When she came to him it had all been arranged by phone. Discreet and private, he promised he could meet her needs. She wanted a portrait for herself, a picture of how she was now so she would never forget. A nude, but it was to be more, it was a reminder of when she found her own wants surface. A gift from when she finally became herself, not someone else's version. It was to be black and white. She wanted classic but nothing shy, demure. She had worked hard to look good and was willing to show it, and besides she thought, it was always for her to decide who saw it in the future.
When she went in she was surprised to see him bent over a desk, a calculator humming his books. She half imagined a photographer always behind a lens or huddled in the darkroom, his potions calling up the images he stole. She smiled, loving that image of the wizard calling up the souls taken just as tribes thought in stories she had read. They shook hands, idle chatter about weather, her clothes, fees. Satisfied she was directed to the changing room, a robe prepared for modesty. She breathed deeply once more, asked if she was ready, and stepped in to begin.
The room was simple like all studios, designed for space and ease of use. Music piped in from overhead speakers, soothing and cool as she had asked for. She saw that the walls could be covered by sliding panels, backdrops that slid down from the ceilings to change the view. She had described what she wanted in the most general terms. Whistling to himself he directed her to a chair to wait, then wheeled in a small stage. He explained he had made this just for her shoot, he hoped she liked it. It looked old to her, like something from movies about gangsters and speakeasies. Small lights rimmed the edge, the cubbyhole for the giving of dropped lines in place. It was flanked by large columns, the swag of fabrics held back by grinning small demons. Plastic she was sure, but she did not like looking at the little faces, leering at her like they could see under her robe. She thought the overall effect was beautiful, a place of display and desire. He seemed pleased by her whistle of approval, slipping film in without looking up at her.
He took her hand and arranged her on the chair placed stage center. For the first series she gripped the chair back, her legs open as she leaned in. she felt the velvet of the seat hitting her labia when he moved her, arched her back more to kick her posture up. The fabric seemed to kiss her as she felt it wet under her. Her face started to blush as she realized what was happening, wondered if anyone else had left themselves on this same chair. Her mind buzzed as the image poked in her head, she could see the stain spreading with each breath, her eyes locked on the lens. 'Point your toes, point' he repeated to her when she relaxed and forgot. She moved as he asked, turning first one way then another.
Each time he moved to her it was cool, clinical. She knew that he had seem women, had looked at the examples in his book. But now it was her being moved, handled, posed. She found the detachment appealing. She looked at him again, his lines, the angular face, her eyes tracing a bulge as he brushed against her to place her hands as he wanted. He never spoke more than few words, 'Hand up, down...leg right, point dear, back arched, more, more'. Each command she felt herself smiling more as she posed for him, her role as muse to his creativity a new thrill she had not imagined.
She turned the chair around, facing him now. Her nakedness seemed to be an afterthought to her as she opened herself up, her lips crimson. She asked him to look at her again, to stop a moment. He placed the camera at his side, staring as asked.
" Do you like the way I look?"
"Yes, very much"
" Do you want me?"
"Keep going, keep taking pictures"
She leaned back again, her legs pulled up to place her heels on the wet fabric. She kept her eyes on his now, no longer looking at the lens. Each time he clicked the shutter; each whir of the drive pushed her to do more. She wanted him to stop now, to place the camera down, come to her, and she wanted to get this on film at the same time. Each time she moved he loved the picture more, and kept going, pushing her to come out. She caressed her breast, again never looking away from him, teased herself from practice. She had always liked rough play, pulling up on herself, her breathing increasing as she twisted with both hands.
When she felt herself about to scream she dropped them, the release of blood causing a ripple in her sex. She knew her clitoris was hard; each time she crossed and uncrossed her legs the brush thrilled her. Her right hand went down now, no longer caring about posing, drawing him to her instead with her mouth, her lips wet. Her clitoris felt like a pebble under her fingers, harder that she had known before. She was afraid to touch at first, her need to great. 'There' she thought, 'just a touch'. It was like she had lit a match and stubbed it out on her skin. She jumped, a wave of release hitting her as she rubbed. Each convulsion was recorded, a picture of pleasure.
They went on like that for two more rolls; each time she came he filmed it. She was no longer posing for him, no longer cared what he did, she just wanted to keep going, drive the feeling up higher. She was limp in the chair finally, her head lolled as she tried to focus her eyes again, no longer hearing each 'click' as he finished. His own eyes were blurring, had been for an hour. He had not known she could be so rapturous, blissful. She was beautiful but this was different. It was raw, animalistic in freedom as she bucked, her hands pulling and pushing her body on. He dropped down, his face inches from her labia. He stared, drinking her in. When he reached out and held her thighs she smile down at him, no longer speaking. He could smell her; see the traces of her cumming on her thighs. His first taste was what he had dreamed of when she first walked in to make the appointment. That musky tart cream that is a woman, on his tongue finally, finally. He slurped lewdly, not caring how he sounded. She was a rag doll by then, each swipe of his tongue another wave like the rest. But as he pushed in, kissed her and drank down her sex she pumped back more. Each little ripple of orgasm building her hips shook, she felt him again.
She had imagined she was spent, unable to go one. His fingers inside her said she lied. First one, then two, and then three. As simple as that, he was inside her, his tongue buzzing happily on her clitoris. He curled up, wanting to feel that spot inside. There, right under her clit, the one thing he needed from her. It was a small pad, like a rough cats tongue. Each swipe of fingers and tongue she shook again, a feeling she did not know building. Her eyes watered as she fought back her scream. She had not felt this before, wanted him to stop, it was too much.
She felt the need to pee, to cum, to scream all boiling in her mind at once. His hands held her and her cries to stop went ignored. She thought she heard a cracking sound, her eyes fluttering as she finally did scream, the squirt of her juices flowing finally out to his mouth. This was it, the prize he had been drawing out, pushing her to give. It was warm, hotter than he remembered, but he thought that every time he felt it. And every time he was amazed like the first. He opened his mouth, trying to drink. It washed him, her cries no longer words, just repeated grunts as she gripped her chair seat, trying to make the feeling stay and afraid it would.
She came back to him the next week, the contact sheets arranged. She saw the ones he had already circled, the favorites. Her eyes went wide as she really saw herself finally opened, how her mouth curved into a smile as she came, the flush of her body when she slumped waiting for a new wave of orgasm. She saw the woman on the page and tried to connect it to herself. They seemed to be alien and comforting in the same beat. When she saw the last roll she looked inside herself.
That was the woman she wanted to be, that girl who dreamed as she rode her pleasures. It was the last few frames he had taken, her head back, wisps of hair sticking to her as she sweated under the lights, her fingers buried where it blurred but was plain to see. That picture was of her, she knew that, accepted her. She was pointing to it and drawing the grease marker down when he slipped the picture to her. It was her choice, already completed, the same one he had chosen to show. She paid him, collecting all his work as arranged. She kissed his cheek and slipped out, her soul returned.