The Photographer and His Muse
 

Here is something I wrote a while back. It was inspired by actual events, but I shall leave it to you the reader to guess how much of it is fiction and how much is the truth.

Hope you enjoy it.


* * * * * *

The Photographer and His Muse

"Are you… ?”

He looked up from the magazine he was browsing and saw her in person for the first time. She did not look anything like she did in her picture. But as he regarded the attractive young woman hovering by his table, he decided it was a very good thing.

“Hi,” he said as he rose to his feet. They traded awkward smiles, the sort that you would have if you were meeting someone for the first time under the circumstances in which the both of them had come to meet.

A week ago, he received an e-mail from a stranger. In it, the stranger had written how much she loved the pictures he took and that she was wondering if he would oblige to have her model in a session. There was little else about her in the e-mail, not even a head shot, and as he reread her e-mail in the hope that there was more about her he could pick up, he had begun to imagine what she looked like.

She has a quiet dignity about her and a shyness her beautiful almond eyes betrayed as they made some small talk. He opened the lid of his laptop, and, with a couple of clicks, opened a gallery of nudes he had shot before.

Turning the laptop around so she could see the screen, he said, “These are what I’m thinking of doing. These are what I could not post online.”

She rose and moved her chair closer to his. Locks of her hair fell free from her shoulder as she regarded the photos closely; she studied each one at length, her attention completely fixed on the photographs on the screen. Photographs of past loves of whom he had no problem convincing to shed their clothes for his camera. Perhaps it was his natural born charm. Or perhaps it was the unspoken and latent desire in every woman to be utterly uninhibited. Often in such sessions, it was as much a surprise to him as to them how explicit they were capable of. In those private sessions, each and every one of them was his Succubus.

He found himself studying her; the long, gracious finger that hovered above the keyboard; the toned arms she must have spent many a gym hour working on; her fair complexion, a light shade of cream, of which the spaghetti top she wore modestly revealed. Just as he was glancing at what little bit of cleavage her top allowed, she leaned closer to the screen and propped her elbows on the table. The neckline of her top crumpled away from her bosom and revealed exquisite black lace.

“You’re wearing underwear,” he frowned.

She glanced up from the laptop and gave him a puzzled look. On the day before, he had sent her a short list of what articles of clothing to bring and the such for the session, along with an instruction that she was not to wear any underwear so that her skin would not have marks.

"I forgot about it completely!" she exclaimed as it dawned on her. "I'm so sorry; I'll go remove them now."

Halfway across the cafe, she turned back and sheepishly stuck her tongue at him, a gesture that was so unexpected and childlike it made him laughed. While she was gone, he turned to his laptop and hovered the mouse pointer on a folder marked Reference. Within the folder were pictures he had downloaded in the past week, pictures shot by others that he admired greatly and wished to attempt himself. He wondered if he should show them to her.

She reappeared clutching in one hand her bra and undergarment. He glanced around to see if any one was looking at this strange sight of a young woman walking around with her undergarment in her hand. There was only a middle-aged couple at the far end of the cafe and they had not noticed.

"I have something to show you," he began as she rummaged her bag. "There are some pictures I want to try and recreate. They're pretty explicit, though."

A small, mischievous smile crept onto the edge of her lips.

"Porn?"

"No. Well, not to me."

He pulled his chair closer to her and moved the laptop closer. As the thumbnails drew themselves on the screen, he thought he saw her flinched slightly. She stared hard at the pictures, her brow creased. The photographs, while tasteful and were done in a style that remained in the realms of art, left little to the imagination. Legs spreading as far as they went. Hands squeezing breasts. Fingers pinching nipples and parting pussy lips suggestively left out of the frame. They reeked of pure lust. In the long dead silence between them, she advanced through the pictures quickly. Once in a while, she would go back one or two pictures, before she resumed clicking to the next. He grew increasingly nervous.

"Look, I'm sorry if you are offended—" he began. But she cut him off.

"These pictures are…" She searched for the word. Her gaze flitted from her cup of coffee to the napkin next to it. His expression turned more and more worried. Finally she glanced up and looked right into his eyes.

"These pictures are what I've always hoped to do."

He heaved such a great sigh of relief it made her raise an eyebrow.

"I've tried to take shots like these in the past," she explained as her cheeks began to turn a rich shade of pink. "You know, with my ex boyfriends. With phone cameras and all. But they never turned out well."

"Not this time round."

"Of course not. You're a professional."

She settled back into her seat and leveled her gaze at him with a small smile.

"Yes, I'd love to try shots like those."

* * * * * *

More to come.

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

The quiet hum of the air-conditioning was the only sound in the room. Up on the sixtieth floor, they were far, far away from the rest of the world. Outside, the afternoon sun beat down with such a fervor it made everything that moved lethargic and lifeless.

As he waited for her to put on her makeup, he did a walk-about the room, checking exposure with the light meter in his hand. Satisfied, he went about quietly setting up lights. He chose to pack light since he did not have an assistant; she had, in a subsequent e-mail to him, requested the session to be just between him and her. It suddenly occurred to him that she had mentioned something else, something that has completely slipped his mind till now.

He called out to her. Moments later, she appeared at the doorway, clad in a bathrobe she took from the wardrobe.

"You said you had one more request which you'd tell me only on the day of the shoot."

She smiled with genuine shyness.

"In a while," was her cryptic reply and she disappeared into the bathroom once more. He thought about it for a while and, unable to guess at what it could be, shrugged and powered up his camera.

* * * * * *

Through the lens he studied her face. With his face pressed to the viewfinder, his breathing was softly ragged. She glanced up and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. There was such vulnerability in her eyes it stirred something in his years of well-honed shooting instincts and made him squeeze the shutter release. The burst of three shots reverberated obscenely loud in the small bathroom.

A silence fell between them.

"I'm waiting," he said, his eye still to the viewfinder.

Her cheeks turned crimson. With her gaze still fixed on his reflection, she tugged at the knot of her bathrobe. He fired more shots rapidly. The sides parted, revealing in slow motion her fair skin. She turned, and began to laugh uncontrollably. His finger stayed on the shutter release.

Soon she was laughing so hard she was clutching her stomach. Her breasts quivered beneath the white terry cloth as she sat down hard on the edge of the bathtub. Doubled over in pain, her legs were parted slightly, exposing the neat line between her soft folds. Like a predator that has caught the sight of a prey, he took a step forward and framed up for a shot. She squealed and scrambled to cover up. He fired another two shots, laughing as he did so because he knew shots of moments like this were impossible to stage.

"You impatient man," she laughed. She got to her feet, her eyes sharp and hard in an instance. Without a word, she parted her bathrobe. It crumpled softly at her feet like a napping cat.

"Well, I'm naked now."

Her breasts heaved with her nervousness, her confused hands clutching the sides of her thighs, as though she was willing herself to not use them to cover her crotch. Her body was exquisitely shaped, her curves firm even as they flowed in the way only a woman's body could. Her breasts stood high and proud like those of a girl who has just blossomed into adulthood; just a little more than a palmful each, they were fair and white. In stark contrast, her areolae were large and were a pale shade of brown.

With her back to the mirror, she propped herself up onto the vanity counter and assumed a pose. With every click of the shutter release, she grew bolder. He did not have to prompt her much. Like an actress who has stepped onto a set crowded with silent adoring onlookers, she has slipped into a character she was playing in her mind. The poses were still modest, but he did not push further. She would get there eventually.

"I'm done here," he announced. "Let's take a look at the lingerie you've brought."

* * * * * *

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

First camper reporting in .

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

Keep it coming...camping..

Heyshoy f

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

oooh. nice story.

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

Great writing..like a pro novelist

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

Interesting read, and thanks for sharing, cheers ....................

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

Join the crowd , waiting for more.

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

very nice writing...hoping to read more of it......i don't care about fiction or non fiction..i just enjoy a good story with proper development and good English as well...the expression and description are clearly explained.

;) you'll have me as your loyal reader for this story. Too bad I can't up you yet. Don't have any powers :(

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

Clad in only a white thong, her bathrobe parted, she laid herself down and stretched, taking in the softness of the bed. He hovered at the edge of the bed, twisting and ducking as he searched for a shot. The sun has taken refuge behind a sheet of ambivalent rain clouds. Framed against the large picture window, she was bathed in the softest of afternoon light he has ever seen.

Every sound in the room seemed attenuated; all he could hear was his own breathing and the mechanical clicks of the dials and buttons his machine made. For a while he snapped away. But it became apparent the shots were not working. The room fell silent once more. His brow creased in concentration as he paced around the bed, trying to visualize his next shot. She remained still.

"Take it off," he said softly.

Perhaps she had not heard his instruction the first time. He said it again. No response. Her eyes were shut, her head thrown back towards the window. He got onto the bed, knelt at her feet and called out her name.

Her eyes fluttered open. There was a drowsiness in her gaze. A moment passed.

Still, she did not move. He was sure she heard him this time. Her gaze burned deep into him, her eyelids seductively lowered.

"We're not going there yet."

He lowered his camera.

"I'll spread my legs only if you get naked as well."

He balked. "No."

With a flourish, she wrapped the sides of her bathrobe tight around her. "Then there shall be no shoot," she said and sat up in bed to assert her point.

"You want this shoot bad. You know it. So this is the request I said I'd tell you later."

He did a slow burn at her. For all the shyness she has exhibited all along, he had to admire the defiance and impunity in which she was now dangling the prospects of the afternoon.

A moment passed.

"And I thought you were extremely shy," he muttered as he gave in. She raised herself up on the bed, smiling victoriously. . He peeled off his tee shirt and, with a snort of disdain, flung it at her. The buckle on his belt clanked loudly, seemingly in rhythm to her spontaneous applause. Off came the pants, and, for a moment, he stood there and felt stupid. She stared at him expectantly.

"What, this, too?"

"This is going to be awkward," he said as he hooked his fingers into the sides of his briefs. "What if I get aroused? That's gonna look pretty awkward. I can't imagine what could look more absurd than a photographer contorting away for angles with a hard-on."

She laughed.

"Then that will make you feel as awkward as I do," she concluded. "Which is the whole point."


He shook his head in disbelief; she has had him cornered with her perfectly logical reasoning. It was fair game now, two strangers baring all, hiding nothing. Quid pro quo. His briefs fell around his ankles.

In the coldness of the room, his semi-hard penis burned his thigh. She gazed at his naked form, and, with her elbows propping her up, lifted her body slightly away from the bed and peeled her thong free of her legs. Her breasts trembled lightly from both trepidation and the strain of her own weight. If he could hear her heartbeat, he would have known how nervous she actually was right then. He leaned forward and placed his free hand on her knee. She gasped lightly.

Her vulva was freshly shaven. The lips were protruded and were like the petals of an exotic flower. Folds of flesh falling upon themselves. There was a hint of her large clit beneath its hood. All of that were coated with her arousal. He was secretly thrilled at how wet she was. A sliver of her wetness clung onto her inner thigh and, as he parted her legs even more, quivered and stretched thin. Then, as though it served as an indicator of her modesty, at last it broke and fell on her skin, curling languidly like a translucent thread.

His penis stirred to life. Unable to hide it, he raised his camera and began taking shots of her. Through his viewfinder, he saw her gaze affixed on his erection. Caressed by the frequent gushes of cold air from the air-conditioner, it throbbed hot and hard. He felt his own cheeks beginning to flush. She looked up into the lens, at him, and smiled appreciatively, She did not have to say anything; he knew what she wanted to but would not say.

Quietly, he issued a series of instructions, "Lift your chin. Lower your eyes. Part your lips—"

From the corner of his free eye, he saw her move her hands towards her crotch.

"No," he laughed. "Not those lips. Your mouth."

Her face turned crimson red. She shot up in bed and lunged at him, cracking up as well. Nimbly, he stepped off the bed and backed up against the wall behind him. A second too late, she fell on her stomach. They remained like that for a while, the room echoing with their laughter.

* * * * * *

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

Good story! Keep it going...

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

Nice Story! Joining the crowd here!

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

TS , I like your story very refreshing story line ,looking forward for your next installment

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

Thanks, everyone. Next post coming up soon.

Re: The Photographer and His Muse
 

one serious literiture major or english professor here in sbf.