The Yearbook Girl Ch. 01

My name is Hank. Now I'm a balding seventy-year old man, barely able to get it up. But back in the sixties, I was a photographer who traveled all over the place, taking thousands of pictures of young ladies.

No, it's not what you think. I also took thousands of pictures of young men. And they were all dressed, more or less. You see, I had a contract with the companies that produced high school yearbooks. It was a big market, although the pay wasn't that great. The deal was that they'd send me to some high school or other in the Los Angeles area, and I'd set up this studio in a classroom that wasn't being used. The kids would line up, and I'd sit them down on a stool, take a picture, and then call the next one. Assembly line photography, that's what it was. No artistry involved. If you could read a light meter and could load film fast and competently and keep the rolls of film together with their sign-in sheets so all the names went with the right pictures, you had the job. A lot of the pictures had to be retouched to take out pimples and acne scars, but the company had other people to do that. They only did that with the upperclassmen, since all the other snaps were so tiny that the defects didn't show very much. Or that's what they told me; I never saw the pictures after I delivered the film to the lab.

The underclass boys and girls would usually be photographed wearing whatever they went to school in that day. Only the senior classes were treated differently. The senior boys were told to wear dark jackets, white shirts, and ties. The senior girls were told to get their hair done and their makeup applied beforehand. We also told the senior girls to wear button-down blouses that they could take off without having to pull them over their heads and muss up their hair. And they were told to wear brassieres that day, whether they usually did or not.

The reason was simple. When each girl's turn came to be photographed, they removed their blouses and put on a sort of gown-like thing that exposed their shoulders and a little cleavage. Then I'd pose them as best I could to conceal the bra, snap the picture, and tell them to get dressed. Easy as pie.

A lot of those senior girls were pretty well developed, I can tell you. They really filled out their bra cups. Others were still flat-chested, and usually wore soft bras that didn't support anything. Those are the ones I liked best, because I could sometimes see their nipples poking out from the fabric. I never got more than a glimpse of them, but that was enough to put a little lead in my pencil. Otherwise, I can't say that I got a kick out of seeing teenagers in their bras. It sounds good when you start, but after you see your two thousandth white padded bra, the excitement sort of wears off. And the girls, most of whom were flustered to begin with, were quick to note if I was staring, and sometimes they'd make a scene about it, which slowed things down. And time was money.

And I was always a big boob lover, at least up until the time I saw Cindy. My idea of the ideal woman was one with boobs that swung and jiggled as I fucked her. And frankly, most of those seniors really didn't have it upstairs, either in the boobs department or the brains department.

Which is what made Cindy so different. She was one of those seniors at Taft High School, class of '68. She came in a few minutes after the rest of her class had finished. Even in those days, I could spot a rebel, and she was one. Her hair was shorter than most girls' and she had a tattoo on her wrist. Not only was she late for the photo session, but she hadn't gotten the memo about what to wear. So after everybody had gone, she came waltzing in. Her skirt just barely passed the hemline test, and she was wearing a cashmere pullover sweater. I thought I could smell a trace of pot smoke on her.

"You're late," I said, "but I think I can squeeze you in. Didn't you know you were supposed to wear a blouse?"

"Yeah, but I don't have one I liked. Can't you take a picture of me this way?"

"Well, you're supposed to wear this," I said, holding up the half-gown." I showed her a picture of the garment being modeled by another student, showing the subject what she would look like being photographed.

"Okay," she said, and proceeded to pull off her top. She had a very nice pair of titties, which I could see quite clearly, for she hadn't worn a bra. She was clearly past the training bra stage, but those boobs would fill an A-cup only with a little help from the Kleenex company. Her nipples were dark, plump, and very erect.

She pulled a hairbrush out of her purse and brushed her hair back into shape, not bothering to hide her breasts from me. Then she reached for the gown. "Help me with this, will ya?" I draped it over her and sat her on the stool.

Arranging the gown to best advantage, I managed to sneak another glimpse of her nipples as I moved the fabric around. When it was positioned correctly, I went behind the camera and told her to smile.

That was my second shock. She had a dazzling smile, and the pupils of her eyes seemed to widen and darken. Now, I've taken thousands of pictures of women over the years, and not all of them high-school yearbook shots. I've done fashion, I've done celebrities. And I can tell you that some women have a way of making love to the camera. I can't explain it any other way. They simply can't take a bad picture, because they instinctively know what they have to do to look good. It's a rare talent, and this girl had it, in spades.

I took a picture, and then another "for insurance," I told her. She smiled again. "Are we done here?" she asked. I nodded, and she pulled the gown off and sat topless on the stool. I was tempted to take a few more pictures right then and there, but I could have lost my job for that. It might almost have been worth it.

But I had to say something, and what came out was this:

"You take a beautiful picture, Miss. Have you done any modeling?"

"My name is Cindy, not 'Miss,' and no, I haven't. Do you mean fashion modeling?" She seemed in no hurry to put her sweater back on, but neither did she seem to flaunt her nudity. She was simply comfortable being half naked, another thing rare in women, particularly of her age.

"Well, that's part of it. But there's other kinds of modeling, too. Stock photos, like pictures of you walking in a park, for clients who are trying to illustrate an ad about, well, walking in the park."

She grinned. "What do I have to wear?"

"Whatever the client wants. Clothes designers provide the garments they want modeled."

"Underwear, too?"

"Sure. Where do you think those pictures in the catalogs come from? And, no, you don't get to keep the clothes afterwards."

"Not even the underwear?" She gave me a wicked grin that went right to my nuts.

I smiled back. "No. They just wash it and save it for the next time, I think."

"A guy took my picture last week when I was at the beach. He said he liked my bikini."

I'll bet he did, I thought. And he didn't get to see what I was seeing just now, those perfect young titties. I forced my eyes to stare at her face instead of her chest.

"Yes, I remember. That spell of warm weather we had for a couple of days. Really rare for March. Did he ask your parents to sign a release?"

"No. And I don't need my parents to sign, anyway. I'm eighteen, and I can sign for myself."

"If he didn't ask for a release, he's probably not a pro." He's probably at home right now, I thought, jacking off to that photo. Couldn't blame the guy.

"Are you a pro, mister?"

"My name's Hank, not 'mister.' And you bet I'm a pro, Cindy. I've got a studio and a business license and everything."

"I thought so. You don't seem to have a problem being around a naked girl."

"You're not naked. Only half naked. And you don't seem to have a problem about being half naked around me."

"Or completely naked, for that matter. I go naked all the time around the house. My parents do, too. It's no big deal."

"Well, if you're interested in modeling, I could probably help you. I'd be glad to take some pictures and send them around to the various agencies for you."

"I don't have any really good clothes."

"You don't need them. They provide the clothes. Shots of you in your underwear are actually better, because they show your true figure and let them pick the best clothes for you."

"Well, then, wouldn't it be even better if I was naked? You have taken pictures of naked girls, haven't you? Like art stuff?"

"Well, yes, but I'd definitely have to see some ID. I could get in big, big trouble taking nudie pics of underage girls."

She laughed and fished a wallet from her purse. She handed me her driver's license. She was eighteen, all right. Her name was Cynthia Martin.

"My studio is at Sixth and Broadway," I said. "Do you know where that is?"

"Near the Woolworth's?"

"Right across the street from there. Are you free Saturday, around two?"

"I'll be there."

"Yes!" I thought. "There is a God!"

She was right on time. I'd just gotten to the studio myself, and was loading up my favorite portrait camera with film when I heard a knock on the door. I let her in and shook her hand. She was wearing brown boots, tight jeans, and that cashmere sweater. "Give me a minute to finish what I'm doing. While you're waiting, you can have a look at that stuff on the table." I'd set out some pictures of the models I'd shot, along with some of the ads they'd appeared in. I included a few nude studies I'd taken in college ... nothing raunchy, just artfully posed models showing a bit of breast or bush. I wanted her to see me as a true professional.

"These are really good," she said. "You know your stuff."

"Are you ready?" I asked, after she'd signed the necessary releases.

"I sure am. Do you want me to take anything off, or put on makeup and stuff?"

"Let's take some pictures first, just to get you relaxed."

She didn't need them. She was a natural. I posed her sitting on a chair, lying on a sofa, standing in front of a window, leaning against a door jamb. Every picture I took was a keeper. She would flash that winning smile of hers as easily as if she was switching on a light.

"Do you want me to get undressed now? I wore a bra this time."

"Are you comfortable enough?" I asked.

Without answering, she kicked off her boots and pulled her jeans down. She was wearing pink panties that clung to her vulva, revealing the trace of a camel-toe. Then she took off the sweater, displaying a soft bra that matched her panties, and just sheer enough to show her dark nipples. I found myself holding my breath. It was more than the sudden shock of her semi-nudity that transfixed me. It was her utter familiarity with being half-naked in front of me. When I'd gotten most models to this stage, they seemed embarrassed, going so far as to try to hide their breasts with their arms. Not this girl. She just gave me that dazzling smile.

I posed her against a gray screen for what we in the trade call the "line-up" shots. Front, back, profile, arms at her sides, arms extended, arms over her head. This is the series that the design studios wanted, so they could see if her figure matched their line of clothing. But I could already see that this series was different from all the similar ones I'd shot before. This girl had a way of making even the most modest shots smoldering hot. Her nipples poked out from the soft fabric of the bra, creating a peak on the crest of each cup. I was getting an erection now, which I seldom did with half-clad models, and it hardened a little more each time she grinned at me. I'd kept the room temperature warm, knowing that she'd be more comfortable that way, but now it was making me sweat.

"Are you finished with this set?" she asked. I nodded. And without a word, she pulled off her bra and dropped her panties. It's a funny thing about some women: they look hotter in their underwear than they do nude. Not her, though. If she looked hot in her undies, she was positively scorching now. Her plump dark nipples stood proudly on her breasts, and I could see her vulva, with its thin dark hair barely obscuring her slit.

"You look warm," she said.

I gulped and nodded. "I set the thermostat up so you'd be comfortable, Cindy. The room's hot when you have clothes on."

"Well, why don't you take some clothes off? You'd be more comfortable."

"Well, I don't know if you want me to take my trousers off. I..."

"You've got a hard-on, right?"

I nodded again.

"Well, I'd like to see it. I've seen one before, you know. I'm not a kid."

"Are you sure?"

She danced up to me and unbuttoned my shirt. Then she loosened my belt, unzipped my fly, and pulled down my pants. My erection was plain to see underneath my briefs. She smiled and kissed it. Then she stood up, laughed, and pulled off my undershirt. I kicked my shoes off and stepped out of my trousers.

"Your socks, too. And your shorts. I want you as naked as I am." I did as she demanded and stood before her, my cock almost fully hard.

"Are you comfortable now?" she asked with a wink. "Then let's continue. But don't get any ideas about fucking me. I'm not protected."

And we went through the "line-up" sequence again, this time with her nude. The poses weren't intended to be erotic, but I realized that any picture of her nude would be off the charts, no matter how clinical the pose. Or maybe it was just that supremely comfort she had about being nude in front of the camera. There wasn't a trace of self-consciousness. My own self-consciousness started to fade. My cock even began to lose some of its stiffness as I got used to the both of us being naked, but never went completely soft. It was the strangest working relationship that I'd ever experienced, to have this naked teenager prancing around me as I stood naked before her, but without any intent to fuck her. The desire was there, God knows, but I kept it back because it was obviously not what she had in mind, and I absolutely did not want to lose her as a model. And it made for better pictures, because she opened up to me in a way that wouldn't have been possible if I had been clothed and she had been naked.

After the session was over, we dressed again and went across the street to the Woolworth's, where I made copies of her release forms, for her files, and of her driver's license, for my files. I promised to let her know the results of the shoot, and to send off the pictures to the agencies. And that's what I did. I did some other shots the next week, along with another thousand high-school students, but I couldn't stop thinking about Cindy.

And I don't think I need to tell you that I kept some copies of her naked poses in the "special file" next to my bed. The nice thing about owning the negatives is that you don't care how dirty and cum-smeared the prints get. You can always make more.