all eventualities. I advise any photographer that it may be advantageous, before artistically photographing a classical Grecian beauty, to photograph her with a scaled-down Trajan column wedged between her thighs. Your photography will improve immensely.

Most of my models try both sides of the industry. Sometimes idealistic young art students come in, hoping to be the body of the next Venus de Milo or its photographic equivalent The fees offered for more explicit work often persuade them to appear in less artistic positions. Sometimes, pornographic models, attracted by the desire to reveal themselves to camera, find themselves well suited to the role of an artistic nude. Kitty was a perfect sitter, with a fine body and limitless patience. There seems too to be some advantage to working on both sides of the spectrum. A gentleman who sees a soft-focus Kitty in an artistic print will endeavour to seek out more revealing images of she and her twin sister performing oral acts of sexual indecency upon each other.

Dorothy remained entirely an artistic nude. Since the evening of the champagne I had not touched her, she had sat for me eight times, each time insisting that she undressed and dressed herself, and left promptly after the allotted time. She drove me wild with her coy flirtations, suggestive phrases, and rounded little body. That was why I bought the champagne. It was her birthday.

Before she arrived, I opened most of the bottles and poured them into the big deep bathtub. It was an extravagance, but she was a beautiful model and deserved such an effort to be made.

"Happy birthday," I said, as she bustled into the studio. She was wearing a dress that emphasised her figure, pushing her breasts forward and hanging tight around her lovely buttocks. She sat down, and we talked briefly. Her mistress' husband had still not returned from India, so the Duchess was particularly frustrated. I sympathized, and poured a glass of champagne for Dorothy. She seemed happy, more flirtatious than usual, and her mood was brightened further by the fact that a respected magazine was interested in printing some of her photographs. She stepped behind the screen and emerged, as usual, naked and perfect.

"I'd like you to sit in this bath," I told her. She walked over to it and dipped her finger in, her breasts shaking as she leaned forward.

"Champagne?" she said.

"Your birthday present," I replied. She dipped in her toes, and slowly lowered her beautiful body in.

"It bubbles," she gasped. The tiny bubbles were gathering all over her body. She ran her hand down her slender leg, and a million bubbles rose to the surface, before new bubbles formed on her soft skin.

"They're all over me," she giggled, slipping her hand between her legs, "it's wonderful, it's like they're kissing me all over, I never knew it would feel this good."

Since filling the bath I had wanted to try it, but felt it only right that she should enjoy the experience first.

"There's room for two," she lied, sitting up so her breasts rose from the water. I undressed and she moved to one end of the bath. I climbed in and felt a glorious thrill of champagne bubbles foaming on my legs. I was already ready for her, and the cool kisses of champagne bubbles on my cock served only to heighten my arousal. I took two champagne flutes from beside the bath, filled them both, and handed one to Dorothy. She giggled and raised the glass to her lips, drinking almost as much champagne as she let cascade down her breasts.

LEGS

Long legs are not as vital as one would expect in a model. Of the examples in this book, only two are of above average height, in Plates 2 and 5. The problem comes with scale. A tall woman needs exceptionally large breasts to remain proportionally satisfactory. A short girl can be made to look tall by many different methods. When Dorothy was modeling for me I bought smaller furniture to diminish the effect of her height. Low angles served to increase the illusion, and in many instances, the legs are not shown. Plate 9, for example, shows Dorothy from the waist up, so her diminutive height becomes immaterial.

A wise man once wrote that a girl's height is "immaterial once she's horizontal" and Dorothy soon proved this to be true as we were together in the champagne. We both knelt down and embraced. Her body was so beautifully slippery. I tasted the champagne that gathered on her nipples, and she tasted that which had earlier provided me with such exquisite pleasures. Moments later we lay together, her small slippery body squirming against mine as I finally found her special freckle, nestled in her labia. She writhed and squeaked with delight and I broke into her, hymeneal blood bursting forth and clouding the champagne.

It would be ungentlemanly to provide details of her exact movements, the cunning tricks with which she pleasured me. She moved like an animal. Alive, natural, little and instinctive, without the studied routine of other women. She seemed driven endlessly onwards by an insatiable evolutionary desire to reproduce.

On one previous occasion, I had shared a bed with four women: Kitty and Maria, Alana Mullins, and Miss Lucinda Lane. I had not been able to move without caressing soft flesh, and no sooner had I left one orifice than I was greedily swallowed by another. That experience had required four people, but Dorothy alone was providing the same sensations, a thousand times improved. She seemed to know my desires and satisfied them instantly, hardly pausing for breath between each amorous onslaught.

I was not by any means passive during the time in the bath, and tried to satisfy her to the same degree. From her moans and shrieks I judged my efforts successful. Over the hours the champagne became steadily more warmed and diluted by our bodies.

Had I been called to photograph the scene I would have used soft lighting, positioned to the right to emphasise the shadows. A diffused spotlight directly above would create sparking reflections from the champagne, and I would have turned my attention to the details: bubbles on naked thighs, dripping breasts, Dorothy's face as she gasped and howled with pleasure, and the smile as Dorothy lapped champagne from the bath like a dog while I enjoyed her from behind, like a dog.

But in this instance my professional work was forgotten. Photographs of that evening would have made my fortune, and sealed my reputation. In subsequent months we tried to recreate it, with bath-fulls of cheap sparkling wine. Dorothy was still beautiful, still always a passionate and untiring bedfellow (and bath-fellow), but the camera consistently failed to capture her angelic radiance.

Photographers, like me, like you, are always in search of that rainbow's end, the untouchable dream of the utterly perfect photograph. The perfect model, the perfect pose, the perfect lighting, perfect angles, perfect lenses. But it is, I fear, an impossible dream, for which we must all strive, and take pleasure in our striving, not frustration from our failures.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cecil C. Avons is a respected freelance photographer, contributing work to a plethora of respected publications across the spectrum of portrait photography. This book contains only a narrow illumination of a small portion of his work. Alongside still photography he takes a keen interest in cinematography. He lives in London with his second wife, Dorothy.