Pictures of Her

She had. The nervousness was gone now, her beaming smile returned. "Yeah. I guess it did. You're OK with this?"

"I'm fine with it. And I'm still a professional. Here to take pictures and nothing more." I assured her.

Would I have wanted to do more than take pictures if that was on offer? Damn straight I would. But it was not on offer. She'd made it very clear that stripping in front of me was not meant in any way, shape, or form to be taken as an enticement.

"So what kind of pictures are you looking for?"

"Each year, I document things that happened, and who I was that year."

"So this year you were naked a lot?" I decided to just get the fact out in the open. I'd only photographed a few posing people before, though never any naked ones. To make it work, you have to talk about their bodies. 'Try moving your leg here', 'turn your head', that kind of thing. I was pretty sure in this session, I would have to reference body parts that normally would not be talked about in polite company.

"No... I mean, well, yeah, a little." her expression was shy, but not the nervousness she'd had before. "But I want to document how my body has changed. I don't want to miss anything."

"So, you want basic documentary shots?"

"Yeah. Good term for it. Are you ready to start?"

"Whenever you are."

She went to her array of props and bent over it. Her back was to me, and she wasn't as careful about squatting as she was when she was packing her dress away. I resisted the urge to snap that picture. It would have been for nobody's benefit but mine. Very unprofessional.

She returned to the wall and held the poster board with a big '18' on it in front of her. She stood straight and looked right at the camera. I snapped the shot. She started to take the placard down, but I stopped her. "Wait, let me do something." I held one finger up in front of the camera and made sure she and the placard were still visible behind it.

"Just in case I need to use more than one memory card," I explained. "Kind of like that clapper board in old movies."

"Oh, yeah, good thinking."

I suggested she keep the same pose. "We should get a few of each shot. Your face might change, you might blink or something. These cards can hold a lot of pictures." She agreed it was a good idea. Her next poses were the other three compass points. After the full frontal, face-on shot, I got her right profile, then her back, then her left profile.

She was still the prettiest girl in school, from every angle, and I was reconsidering my evaluation that she was not the hottest. She had narrow hips, but it gave her a great ass. I never was a fan of big butts, but I don't like them to look like boys either. Hers was definitely neither of those extremes.

She was more athletic looking than I expected, and not in a way that was meant to mean other than pretty. She wasn't muscular, but she was very well-formed. Her glutes even had those cute little dimples on the sides.

Above the waist, she was no less than stunning. She had broad, strong shoulders, always a plus in my book, and her breasts were exactly the right size for her frame. From the side, they looked to be almost perfect hemispheres with the hint of a taper at her nipples. I could photograph her all day if I didn't want so much to do more than photograph her.

When she'd returned to facing north, if you defined north as the camera lens, she told me she wanted some closeups. I could have used a zoom, but moving closer made for much better pictures and allowed me to vary the angle and to turn her to capture the light. I moved to just outside of arm's reach. Close enough to catch a faint whiff of the subtle perfume she was wearing.

I wished I could capture that scent in the camera somehow.

When I'd gotten several of her face, all with a neutral expression - no resting bitch face for her, her resting face was as cute as it ever was - she dropped her eyes. "Your breasts?" I asked. Best to make such references as straightforward and professionally as possible.

She just nodded, a little of the nervousness returning. It was probably my proximity, and the fact that we were now openly discussing parts of her body that the decidedly non-professional part of my brain wanted to talk about in much less clinical terms.

I leaned down and she stood like a trooper while my lens checked out every detail. I made sure to get shots with both in the picture, each one individually, and side views. Then I looked up at her. She nodded. I squatted down on one knee.

I got shots of her sternum, her belly, her waist. From every angle. I didn't even ask for permission before moving lower. The camera caught every strand of her pubic hair and the hint of curved and cleft lips barely visible beneath it.

The camera captured increasingly more detail and color as she opened up under the unrelenting gaze of my lens. She was getting aroused.

I photographed her legs, her knees, even her feet. While I was down there, I angled the camera back up, but looked at her face before pressing the shutter. She hesitated, then shifted her weight. I barely stifled a gasp as she widened her stance to expose herself to my camera. Small dewdrops of moisture glistened in the sun.

I wanted to spend an hour or two catching every possible view, but after a few shots, I decided that any more would be pushing the bounds of professionalism. I stood and faced her. Her expression had changed. She was still the cute, pretty Tina I knew from school, but now, she'd fully crossed the line into hot.

The looks she gave me were not meant for me, but it didn't matter. It was her, it was who she was, one side of who she was. I started snapping the shutter. I had to capture that look, and I knew she would want it captured as well. She stared into the lens with a melting, piercing gaze that I felt right down to my balls.

"Will you do my back?" she asked. I nodded, and she turned to face the wall. I got shots of her shoulders, the nape of her neck, her strong back, and lower. My lens studied the perfect Platonic shape of her butt cheeks and the perfect crease dividing them.

I stepped back to get her entire body. I'd already gotten those shots, but not like this. Her whole posture was different. Despite her legs being back together, or maybe because of it, the widening bottom of her butt cleft invited deeper scrutiny.

I realized she was flexing the muscles in her legs, that she had raised herself on her toes. Any man who has seen a woman in high heels knows the effect that has, and I was far from immune to it.

I used my camera as an excuse to simply stare and take it all in, snapping pictures almost randomly, I let the lens caress her entire body. She looked over her shoulder at me... no not at me, at my camera, at her future self. The same expression was still on her face but now more intense. She leaned forward and to one side. She braced herself against the wall with her arms and looked over her shoulder again.

I was snapping pictures like a wild man, grateful for the high-capacity memory cards. The first thing I noticed, and thus the first that I captured, was how her breast hung below her. A perfect orb that became even rounder as gravity pulled it away from her chest.

It didn't take me long to find what else the pose revealed. She was very obviously aroused now, her inner lips forming a clearly defined pocket that tapered to a point where they joined near the little nub that I could not see but knew had to be straining for freedom as hard as her nipples were.

I caught every angle, and more, remembering that I was a professional. I stepped closer as she looked at me, and my camera caught isolated parts of her. I dared to take one straight on close-up in full sun, standing so close that I had to move to one side and lean over to keep my shadow off her.

Her legs were a shoulder's width apart, and in this shot, I could see things that even a steady boyfriend might never glimpse. There was no square millimeter of her left to my imagination.

But, alas, I had to be satisfied at some point, and began traveling up her body, getting closeups of her hips from the side, her back, her breasts hanging so tantalizingly over empty space.

I got a closeup of her face with just her hands pressed to the wall in the background. It was a picture that, given her expression and the implication, could have let anyone seeing it imagine the fullness of every pose I'd just captured for posterity.

She wasn't just having her physical body documented, I realized. She wasn't just charting how it had changed and developed from one year to the next. She was documenting her relationship with her body, her sexuality, and how that had developed.

"Can I ask for one more thing?" she asked me timidly.

I couldn't imagine anything I would refuse, but I had to stop myself from imagining what it could be. I nodded.

"Could you... could we get a picture with your hand in it? Just your hand?" When she saw my face react to it, she added, "I mean, if it isn't some kind of violation of professional ethics."

It certainly wasn't usual for a photographer to insinuate himself into the pictures he was taking. And since I was pretty sure where she meant my hand to be, I did wonder if there was some photographer's code against it.

"It's OK," I choked out. "I mean, just my hand." I glanced down at her chest before I could stop myself.

She laughed a light, airy laugh. "Nothing personal," she said, cutting short any fantasies that might still be struggling against my professionalism to rise to the surface. "It's all part of my year in memories."

It was an awkward exercise in contorting and coordinating my free hand and my camera hand, but I got what I think was a very well-crafted picture from very close, looking slightly down at her. My hand was the only visible part of me other than my shadow, which she insisted on including for effect.

That hand was cupping her breast. Feeling her breast. Feeling how firm it was, and how soft, with goosebumps all over it...

As per my usual professional technique, we took several pictures like that, my hand in a slightly different position each time, her face showing a slightly different expression each time.

Every one of those expressions recalled the ones she'd shown when bent against the wall, but with a less natural cast, like she was forcing them. Or no, like she was remembering having to force them.

This was a re-creation, after all, not an actual event. Certainly not an event in which I got to feel her up. It was my lot to touch without feeling, to see without looking. All I got to do was to pose with her for a picture meant to re-create the time some other guy had felt her up.

Had she wanted him to do it, or had he taken liberties? Did she enjoy it? Did she put a stop to it? Did she regret it later?

Those were questions I had no business asking.

Her breast fit my hand like a glove.

------

The memory card in the camera was almost used up. I looked at her, and her expression said she wanted to continue, along with the realization that any more might risk this turning into something she had clearly not wanted.

I stepped to the table to swap out cards, and she stood facing me, her back against the wall. I was so used to having a raging hardon that I didn't even think about any tent my jeans might be showing until I saw her eyes dart downward, then quickly back up.

"I think we need a break," Tina said, staring at me. Her expression had relaxed some but still carried a measure of heat. I nodded agreement. I needed to splash some cold water on my face, and maybe down my pants.

She went over to the towel on the ground where she'd laid out her clothes and props. As the saying goes: I hate when you leave, but I sure love watching you walk away. Her body moved so easily; efficient movements that never seemed rushed.

She bent over to get a bottle of water and a hand towel, not going out of her way to show me anything, nor to prevent my seeing anything. I'd already seen everything there was to see, so it didn't matter to her anymore. But I watched, because it mattered to me.

She turned to me. "I won't be long." she let her eyes fall again, more intentionally, then gave me a meaningful look before turning and walking around the corner of the building.

Was she going to do what I thought she was? Was she suggesting I do the same? As far as I was concerned, she had all but announced that she was going to go relieve the arousal I had seen building up in her.

She'd all but told me to so as well with that look. I doubted I was thinking straight. I put the camera down on the table and looked toward the wall where she had just stood, then to the corner she had walked around.

I was no stranger to rubbing one out, even in somewhat precarious circumstances. But this situation was more precarious than most. I walked over to the wall, telling myself I was just going to rest there, to get a bit of shade from the sun that was quickly escalating toward its apex. I scanned the horizon. Not a soul in sight. I listened, no sounds except a few birds and the light breeze blowing through the weeds.

Nothing but fresh air and sunshine and my raging need. Though maybe there was one other sound, from around the corner... No, I must be imagining it. I reached down to the front of my pants. Only adjusting, I told myself, but it intensified the ache that I knew wouldn't go away on its own.

That would be so unprofessional. A highlight reel of the last 30 minutes spun through my head. It quickly turned into an imagined highlight reel of where that could have gone if this was that kind of movie or a story on one of those websites I liked to read in the privacy of my bedroom.

She said she wouldn't be long, I told myself. Then stop wasting time, the other part of my brain told me. While the two sides battled it out, the clock was ticking as I continued to adjust myself, unable to find a comfortable arrangement.

I undid my belt and the button of my jeans, just to allow for a more decisive adjustment. I warred with myself for what felt like minutes, fighting a losing battle. The longer it went on, the stronger the argument for getting on with it before it was too late became.

The argument from professionalism was losing ground. I knew from the start that it was futile, but the main impetus for it was plain old terror at being caught. I was out in broad daylight. Not exactly public, given how isolated the place was, but still, I was under a clear blue sky with a former fellow student and present client just around the corner, likely to walk back any minute.

I heard a sound from around the corner again. An unmistakable sound. An imagined image popped into my head, that one fatal image that, once seen could not be unseen.

Tina was bent over against the wall, braced on her hands as I knelt behind her, taking those closeups of heaven. This time her fingers were there as well, pushing and prodding, opening herself. She looked back at me over her shoulder with that smoldering, smoky look that I hoped to God I had captured on the card I had just swapped out.

I stood and let the camera hang by its strap from my fingers. Her gaze never wavered. The strap slipped from my fingers, the camera's fall cushioned by the dense mat of weeds.

In a flash, my jeans and boxers were down just far enough and my boom stood proudly out from my body. I'm not a huge guy, but I've never had any complaints. No compliments either; I'd never quite been able to close the deal yet.

I grasped it in my fist, lining it up. I looked down at her. In the real world, I looked down at my cock pointing at nothing but air. I slid my hand forward and closed my eyes. I saw dense, unruly hair, matted with moisture, framing a wet, pink gap. I imagined feeling her damp flesh against my helmet. My hand slid, my mind made me feel her walls surrounding me and hear a soft moan signaling enthusiastic acceptance of my intrusion.

As usual in such fantasies, the narrative became jumbled, dissolving into a chaos of isolated images remembered from the last half hour as well as those only imagined as I built toward the inevitable, wholly unprofessional culmination.

She enjoyed the hell out of it, though my imagination told me she was not a screamer. She tensed, clenched on me. Her face screwed up and my hand went to her breast. I squeezed it, feeling its heft and weight and the stiff nipple poking into my palm.

We came at the same time, her body quivering, her voice a throaty growl, the kind that would not carry too far across the windswept field. The growl and moans were punctuated by a few soft squeals. It took me a few more pumps before I finally let loose. I opened my eyes to watch myself water the dry weeds with thick streams of white sap, a meager drink for them, a prodigious release for me.

I closed my eyes again and let my head press against the rough stone of the wall, my dick barely shriveling in my hand, and suddenly remembered where I was.

My eyes snapped open and I looked around. They met Tina's eyes. Her expression was hard, her eyes narrow and her jaw open.

Tina looked at my half-hard cock in my hand, her gaze alternating between it and the glistening cum dripping in long lines from the leaves and twigs of the knee-high weeds, then from that to my face. I was well and truly caught in the act.

"Sorry," she said, gathering her senses. "It went a lot quicker than I thought."

"I'm sorry," I stammered through my humiliation. It was the kind of thing that could ruin a reputation for good, and not just a professional one. That, on top of the more basic personal embarrassment.

But Tina stood there unselfconsciously naked with a sympathetic look on her face. "No, I should have given you a better warning that I was coming back. Or given you more time."

I quickly tucked myself back in, not caring about the smears it left on my boxers and jeans. "That's so totally unprofessional," I confessed, a weak sauce of an excuse. "I've never done anything like that."

"Never?" she asked, a smirk on her face.

"I mean while... in a professional context."

"We were on a break. On our own time."

"I know, but still..."

"No. We... I let us get a little carried away with those photos. I saw what it was doing to you."

"Still..." I intended to tell her how unethical what I'd done was, without holding back. I was already planning how to start breaking down my equipment and take the walk of shame lugging it back to the cars.

"No" she interrupted sharply. Her lustful look was gone now, I assumed because it had been fully indulged when she went around the corner. That penetrating intelligence and reassuring confidence were back in full form.

"Don't apologize. Things got intense, we both got worked up." she stopped and took a deep breath. "We both needed to get it out of our systems," she said. Another deep breath. "We both needed to masturbate."

So I really did hear the sounds I thought I'd heard?

"That, or something else. But that something else was not, is not on the table. So we were both left to our own devices. I made it pretty clear what I intended to do. I just assumed you would also."

"I'm a guy," I said. She took it wrong, as if I was excusing myself.

"Obviously." she glanced back down at my pants.

"No, I mean, you didn't make it clear at all. We're oblivious, you know. And, hell, girls just don't do that."

"We do, or didn't you know?"

"Not that. Yes, I know... kinda. But they don't announce it. They don't just run off to a corner somewhere to do it. Was I supposed to think you were... I thought it was just my imagination getting ahead of me, that you just needed some alone time. I mean literally, just to cool off or go for a pee or something."

"And you still did... that?" she gestured down to the weeds where the evidence of what I'd done twinkled in the sunlight. Evidence that would in itself have been completely damning even if she hadn't been an eyewitness.