The Modeling Session

A spring evening at the pub: someone's birthday and everyone pulling out twenty dollar bills at the same time to pay for the pitchers. The warm breeze on the patio rustling the umbrellas. He sat on one side of the table between friends, she sat opposite, and between the two of them the empties grew, one for one, two for two, until they became less interested in the banter and more interested in each other. Everyone else too buzzed to notice or care.

She looked across at him. Loved how his shirt looked on him with a few buttons opened, casual, rumpled just the right way, sleeves rolled up, exposing those tanned wrists. The wind parted his hair and picked up his twenty, his hand snapped out to retrieve it at the edge of the table and slid back it again in one graceful movement. She liked his khaki shorts, his deck shoes and no socks. She wanted to feel the texture of his thighs, the wispy hairs and the point where the hem of his shorts ended.

She had his attention all evening with her shorts -sleeved white lycra top, crisscrossing her bosom tightly. It was tucked into a short little wrap-around denim skirt tied at the side that would open up along her bare thigh whenever she sat and crossed her legs. She'd painted her toenails a cool shade of silver and wore her black sandals with a low heel and an ankle bracelet. She eyed him and smiled. He smiled back. She slipped off her sandals into her bare feet and brought them up, slowly, slid them along his thighs and rested them against his crotch. He felt her bare legs, cool against his, and the bottoms of her feet, her toes arching to rub him suggestively.

His hands dipped below the table, brushed her feet, began to give her what she wanted. A slow, sensuous massage. She knew he would caress her feet all day if he could, just as he knew she could sit and enjoy it all day. And while he did, she slowly moved her toes in circular patterns against his him.

"I know what you're thinking," she said. Her toes pushed in, moved it, relaxed. Pushed in again, moved it a little further, relaxed again.

"What am I thinking?" he replied. His thumb worked against her instep, feeling her soles change their texture as her toes pointed and nudged him further out.

She leaned forward across the table and let her toes push firmly against him and to the side. "You're going to come soon," she said, in a breathy whisper, as his hard, swelling head was nudged from the legs of his shorts and into the cool air. Her bare toes brushed against its swollen, wet tip.

"Slow down," he said. Her feet shifted to either side of him, rubbing him slowly. His hands stopped massaging, paused, came up from under the table and found nothing to hold on to.

She had no expression on her face. Lifting a glass of cool water to her lips, she drank. The others at the table were oblivious to her activity. Her feet moved slowly, becoming slippery with him. She arched her head back, closed her eyes and felt the breeze across her throat, pretended it was all she was enjoying. Wondered how long she could rub him before he lost control. Such a thing to do to someone. Rubbing him with her toes until he comes. Feeling his skin against hers being pulled taut one way, then pulled taut the other way, imagining each little jolt created by every stroke, tingling to the point of numbness, all from the simple act of her soft skin sliding along his. Stroke down with the toe, feel the slight friction, feel him twitch in response, stroke up, feel the wetness anew, the soft skin swelling, flushing, changing. Each twitch asking her for another stroke, but - not too quickly or too hard. Just enough to keep it all back from rushing away to infinity.

She felt him twitch between her feet. His hand softly stopped her.

"I think you need to make a phone call," he said. She arched an eyebrow, and quietly slid her feet, still wet with him, back into her sandals. She reached for her purse, looked at him.

"I was going to come," he said.

She got up, excused herself to the others and slipped away. He gave it thirty seconds. Too hard to move. He shifted, moved himself into his shorts and gave it another thirty seconds, then slipped away and found the alcove at the side of the building where she waited. Down a short flight of steps, around a corner, away from traffic, leaning against the pay phone, one knee raised and the foot resting on the wall.

He walked up to her, put his face an inch from hers.

"Who do you want me to call?" she whispered.

He stared into her eyes and slid his hands down her sides, down her skirt, under the hem and up the back. Finding her panties he gently rolled them down, never taking his eyes off her, letting her hands take over and finish the job. She raised one knee, deftly pulled her right leg out of the panties, then the left, then gave them to him. He put them into his pocket. Kissed her. Rubbed her in little dime circles. She stopped him and pulled his ear to her mouth and whispered, "I want to go home, Daddy. I want you inside me."

They left their friends behind, left their twenties behind, left the empties and the patio and walked to the street. She felt warm between her legs, felt the cool evening air and the nothingness as her denim skirt hem flared teasingly out above her bare thighs, bouncing off her hips with each step, dangerously close to letting people find her out. They hailed a cab with her legs.

Inside the taxi, she squirmed against him, crossed her legs, let him run his fingers up and down her thighs, let her skirt hem ride high, the slit opening up the side. He teased it open further with his fingers, let her bare hip become exposed, towards her waist. She brought her teeth gently down on his earlobe and whispered quietly, "Stop that," as he completely exposed her bare thigh and hip up to the waistband of the skirt, bringing her close to being exposed. She pulled her wrap closed and checked whether the driver had seen. She squeezed her mate through his shorts, darting a finger inside and then out again.

He took her chin gently with his hand and held it, rubbing it gently with his thumb and forefinger. "Think I'd like to do something before I come inside you," he murmured.

"Do you want to take my picture, Daddy?" she breathed. He hadn't photographed her for months.

"Mmm. Just the way you are."

"In my short little skirt? Just for you?"

"Say that again, but whisper it in my ear."

She leaned into him, whispered faintly, her lips brushing against his ear, "My short little skirt." The nerve in the back of his right hip tingled sharply.

They arrived back at his live-work loft in the west end. Left another twenty with the cab driver, no change. He smiled and smiled and thanked them and smiled again and drove away. They took the elevator up, pressing against each other, her hips moving slowly, letting him work his hand in between the slit of her wrap and the curve of her bare hip.

He led her into the loft, through the door, past the kitchenette, past the bed over to his backdrop. He pulled a stool onto the drop cloth.

"Have a seat," he said. She slid onto the stool, never taking her eyes off him as he pulled his camera to the centre of the hardwood floor, locked his tripod legs and loaded his film.

"Put on the Moby CD. Put on 'The Sky is Broken,'" she said. He put it on, turned up the volume, poured her a drink.

"Drink," he said. She flipped her head back and drank deeply.

"You drink, too," she said. He finished her drink. Then they had another.

"Cross your legs," he said, "and let the slit open." She let her skirt fall open up the side, pointed her toes inside her shoes, tossed her hair and looked into the camera. He took out the dark slide, set his strobes and fired off a frame. Click, flash. "Yes, yes, like that," he breathed, "and take your shoes off."

She smiled, let her sandals dangle from her toes while he took a picture and then kicked them off to the side of the set. She pointed her toes gracefully, feeling his eyes caress her legs, feeling his camera pause and then snap decisively with the flash of the strobes.

"Let me pose without the stool," she said, getting off and pushing it away. He nodded mutely, cocked his shutter. She lowered herself gently to the hardwood floor, tucked her legs to one side and looked at him expectantly. He snapped the picture. She pulled one knee towards her, letting him see far up the back of her hips under her skirt to the shadows beneath. Again, she froze and looked at him. The camera flashed. She pulled her knee even further towards her chest, pointed her toes, looked at him, froze. He could see the bottom of her bare ass, the beginning of her crease. He snapped another picture.

She felt the wetness coming, relaxed her pose and rolled onto her stomach, kicking up her legs behind her, arching her feet, dipping her chin. She looked at him and held the position.

"Bring your legs further forward," he whispered hoarsely, staring into his viewfinder. She kicked her legs further forward, strained her calf muscles, felt a surge between her legs when she heard the intensity in his voice. "Yes, like that," he said. Click, flash.

"Pull up your skirt a bit," he said. She reached around and shimmied up the hem. "Higher," he commanded. She tugged a little more. "Higher," he said again. The bottoms of her bare cheeks came into view. "Good, hold that," he said. She smiled and he clicked the shutter.

"Do you want to see up my skirt, pervert?" she asked, sitting up and stretching her legs out in front of her.

"Yes, but not all at once."

She put her legs together and slowly drew up her knees, hugging them with her arms and looked at the camera petulantly. Click, flash. She drew up her knees a little more, exposing more of her bare thighs underneath. Click, flash. "All the way," he said quickly, "and let just your toes touch the floor." She did as she was told, drawing up her knees to her chest, pointing her feet and letting her toes touch the hardwood. Her pink crease glistened in the glow of the modelling light.

"Like this?" she asked. Click, flash. She held the pose and crossed her ankles. Click, flash. "Can you see up my skirt far enough yet, Daddy?" she asked smiling. She jumped to her feet, put her shoes back on and pulled her skirt higher on her waist. Then turned three quarters away from him while looking back over her shoulder at the camera. She smiled, stood up on her toes and pushed her rear out, just far enough to bring the skirt up above the bottoms of her bare cheeks. She giggled. "Yes?" she said.

He began to massage himself through his shorts, and breathe through his teeth. "I'm at the end of my roll," he said pleadingly, and switched film magazines, "Please... hold that, please." Dark slide in, unhinge film magazine, insert new film magazine, dark slide out... Click, flash.

"Should I drop the skirt?" she asked.

"No. Bare your breasts for me. Let me see your breasts."

She peeled her top down from the shoulders, let him take a shot with the bare shoulders and the cleavage exposed down to her nipples. Then she untucked it, pulled it off and let it drop to the floor. Her bare breasts, hard nipples, little tiny goose bumps on her areola... her hair, falling in lockets to the tops of her breasts, framing them just so.

"Please touch me," she said.

He pushed the camera away. Fumbled at his belt and pulled it free. Let the khakis drop. Stepped over to her and pushed her slowly to the floor. One strong arm on either side of her, holding his body over hers, like a Marine at the top of a pushup. He looked her over, her quivering skin, her quickening breaths, himself steady, looking down at her face. She opened her legs under him.

"Do you like that?" he asked softly.

"Yes."

"How do you feel?"

"Open. Vulnerable. Wet."

"I'm going to use those photographs when you're not here."

"Will you make yourself come with my photos, Daddy?"

"I'll come so hard looking at you." He lowered himself until his hardness grazed her between her legs, and kissed her. She reached up, unbuttoned his shirt, tried to push it off him. He removed it and lowered himself back down on her, his bare chest against her breasts.

"Kiss me down further," she whispered. He kissed both her breasts, then took the right nipple into his mouth and rubbed it rapidly with the tip of his tongue while sucking it in firmly with his lips. Her back arched, and she brought her pelvis against his. "Oh oh oh!' she said quickly, as though she'd been caught off guard, as though she'd just turned around to find the pot boiling over. He released it and moved to her left nipple, and did the same. The sensation travelled through her breast and down between her legs, throbbing.

"Keep doing that," she said, but he stopped and moved just below her breasts to her stomach and began to lick her slowly and deliberately. He licked her all over, covering every inch of her skin with his tongue, tasting her, moving downwards, travelling her soft curves, effortlessly over the folds, feeling the textures change, the skin like the smooth inner side of a seashell, the ripples and bumps and the faint prickle of her hair at the top and down between her legs. He gave her a tongue bath until she was licked clean from her throat to her hips. Then he began to flick his tongue from the bottom of her crease to the top, and then back again from the bottom. And each time he arrived at the sensitive bud at the crest, she would sigh out loud, plaintively. He began to work his tongue in small, spiralling circles into her, as far as it could go, and her thighs squeezed down along the sides of his face, her back arching, her head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, coming up on her elbows, concentrating on the tiny square inch of sensation his slippery tongue was creating. She made tiny gasps, interspersed with silence, as though she were unable to make noise except during the valleys between the peaks.

When she began to lose the ability to feel the difference between her wetness and his tongue, she reached down and tugged on his arm, pulled him up her body and took his hardness into her hand, rubbing it slowly, massaging it to make it harder, as long as she could make him. She stared into his eyes, parting her lips, breathing hard through her nose with each turn of her wrist, making him ready. Then she slid down underneath him, made him stay up there on his elbows, and took him into her mouth to make him slippery. Let her tongue slide back and forth across him as he fought not to thrust into her, not to gag her in response to her insistent tongue. And then he withdrew from her mouth, placed his hands on her sides and began to rolled her over.

"Do you want to come inside me, Daddy?"

"I have to be inside you. I'm going to burst," he said, his voice ragged.

He began to rub himself against her. "Fuck me Daddy, come in me from behind -" and she gasped at his penetration, how there was no resistance. He began thrusting hard, feeling her thrust back against him, her hips bumping against his pelvis, her hands bracing herself against the floor. He brought himself out until just the tip was in, rubbing it in little circles around and around her outside, teasingly, before thrusting back in again, bearing down faster and shorter in his strokes.

"Did you like looking up my little skirt?" she panted breathlessly, her syllables bumping in time to his thrusts. She could feel he was going to come, felt her own wetness coming. "Did you like me posing for you?" The questions were not meant to be answered with his voice. She meant to make him come harder. He jerked deep inside her, emptied himself into her at the top of his climax, letting her hear him. As she felt him come, filling her, she began to climax, shuddering, sweating, crying, pushing back against him even though he was finished, soaking every last drop out of him until she sank forward onto her stomach and let him lie across her, pinning her down, their bodies heaving.

They lay for a long time, she enjoying his weight on her back, listening to the sounds of the fridge motor, the ceiling fan, the wind outside. Finally, he withdrew, moved off of her, and rolled her gently on her side. She offered no resistance, was as limp as a rag doll. She let him move her hips, splay her hair, bend her legs at the knees, pose her on the floor in front of him. Made her lie on the floor with her head back and her throat elongated, her toes arching. He adjusted her arms. When he had posed her just right, he gazed fondly at her, taking himself in his hand and masturbating slowly. He let his free hand trail across her curves, while running his eyes up and down her posed body.

"Come on me, if you want," she whispered, looking up at him. He rubbed himself faster. He shifted his penis and began to work himself to orgasm. She licked her lips and with a sigh, he came on her breasts.

"Thank you," he said. "Now I think it's past your bedtime."