Indecent...Exposure

Because I most definitely do not feelOK. Not scared, more nervous. ‘Do you want something?’ I ask him. I know how rude I sound. I can feel the squeeze of it right in the pit of my stomach.

‘Ah,’ he says, sitting down on the arm of my battered velvet sofa, ‘yeah. Sort of. I guess.’

‘What?’

There’s a slapping sound as he drops his hands onto his knees. ‘Today was unexpected,’ he says. ‘For me, anyway.’

‘Believe me,’ I tell him, ‘it was unexpected for me too.’

‘Seriously? Because Amber told me you do this sort of thing all the time.’

Oh, god. ‘Not all the time. I do plenty of regular photography.’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘You did my sister’s wedding.’

I blink. I can’t believe he even noticed I was there, and ‘oh’ is about all I can think of to say.

‘So do you do a lot of…’ He glances up at me. ‘What do you call this?’

‘Erotic photography.’

‘I was going to say porn, but that works.’

‘Hmm,’ I say, not daring to tell him his version is closer to the truth than mine. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell anyone about it, though. It wouldn’t be good for business.’ I shift my weight from one foot to the other, shamefully aware of the deep, unsatisfied ache between my legs.

‘It might be,’ he says. ‘I can think of a few people who’d beg you to take photos of them with their dick out if it meant getting a little action from Amber Jones.’

I blurt out a laugh. ‘It’s her…’ I wave my hands in the general area of my chest.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘There’s no denying they’re impressive.’

I laugh some more, but I feel a strange kind of pain, and the next words I say tumble out of me without me being able to stop them. ‘Why did you look at me?’

He glances down at the floor, rubbing his thighs again. I wish he wouldn’t do that. It’s…distracting. I mean, as if the blue eyes and the mouth weren’t bad enough, he’s got these bloody thick legs. And big hands. And thick forearms. And the mouth. Did I mention the mouth? All of which were fine before, when I thought he was distant and controlled and safe. He’s not safe now.

He shakes his head a little, pulls in a breath. His hands still. Then he looks up at me. ‘Because Amber didn’t make me hard.’

Chapter Three

Fortunately, I’m saved from having to think of a response to that by the early arrival of my 2 p.m. portrait session, Victoria and Paul. Seriously, has the world got it in for me today? They’re newly engaged, and they’ve got that smug, cuddly look about them. I make them wait in the doorway while I light some vanilla-scented candles in a desperate attempt to get rid of the smell of sex, and Victoria eyes me with an I know that smell look on her face and fiddles with her solitaire.

I fluster and flap and plump cushions and make inane comments about how busy things are, and by the time I’ve finished, Tom Hunt has nodded a polite hello to the pair of them and left. I get the two of them in position, the typical lovey-dovey pose, she spends about five hours arranging her hair, then we’re all set.

Only I got so distracted by Tom and his mouth and his hands and what he meant when he said that Amber didn’t make him hard that I’ve forgotten to transfer those photos to my laptop and clear the memory on the camera. So when I turn the camera on, the screen that I use to show clients each photo as I take it flashes up my last shot in all its artistic glory. Victoria is too busy adjusting the position of her left hand on her fiancés shoulder, so she doesn’t notice, but he does.

For a second we both stare at the screen, then my brain remembers how this works, and I press the button on the camera that sends the screen to blue. Paul stares at me with an avid curiosity that I do my very best to ignore, hoping to god that he doesn’t ask me if he just saw what he thinks he just saw, and if I do what he’s now thinking I might do.

‘OKthen,’ I say brightly, before he can speak. ‘Shall we get started?’ I start to move around them, directing the position of their hands, their heads, desperately hoping that his fiancée is as oblivious as she seems to be, and that he’s just well padded in the groin area and doesn’t really have a hard on.

‘Paul,’ she says after a minute or two of frantic snapping, ‘do you seriously have an erection right now?’

‘Of course not, darling,’ he says, watching me over the top of her head as I hold my breath and will this to be over. I’m too horny, too wired, too fricking terrified and confused to handle this. I have got to talk to Tom Hunt. I have got to make him promise not to talk.

‘Don’t lie,’ she snaps at him, and the atmosphere in the room becomes suddenly, shockingly frigid. ‘You’ve got a hard on. It’s obvious.’

And then I do something I’ve never, ever done before. ‘It’s my fault,’ I tell her. I actually say the words out loud. ‘I take erotic photographs. I accidentally put one up on the screen when I turned on the camera. I’m sorry.’ And for the second time today, my secret slips out, only this time I’m the one letting it go.

She turns to me then, all glossy hair and big sparkly ring, and I steel myself, waiting for her to tell me that it’s disgusting, that they’re taking their business elsewhere. Immediately. But she doesn’t. ‘Show me.’

‘Um,’ I reply, ‘I’m not sure I can do that. Client confidentiality.’

‘You showed him.’ There’s enough ice in her voice to reverse global warming. ‘Now show me.’

I don’t know how to handle this. I’m useless at confrontation. When someone tells me to do something, doing it is a reflex reaction. It happens before I’ve even had chance to think it through. It’s how I ended up in this position in the first place. I pull in some air, let it out again, and then flick back to the image. It pops up on the screen, in all its visually stunning, pornographic glory.

For a moment, the three of us just stare at it. Then we all sort of sigh. It really is a beautiful shot. The black and white creates that gorgeous arty look, and most of Amber’s face is in shadow. And she is so stunningly curved, and Tom…

I can’t think about what Tom is. I don’t know what Tom is.

‘Fuck,’ says the woman, and for the second time today, I’m shocked by that word. It’s not nearly as shocking as what she says next, though. ‘God, I’d like to suck on those tits.’

Not Tom’s cock, all eight inches of which are displayed in their full, hard glory, but Amber’s tits. She looks at her fiancé, and some sort of silent message passes between them.

‘Sorry about this,’ he says, as he takes her hand and pulls her towards the door, ‘but we’re going to have to cut this short.’

She stumbles along behind him, not saying anything, her heeled boots loud on my polished floorboards. The door slams shut behind them. I stand there like an idiot, trying to wrap my head around it.

I’ve just had two clients walk out on me. Two clients who now know exactly what sort of photographic services I offer, because I told them. In fact, I went a whole step further than that and showed them. But that’s not my biggest problem. Not by a mile. I press my hands to my cheeks, unable to tear my gaze away from the image. Tom Hunt knows about me, I think to myself. What the hell am I going to do about that?

I’m still trying to figure that out at 5 as I’m pushing the hoover round the studio with what can only be described as a microscopic amount of enthusiasm. And I’ve got another problem.

I didn’t get the shot.

I could call Amber and get her to drag Tom back in here and redo the shoot. I’d get to see Tom’s cock and Amber’s tits all over again. Thinking about it makes gets me excited, and that makes me feel just a little bit sick. I can’t seem to stop myself from getting aroused, which is bad enough when strangers are involved. But getting turned on at the thought of Tom and Amber – what is wrong with me? Because it is a turn on, even though it makes me jealous, too. I stop myself a second before my dirty mind starts conjuring up images of all three of us going at it together.

I should be at home. I haven’t had anything to eat all day, and it’s way past normal locking-up time. Instead I’m cleaning the bleeping studio. It’s a definite avoidance tactic. If I go home, I will have my hand in my underwear and I’ll be rubbing myself into a frenzy before I’ve closed the front door and I won’t even try to stop myself. I’m only managing to avoid it now because I’ve left the blinds open and the bathroom is sub-zero.

Bloody hell. I yank the hoover out from under the sofa, kick the switch then drop the hose on the floor. I make my way to the bathroom at the back of the studio and tug on the light. I grab the bleach, tell myself to stop being such a ninny and go home, and am about to blast a shot into the bowl when something on the floor grabs my attention.

I set the bleach down and reach down for it.

It’s a black leather wallet, soft and good quality. I flip it open, although I already know who it belongs to before I check out the cards in the slots.

Tom Hunt has left his wallet in my bathroom.

I lift it to my face and inhale deeply. It smells like him. Leather, citrus and filth. A weird sort of giddy excitement fills me, from the tip of my toes, rushing up through my legs, turning my breasts heavy before escaping from my mouth in a sneaky little sigh.

There’s no avoiding it any longer.

I’m horny.

I don’t want to feel this way, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Watching other people does something to me. I can still remember the first time someone came in and asked me if I did bedroom shots. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but the studio had been open for three weeks and I was low on clients and even lower on funds. So I said sure, and proceeded to photograph her as she stripped off and then pleasured herself with a massive glass dildo. She ordered thirteen 8x10s and sent them to her boss.

A couple of weeks after that, I had a phone call and another client. And then another, and another, until I was doing three or four boudoir shoots a month and I’d seen pretty much everything it was possible to see, including a few things I didn’t even know were possible. I’d broken up with my boyfriend who went a very strange shade of puce after I asked if I could take some photos of him pleasuring himself, but I’d made enough money to pay my parents back the loan they’d reluctantly given me when I started up.

I tug off the light and go back into the studio and lock away all my equipment apart from my laptop and the memory card from my camera. I’m going to look at the shots I did get for Amber, see if I can rescue the situation, and then I’m going to return Tom Hunt’s wallet. I’m a professional. I can handle it.

Only before I can turn the laptop on, there’s a knock at the door. A big, dark shape fills it. I freeze. Then I swear really, really loud. ‘Fuck!’ I don’t know why my brain picks that word. It’s not one I ever say out loud, and certainly not when there’s a chance anyone might hear it. Shaking, I get to my feet and open the door.

Tom Hunt is standing there. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I, uh…’

I pull myself together, sort of; try to tell myself that this is a good thing. Really, it is. He’s saved me a job. ‘You want your wallet,’ I say, even though it’s stating the obvious.

‘Yeah.’

I hold it out and he reaches for it, taking it from me with those big, thick fingers. He’s wearing the same awful beige suit he had on earlier. It’s beyond hideous, but he gets away with it. Probably something to do with the vast quantity of muscle I now know is hidden inside it. ‘Is that everything?’ I ask, hoping it is and then he’ll leave and I can get on with pretending that today never happened.

‘How was your afternoon?’ he asks. ‘Did the shoot goOK?’

My resolve is flimsy. That iota of concern breaks it. ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘Not exactly.’

‘What went wrong?’

He steps forward, into the studio, and my feet move me out of his way. ‘What didn’t?’

He closes the door behind him. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’

‘Maybe.’ It feels strange talking to him about it, but I’ve got to talk to someone. And I can’t exactly talk to Amber right now. ‘That couple that arrived earlier?’

He nods. ‘Looked like they washed before and after sex. And probably during, just to be on the safe side.’

The description nails them so perfectly that I can’t help but laugh, and I dig my nails into my palm when it comes out as more of a snort. ‘Yes. Anyway, we’re all ready to go. He’s looking smug, she’s flicking her hair and flashing the diamond, and I turn on the camera and a shot of you and Amber comes up on the screen.’

‘Oh,’ says Tom. ‘Shit.’

‘You could say that. He sees it, gets…excited, and then she starts giving him the third degree.’ I sink down on to the sofa; drop my head into my hands. Tom plants himself on the arm. This is the second time I’ve been alone and in touching distance of him today, and it’s obviously starting to screw with my head, because I’m finding this conversation almost comforting, and I’m starting to think things I shouldn’t be thinking.

‘Poor bloke,’ he says. ‘She could have been a little more understanding.’

‘Why? Because no man can be expected to control himself when Amber’s you know whats are on display?’

Tom laughs, but he doesn’t answer the question. ‘So what happened then?’

I shuffle a little in my seat. He’s not who I thought he was, not even close. I don’t seem to be me, either. I’m still talking. And I’m saying things that don’t sound like me. ‘She asks him what the hell that’s all about, I tell her I accidentally put up an erotic photo, and she tells me to show it to her, so I do. The pair of them take one look at it and leave.’

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