The Orchid Lover

She's one of the girls that the modeling agency sends over two or three times a week, a plain brunette, with straight, limp hair parted in the middle, nothing extraordinary in the looks department, not that it really matters. My interest lies elsewhere. She's young, maybe nineteen or twenty. To be honest, I don't really pay close attention because the recent models I've seen have been disappointing. Beautiful girls. A couple of real knock-outs. But not what I am looking for. Nevertheless, I put on my game face and go through the motions.

She's accompanied by a beefy male escort from the agency that I've seen a few times with other girls. He thumbs through a magazine while I greet her in the front reception area to my studio.

"I'm Jerry Sherbourne," I say, shaking her hand. I offer her something to drink, but she declines.

"So, Katy" I say, glancing at her head-shot and getting down to business. "I imagine that Lou explained everything?"

"He says you're working on a book" she says.

"Right, so you more or less understand what I'm looking for?"

"I guess."

I nod. "And you're okay doing this?"

She shrugs her shoulders again. "Sure."

"If you'd be more comfortable, we can have your friend join us or he can stay here. It's your choice."

"He can stay here."

In the corner of my loft photography studio are several rows of long wooden planks resting on sawhorses. On top of these laid out in rows are my collection of orchids, which include several species of cattleyas, cymbidiums, and dendrobiums.

"Are you familiar with orchids?" I ask her.

"No," she says.

I take her over to the flowers.

"Orchids are the most exotic of all flowers," I tell her.

"They're beautiful," she says, stopping to admire the blossoms on one plant.

"Those are Cattleya Bow Bells," I explain.

Rarely have I met anyone who is not impressed with the beauty of an orchid. Women seem to respond to them instinctively. The orchid, as I discovered long ago, exceeds all the other flowers for its sensuousness, brilliant color, and subtle perfume. This works to my advantage as it helps to stimulate the senses and the imagination of the women who model for me. It also breaks the ice and helps them to relax.

After we talk briefly, I invite her to undress in the bathroom. She emerges a few minutes later in a red silk robe tied at the waist. The curtains on the windows and skylights have been drawn to shield the bright afternoon light. I ask her to sit down on an upholstered settee while I turn on some soft music. I take a few moments to position the camera, and then ask her to remove the robe. She does so tentatively, letting it drop to the side.

"Now," I say, "please lean back and make yourself comfortable."

As I peer through the camera's viewfinder, she tilts her head and arches her back, bringing one foot up onto the lounge, slowly parting her legs, opening herself to me. I hear her breathe in deeply.

"Good," I say, encouraging her. My initial indifference turns to amazement as I snap the first few pictures. "Beautiful. Lovely," I tell her, feeling my heart beating with uncontrollable excitement.

I am captivated by her vulva, the soft outer labia fringed with feathery wisps of golden brown hair; the surprisingly long nub of her pale clitoris peering out from beneath the loose, hooded folds, the softly rumpled inner lips pulled back, boldly fanning leaf-like on either side, the ruffled asymmetrical petals hued in pink and crimson, the serrated edges darkening to deep brown. The thick flesh falls like drapes on either side, cascading to a drooping protrusion that beckons towards her inner recesses.

At first I leave the camera on the tripod at waist level. I work from here for a brief time, and then I bring the camera in closer. I sense the tension in her body, see the familiar signs of tightness in the stomach and thigh muscles -- the young, inexperienced model's instinctive reaction to the camera's unblinking eye. I shoot in color, working methodically, letting her become familiar with the pace and flow. From experience I have learned to move deliberately, to create a professional rapport and sense of trust.

After one roll of film is completed, I switch to another camera loaded with black and white film. I concern myself with the subtle play of light and shadow on the surface of her skin. As I move in closer, she pushes herself up on her elbows to watch. I notice that the nipples on her small smooth breasts are erect and pointed. She shifts her hips slightly, signaling a growing confidence with the attention focused between her legs. I have seen this pattern before. She enjoys the camera spying on her most private area. Her inhibitions melt in the heat of the moment. I go about my business, quietly and efficiently, sensing her growing excitement as I continue to click picture after picture. She lifts her hips slightly, spreading her legs further.

"Yes," I say, persuading her. "Good. Just like that." The light catches the first dabs of moisture on her dewy lips; I detect a hint of musk in the air. I move the camera forward, changing the depth of field to capture the complex and irregular edges of her inner lips, while throwing the rest into soft focus. I reposition to study the contours of her flesh, the furrows, the minute valleys, the darkened depths. I have only begun to examine the anther-like cap of her clitoris in detail, capturing its shiny smoothness in contrast to the rumpled folds on either side when, to my frustration, the film runs out. I have only begun to capture its fascinating details and my excitement is surging.

More than that, I sense that I've stumbled on a critical addition to the project that I've conceived. Like an unexpected gift, she has come to me, concealed at first, now open. I want to expose her beauty for the entire world to see.

"I'm going to change film," I tell her. "It will take a few minutes. You might want to get up and stretch or move around if that will make you more comfortable."

"I'm okay," she says. She leans over, grabs the robe off the ground and wraps it around her. "So, is it any good?"

"Absolutely," I say. "You're doing great."

She is nervous and wants me to say more.

"How are you doing so far?" I ask, walking over to the refrigerator to get more film.

"Okay."

"Good," I say, as I break open a box of Pan-X and begin loading the fresh roll into the Nikon.

She watches me for a few seconds. "I wasn't sure what to expect at first. When the guy at the agency told me what you did, I thought it might be weird. But I kind of like it." She hesitates. "So, can I ask you kind of a personal question, and, like, don't get offended, okay?"

"I'm not sure. Why don't you try and we'll see."

She hesitates a moment, gathering her courage. "Is this like a fetish thing? I mean, I'm totally cool with naked bodies and everything, but it's usually, like, the whole person. Not that there's anything wrong with it. It's just different, you know?"

I'm always surprised that people can't understand celebrating the most amazing part of a woman's body. It is exactly for this reason that I am publishing a book of photographs. "To me," I tell her, "it's the most beautiful thing in the world." And I leave it at that.

She props herself up on one elbow and watches me. "I've always been kind of embarrassed about the way it looks."

"Really?" I say, threading the film in the second camera. "Just in general, or yours in particular?"

"Mine. All the other girls have these perfectly smooth ones."

"That's pretty typical."

"Well, mine has all this loose, hangy skin."

"That's what makes it beautiful," I tell her.

"I was always embarrassed to take my clothes off or wear a bathing suit."

"You shouldn't be." I reach for the third camera. "You should be proud of it. It's amazing."

"What's amazing about it?"

"Everything." I open the camera and put the film in.

"Like what?"

I love her insecurity, the need to be reassured, the need to be told. I close the camera, walk over to a chair next to her, and sit down.

"When I was boy, my mother grew flowers all around our house, and orchids inside. I think I was still in grade school when I really started to notice the difference between ordinary flowers and orchids. I wasn't sure exactly what attracted me to them at first, but I wanted to know everything about them. I went to the library and learned everything I could: the different varieties, how they grew, and the names of all the parts. I liked the big outer leaves, and the scrunchy little leaves in the middle. I remember thinking it looked like skin to me. My mother had this one orchid in particular called a Lady Slipper that I liked the most. It had these amazing inner leaves that curled and twisted. She warned me not to touch it because the leaves were fragile. But I remember looking at it for so long that all I could think about was putting my finger inside it. So, finally I did and it and it was like magic. Of course the orchid died, and my Mom was mad at me, but she got another one. Then, a few years later, a girl on my street asked me if she could come over and see my mom's orchids because someone told her about them. As it turned out, she didn't really care about the orchids at all. She told me that she had a flower inside her pants that was even more beautiful than any of my mother's orchids. She asked me if I wanted to see it."

"So, what did you say?"

"I said, 'sure,' but she told that she had to take off her pants to see it. So, she did, and it was the most amazing thing I ever saw."

"So, what did you do?"

"Nothing," I say. "I was in shock. I just sat there and looked at it until she got bored and asked me if I wanted to touch it. Immediately, I thought about my mom's orchid and what might happen to her if I did, but she kept telling me that she wanted me to."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"And what happened?"

"We ended up spending a lot of time together. She would sneak over to my house in the afternoons, and I went over to her house when her parents were away."

She smiles. "I like your story."

"That's why I think it's the most beautiful thing in the world. And yours is even more amazing."

I get up from the chair and cross the room to my desk to retrieve a hand mirror laying on the glass countertop. I return to the settee and sit next to her.

"Here," I say, handing her the mirror. "Take your robe off, and I'll show you."

Slowly, she unfastens her robe and drops it to the side. I feel the heat of her next to me, the soapy smell of her young body, the pale creamy quality of her skin, the small smooth breasts tipped with pink budding nipples.

"Hold the mirror down here," I tell her.

She opens her legs and positions the mirror in between them, unaware that she possesses the rarest of all beauties -- the most exotic flower of all. I have seen every conceivable type, kneeled before it, smelled its intoxicating aroma, worshipped it in its many forms, but never one quite like this.

I lean down to point out the wonder of her body and to impress upon her its unique beauty. "The vulva is like a flower. But that could mean anything, a daisy, a tulip, or a rose. All are beautiful in their own way, but some are more exotic, more fascinating, more erotic. With most women the outer labia is puffy and full, the inner labia narrow and symmetrical. That's the kind you say you admire, the most common or ordinary kind. But yours is different. Completely the opposite."

I point to the bordering edges of her vulva, tracing its design with my finger, only inches away. "The outer labia is thin. The inner lips are much more developed. They're not only large, but they flare out to the sides like leaves or petals. You might expect both sides to be symmetrical, mirror images of each other. But yours are asymmetrical -- they're uneven, so they look even more like the leaves. See the difference between the sides?" I look up at her.

Her mouth is open slightly. She swallows and nods. I notice that her nipples are once again hard and erect.

I continue. "All of that is beautiful and amazing," I tell her. "But notice what else is different. Instead of the edges being smooth and uniform, they have irregular, serrated edges that invite the touch." Again, I hold my finger close to trace the outline on either side. "Then, there is the aspect of color. Instead of being one simple shade, the inner lips vary from inside out, starting with a wine color near the core, transforming to a light pink with subtle striations, turning to a dark hue along the edges. The color is subtle and complex."

I look up at her again, seeing the nervous rise and fall of her young chest as she breathes rapidly.

"Now you can start to understand the beauty that begins to separate you from other women. It's like comparing a daisy to a rose. But that is just the beginning. Here is where the real difference begins." I lean forward smelling the musky scent of sex rising from the space between her smooth, pale thighs. She lifts her hips then relaxes.

"The center of a woman's pleasure, the clitoris, is usually small and well-concealed. Yours is bold and protruding. Not only that but it is surrounded by this beautiful shroud that falls like fabric, twisting and turning before it fans out. Do you see?"

She nods again.

"But here," I say pointing to the lowest area where the loose flesh gathers, "is the most extraordinary part of all."

The skin is now glistening wet. A bead of moisture trickles down the interior of her pale thigh to her firm buttocks.

"This part is the rarest and most beautiful." I point to the tongue-like protrusion that juts out from the base of her vagina. "You have a labellum like an orchid, which is this part that sticks out. It is something very few women have and it is extraordinary and wonderful.

I look up and see desire burning in her eyes. She hesitates, swallowing. "Touch it," she says, in a whisper.

Her eyes narrow and close as I trace my index finger slowly over the velvet contours of her moistened flesh. She shudders, her mouth gaping, nodding spasmodically to the jolts of pleasure coursing through her body. She opens her legs wider, encouraging my probing touch.

My finger and thumb close gently around her clustered folds, absorbing their soft texture, reveling in the pleasure of their convoluted edges. I run my finger up and down the soft labellum again and again. In turn, she lifts her thighs from the settee inviting deeper exploration, but I forego her invitation.

Instead my fingers begin the slow, careful investigation of her labia, surveying their irregular dark edges. The petals of her flared inner lips are moist and smooth as I suspect.

My hand moves up to the soft mound below her navel, caressing the wispy crop of pubic hair that extends down to a point just above her center of pleasure. I touch the tip of her smooth, shining nub, gently pushing the hooded flesh away as I focus my attention there, making circular motions. Her hips rise responsively, lifting and falling rhythmically to the touch of my fingers. The palm of my left hand grazes her hardened nipples, then returns to her moist center.

Her head is thrown back ; she bites her lower lip as I continue. Finally, as I sense her excitement peaking, I push a finger into her, then another. She cries out, shuddering violently, as she climaxes.

From out in the hallway I hear a chair scrape and loud, anxious footsteps approaching. A second later, her escort appears in the doorway, coming toward me. Katy reaches for the robe and wraps it around her.

"It's okay," she says to him. "I'm okay."

He stops, looks at me uncertainly, then back at her. "You want me to stay?" He shoots a warning look my way.

"No," she says. "It's okay. Really. Thanks."

He watches the two of us for a few seconds to be sure, then walks back into the hallway.

"That was incredible," she says, after he is gone.

"I hope I didn't scare you off."

She laughs. "No. Not exactly."

"I didn't plan on doing that."

"Me either."

"You're okay?" I ask.

"Sure. What about you?"

"I'm good."

We trade a long look, then she diverts her eyes and looks down.

"What?" I ask, noticing an embarrassed look on her face.

"Nothing," she says.

"Come on," I say. "If there's something you want to say, just say it."

"We should probably get back to work." She hesitates, then looks up at me. "Or, you could tell me some more about the orchids."

* * * * *