The Sexual Lens Reflex
He could see the outline of her body through the thin cotton of her short dress, cast into silhouette by the bright summer sunlight streaming through the floor to ceiling windows of his studio.
Click, zip went the Nikon, its motor wind and 100 frame spool capturing a 125th of a second of photons through an f16 aperture onto Ilford Pan-F.
“Which one’s yours she asked?” throwing another pose for his hungry lens.
Click zip, the camera’s mirror rose and fell, shutter curtains raced in front of a silver emulsion to fix the image of her erect nipples and exquisitely shaped breast, subtle hidden beneath the gossamer fabric.
“The white Lancia.”
“Oh.” She sounded under-whelmed.
Click, click.
“It’s an Integrale.” He felt a little deflated.
“OK” She turned to face him, legs apart, hands on her hips, her mouth curling into a snarl just for his optics.
Click, click click.
Yes he wanted to fuck her. She was feisty, intelligent, with a damn fine body and a pair of tits that would keep you occupied all night. But she didn’t appreciate his car!
At the end of the shoot he dropped the rolls of film into his bag and waited for her to get dressed. Like most of the models she didn’t bother with the screens, just go naked there in front of him. He watched her without disguising his appreciative stares. She was performing for him, he was sure of it.
They hadn’t got along and they weren’t going to end up in bed together, they both knew that, but it didn’t matter. He sat down in a chair and drank his cold coffee. He enjoyed watching her bending down to pick up her blouse, her pussy peeking between her tanned thighs, and she enjoyed presenting the plump lips, covered in carefully trimmed pubic hair.
He couldn’t work out if he liked her breasts better exposed or partially concealed. He decided the latter, her semi-obscured boobs, glimpsed between the half-open blouse made his throat dry.
She had her knickers on now, a white g-string. She stopped and looked at him, his eyes scanning her body. “Do I do it for you?”
“Yes.” His hand shifted, nervously covering a bulge in his jeans.
“Don’t be shy. I like being watched.” She smiled, then with a practiced ease licked her cherry red lips. “I like to watch too. Can I see?” her eyes stared at his crotch.
“What?”
“Get it out for me then. I want to see what I do to you.”
There was a moment, a second or two where the whole world pivoted around his next move. Should he tell her to go home, or, or …
He unbuckled his belt and slid the jeans to his knees along with his white boxers.
His cock throbbed its appreciation at the semi-clad model, balls tightening, ready for whatever was to come.
“Don’t get any ideas about fucking me, you’re cute but you’re not my type.” She knelt on the floor a couple of metres in front of him, raised her knees, spread her legs and pulled the g-string to one side. She revealed a glistening pussy, which she then spread with her fingers.
“Now wank for me while I frig for you.” She said huskily.
He sat mute and held his cock motionless. She tossed her hair back and let her mouth open, drawing slow deep breaths. Her fingers slid between the folds of her pussy, one moment rubbing her clitoris, pulling back its hood, the next delving inside her.
He felt the urge to pump his cock with his hand, the precum he was exuding augmented with his own saliva to lubricate his foreskin. The comforting tightening of his balls encouraged him into a slow, languorous rhythm. The spectacle of the model becoming increasingly aroused bringing him closer to the edge.
She was pushing her fingers deeper inside her now, trying and failing to push four fingers inside herself. She settled on drawing the fluid that was flowing freely from within her pussy across her clitoris and rubbing herself to a hip-bucking climax that had her shrieking.
Through a blurry post-orgasmic haze she had the presence of mind to watch him reacting to her climax. His hand quickened and concentrated on short, swift strokes at the head of his cock. His eyes rolled and she held her breath until his hand slid all the way to the base of his cock, once, twice, three, four times, each stroke accompanied by a spurt of viscous cum.
They watched each other for maybe ten minutes before they stirred to clean up and leave.
At the door she gave him a peck on the cheek and with an expert wiggle of her hips bid him farewell. How many times would he wank over the pictures he now had of her? And how often would she imagine him doing just that while she frigged herself senseless with her favourite dildo?