I looked out of the window yesterday to see the first leaves had begun to fall from the oak trees that run along the bottom of our garden. Autumn is here where the calender says so or not and it made me think of this story I wrote.
It’s not the way you look,
It’s not the way that you smile.
Although there’s something to them.
It’s not the way you have your hair,
It’s not that certain style;
It could be that with you.
If I had a photograph of you,
It’s something to remind me.
I wouldn’t spend my life just wishing.
A Flock Of Seagulls, Wishing (If I Had A Photograph Of You), Listen, 1983
Chris slid the photograph album out of the carrier bag and laid it on the desk in front of him. It was bound in a deep red, textured leather save for the spine and corners that were finished in black. It smelled faintly musty, but was otherwise almost perfect.
It appeared unused, each cream-coloured page immaculate and only the occasional brown spot betraying its antiquity. He enjoyed the thought that the object in his hands had, through some accident of circumstance, remained inviolate for over a century entombed in the bottom of a chest or at the back of a cupboard.
He closed the album and lifted it to place it on the bookshelf next to his desk. He was surprised when a piece of heavy yellowed paper fell from between the leaves and landed on the carpet. It was a photograph, he had seen a flash of the image though it now lay emulsion side down. He placed the album on the desk and retrieved the print.
The back, written in copperplate, read; “Amelia, Nottingham Forest 1892”. He flipped the print over to view it. It was a picture of a young woman, dressed it would seem in the manner of the late 19th century. She was standing amongst oak trees, presumably in Nottingham Forest. The paper was slightly yellowed, though not badly, it must have been concealed between the pages of the album since it was taken. The print was sepia, not black and white and vignetted by the inadequate optics of the enlarger.
“Amelia” was looking coyly down the lens of the camera, her thick tresses worn down. Unusual for the period.
And something was not quite right. It was subtle and it took a moment to register. Amelia was not quite wearing her dress. She was in the process of slipping it from her shoulders. “A little gentleman’s relish.”, thought Chris, smiling to himself.
She had a beguiling look about her. Her eyes were deep and soulful, her skin a perfect ivory. The heavy velvet dress seemed poised, ready to fall to the floor at any moment. Its green velvet folds hung like a teetering avalanche of fabric.
Green? Chris blinked, he was tired. The sepia photograph looked back at him. Or at least Amelia did. He felt unable to put the photograph away, back in its leather bound sarcophagus.
Her eyes held his gaze, her chestnut red hair shining in the autumn sun. The shadows around them both were lengthening.
“Christopher” she said, voice deep and velvety, “I cannot hold this dress up much longer. Is that the last plate?”
He stood on a carpet of last year’s leaf mould and freshly fallen oak leaves. A mahogany tripod and camera were attached to the other end of the shutter bulb in his left hand. “Er, yes I think so.” Replied Christopher, confused. “You’ve nodded off you idiot” he told himself “Well, enjoy the dream”.
Amelia’s blue eyes burned with the light of Burmese sapphires as Chris walked toward her. A smile played across her lips when she noticed his gaze drop to her full chest. “Christopher, please!”. She blushed, but more out of duty than embarrassment. Good manners demanded she be modest.
“Oh, sorry. You just have wonderful breasts.” Replied Chris.
“Now really that is too much” she flustered. But her eye’s betrayed her true feelings. Her breathing quickened and she became acutely aware of her own heartbeat. “Now please fasten this dress.” She demanded, attempting to feign indignation while feeling the tingling between her legs. Nobody had ever been so forward with her, nobody had dared. Despite herself she wanted him to be that bold again.
Chris stood behind her and was about to fasten her dress when he saw the curve of her shoulders. He felt himself leaning forward and placing a single kiss at the junction of her shoulder and neck.
“Ah! Christopher!” objected Amelia, with little conviction. Her legs felt like they were about to give way.
Chris’s hands grasped her shoulders and turned Amelia around. He took her head in his hands and kissed her on the lips, full and passionately. His tongue pushed gently and inexorably into her mouth, finding an inexperienced partner within. Inexperienced but willing and eager to learn.
Amelia’s hands dropped to her sides, allowing the dress to fall in a heap on the floor. Her hands slid around his waist and pulled him close, only his linen shirt and her undergarments separating their burning flesh.
Their mouths parted. Chris looked into Amelia’s eyes, then up and down her shapely, rounded frame. His corduroy breaches contained his pulsing desire, for now.
She turned her back to him and bent over, straightening the dress into a sort of makeshift blanket. The sight of her firm round arse, covered in cotton bloomers excited him even more. He unbuttoned his flies and freed his erect cock.
Amelia, still bent over, looked over her shoulder to see Christopher, manhood rampant, poised to pounce on her. Her mouth opened to an O’ as he pushed her forward onto all fours.
He immediately knelt behind her and tore down her bloomers, the soft cotton shredding under the onslaught from his frenzied fingers. The smell of her sex was overpowering, her desire was as strong as his, hidden under the thin veil of society’s expectations of a gentlewoman. The delicious aroma of her pussy could not be disguised.
Her hands grasped at the dress and litter on the forest floor, both for purchase and the sensation this provided. Her fingers dug into the soft earth, almost clawing at it. She was utterly wanton, desiring to be taken by this strange man who she had met … when? It seemed only a few moments ago, yet she seemed to remember him asking her to pose for him …
… no matter she could feel the tip of his cock pushing its way through her light brown pubic hair. Now he was parting her labia. She licked her lips with the very tip of her tongue.
Chris pressed forward, into her waiting pussy, feeling every hot, wet contour filling her completely, then stretching her a little. She writhed underneath him, holding back the urge within her that wanted to scream out her lust. Instead containing it, whimpering, letting her social conditioning stifle the voice of her passion.
Chris could sense it. It excited him even more and at the same time infuriated him, spurring him to thrust into her hard and deep, making her arms collapse under the pounding. Her face was now amongst the leaves, chestnut hair spread around her head.
It was only when they both came, together, long and with an animal growl from Chris that she once again raised her face from the leafy carpet and screamed at the top of her voice.
The waves of pleasure ebbed, their breathing returned to normal. They held each other.
As Chris looked at Amelia her eyes began to loose their colour, but not their haunting quality. Her skin took on the colour of velum. He held up his hand and he too saw and felt the colour drain from himself.
Perhaps it’s not a dream? He thought. But if not, what is it?
The album sat on the shelf in the antique shop for ten years before its next owner stumbled across it.
“Yes madam, it’s from a house clearance I did in the village several years ago. You may remember it, Young man Christopher Evans, just disappeared one day …”