Indecent...Exposure

Setting up the money shot…

Quiet, sensible Ellie Smithson is a highly respectable photographer by day – but there are only so many wedding photo-shoots you can take without your mind wandering to what happens when the blissfully happy bride is swept off her feet and straight to the honeymoon suite’s sumptuous four-poster bed…

So after dark, Ellie takes pictures of a more…intimate nature – a dirty little secret she’s kept from her accountant Tom. Until now. It seems Tom is the subject of her next racy shoot!

It isn’t just the blurring of work and personal boundaries that’s the problem; secretly Ellie has always had fantasies of a most unprofessional nature about the almost illegally gorgeous Tom. With such temptation on display, how will she ever stay behind the camera?!

Indecent…Exposure

Jane O’Reilly

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Jane O’Reilly 2014

Jane O’Reilly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472083999

Version date: 2018-07-23

Jane O’Reilly started writing as an antidote to kids’ TV when her youngest child was a baby. Her first novel was set in her old school and involved a ghost and lots of death. It’s unpublished, which is probably for the best. Then she wrote a romance, and that, as they say, was that. She lives near London with her husband and two children. Find her at www.janeoreilly.com, on Twitter as @janeoreilly and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/janeoreillyauthor

I would like to thank the lovely Julie Cohen, for her Writing Sex course and her encouragement and suggestions, without which Indecent Exposure might have stayed hidden in the computer file of shame forever.

For Patrick.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

It’s not every day that your best friend crashes into your place of work and asks you to take photos of her sucking off someone you’d really rather she didn’t, and who absolutely shouldn’t know that you’re the sort of person who takes photos of that sort of thing.

So I guess today isn’t an everyday kind of day. Apart from the taking photographs part of it. That’s normal, for me anyway. Usually I take lovely, glossy, clean shots of children and weddings, but that’s not what Amber wants. She wants the other kind. The dirty and hot and downright rude kind that I do on the side and process in secret in my little dark room, like some sort of 1950s mac-wearing pornographer, only without the mac.

I’d gone for a white Marks and Sparks blouse and a knee-length skirt that morning, my routine Tuesday outfit. Everything was following the routine. Everything was normal. I wasn’t prepared for this at all. I can hear Tom’s breathing speeding up. Amber plants her hands firmly on his bare thighs, wiggles her arse up in the air, and gives him a slow, loud suck. She’s completely into this, into being photographed. It happens more often than you’d think. And it always, always gets the best pictures. When the client is getting off on the fact that I’m here, that I’m taking a set of erotic 8x10s for their husband or their boyfriend or just for their own pleasure. A lot of couples like looking at pictures of themselves. You wouldn’t believe the letters I get. Better than relationship counselling, apparently.

‘OK,’ I say, as her head plunges forwards and she opens her mouth wide and takes another long pull on him. She lets out a moan, sucks him deep into her throat again. I’d rather not say anything, but if I don’t, I won’t get good shots. ‘Move your head back a bit. That’s it. Keep the end in your mouth.’ She does as I ask, with some guidance from Tom Hunt’s big hands on the sides of her neat blonde bob. ‘Perfect.’ I take the shot, focusing all my attention on her, despite the fact that it keeps getting away from me, keeps switching to him.

I’ve got to ignore him. He isn’t here. This isn’t happening. I am not taking photos of my best friend giving my accountant a blowjob.

‘Now I’d like to take some shots of you licking the end.’ Her wet, pink tongue slips between her lips, and she swirls it round the fat, swollen head of his cock. I move in closer and adjust the focus, making sure I get the shot exactly right. I lower the camera; check the image in the screen on the back. Dammit, the lighting isn’t right. ‘Hold on a second,’ I tell the two of them, or more specifically Amber, as I lean across and adjust the angle of the light. I’ve got to get the contrast just right. She wants everything to be all black and white and arty, so that when she slips the pictures through the letterbox of her cheating scumbag boyfriend, she’s not just saying two can play at that game, she’s saying and I do it with class. If I didn’t know that was what she wanted the pictures for, I’d have refused to take them.

Amber isn’t listening. Her head keeps on bobbing up and down, one strap of her black lace bra slipping down over her shoulder as she works him. She’s got seriously impressive boobs. I mean seriously. She’s one of those skinny women who is no hips and all tits, the kind that make you feel a little bit sick with jealousy, and normally I wouldn’t torture myself by looking at them, but it’s either that, or look at Tom Hunt’s astonishingly muscled stomach and big, stiff penis, and I really can’t look at that, no matter how much I want to.

I’ve kept my crush on him to myself, mostly because it’s so inappropriate. He’s my accountant, for god’s sake. I take him my pile of account books once a month, and he does stuff with them and then I collect them. And we don’t make eye contact, and I pretend that I’m not staring at his hands, and he doesn’t ask me to explain the difference between ‘portrait’ and ‘personal portrait’, and when I get home I deal with the hot, acute ache I get between my thighs every time I see him and it’s all fine. It’s been all fine for the past three years. I can’t see how it will be fine after this, though.

I adjust the angle of the light. It catches the bottom of his stomach, highlighting the tattoo of a bird swooping down past his belly button. ‘OK,’ I say, not looking at that bird. I am not looking at that bird. If I look at that bird, I won’t be able to stop myself from looking at his cock. ‘I’m going to get some close-up shots now.’

I guess you might think it’s a bit weird, watching your friend suck off a guy and taking pictures of it and directing them like they’re posing for a formal portrait. To be honest, I think it’s a bit weird, when I let myself think about it at all.

Amber lifts her head, wipes her mouth with the back of one hand, the other holding him in a tight fist. His cock is so thick that her fingers don’t even meet. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Cool.’ She’s got absolutely no shame. If I didn’t know it before, I definitely know it now. And Tom Hunt, FFS. Couldn’t she find someone else? Did it have to be him?

No time to worry about that now though. I set my finger to the button, take the shot. Move a little to the left, take another. The lighting is pretty much perfect. The contrast between her crimson nails and his tanned belly and the dark fur around the base of his cock is stunning, and it turns out, after three years of wondering, that Tom Hunt is hung.

The lick of jealousy I feel turns into a bite. But I have to keep my distance. There’s stuff I can’t risk him knowing, and anyway, it’s not like he’s ever shown any sign of being interested in me, not in three years of handing over account books once a month. If he fancied me, there would be a glimmer of something. But there isn’t. And I tell myself I’m glad about that.

‘Ah,’ Tom says, and something in his voice lets me know what he’s going to say, even before he gets the words out. I’ve heard it before. Lots of times before. Though obviously, I’ve never heard it from him, and something about that rough catch in his voice grabs at me and refuses to let go. It sinks down into my pussy and makes it ache even more. ‘I need to come,’ he says. So do I, I think to myself, and right then I know that this is the last set of dirty pictures I am ever going to take. This has to stop. I cannot keep living vicariously through the sex lives of other people. I need this to stop being my sex life, and I need to get one of my own.

‘Right,’ I say, bossy voice in place. I have to use my bossy voice, or I just can’t get the word out, I’m that desperate to see Tom Hunt finish. I really want to shove Amber aside and get down on my knees in front of him and say come on my face, baby. As if this isn’t already wrong enough. I want to be one of those people who are totally comfortable with their desires, but as I’m not totally comfortable with anything, it’s probably asking a bit much of myself.

Amber pulls back slowly and turns her head, just enough to be able to see me. One possessive hand stays on him, stroking him. I don’t look at that hand. Instead, I adjust the settings on the camera, even though they don’t need adjusting. ‘Ellie,’ she says, ‘I want a pop shot.’ I suspect that Amber watches porn. Usually only blokes ask for that.

I nod vigorously, pretending that I’m not on the verge of cracking up. ‘OK.’ It’s fine that she gets to sit there while he finishes himself off, I tell myself. I can tell from the way he’s breathing, ragged and hard, that if he doesn’t do it soon, he’ll probably ask to disappear into the tiny bathroom at the back of the studio so he can do it himself, and that would be cruel, wouldn’t it? I mean, it would be pretty humiliating. And it’s not like I can help him out, no matter how much I want to.

‘Do want me to jerk myself off on your face? Or do you want to do it?’ he asks, and I nearly drop my camera. I didn’t think Tom Hunt had those words inside him. This is a man who wears a beige suit. His office has a map of the Tube network on one wall and a framed photo of a guy climbing a rock face on the other. It smells of Febreze. There isn’t a stray piece of paper anywhere in it.

Amber glances up at him. ‘You do it. Blow that load all over me, big boy.’

I’m not sure what it says about me that I’m friends with someone who can say those words. But this probably isn’t a good time to get all philosophical. ‘Right,’ I say again, bossy voice still intact. ‘Do you want him to ejaculate on your face? Or your breasts? Or somewhere else?’ It always stuns me that I can ask this like I’m asking someone if they want sugar in their tea. At least this will all be over soon, and then that’s it. I’ll only be taking pictures of people with their clothes on.

‘Can he…’ she hesitates, and then she looks up at Tom, wiggles her skinny hips. ‘Can you shoot it in my mouth?’

Tom makes a weird, strangled noise. His face is flushed and there’s a stray lock of hair sticking to his forehead, and the white cotton of his shirt is clinging to his back, and he is absolutely the most beautiful aroused man I have ever seen. Thick with muscle, hairy in all the right places. He’s even got a tan line a couple of inches below his belly button. ‘Yes,’ he manages. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘It is,’ she says, and then she sort of smiles and sticks out her tongue, which has a small, silver stud in the centre of it, and is glossy with moisture. I get myself in position, check the focus, and wait. Tom wraps one big hand around his erection and starts to pump. I have to be on my game here, can’t let my attention drop for a second. It’s fine when they just want the face-dripping-with-come shot, but that’s not good enough for Amber. Oh, no. She wants the full glory of the action shot. Just the thought of it has me so wet I can feel it, and I know that I’ll be the one rushing off to the bathroom to finish myself off as soon as they’ve gone.

I have no idea how I’m going to speak to him after this. I’m going to have to find myself another accountant. I might have to move town. Leave the country. But I have to act professional. I can’t let either of them know how much this turns me on. I never let clients know how much this turns me on.

Focus, Ellie. Focus.

Finger on the shutter. Eyes on the prize. He’s pumping hard and fast. He’s gone quiet. Everything has gone quiet. The softness of it descends on me, the only sound the slick slip of palm against flesh. No one even seems to be breathing.

I’m definitely not, at any rate. But my heart is kicking like a bitch and I have this weird taste in the back of my throat. I tell myself it’s just panic, because I don’t want to miss the shot. I can’t miss the shot. My hands are slippery with sweat, but there isn’t time to wipe them off. It seems to be taking forever. I’m sure it doesn’t normally take this long.

Tom gives the slightest of pauses. Amber, for all her posing prowess, is fiddling with one of her bra straps. She’s still got her mouth open and her tongue out, but she’s starting to look a bit, well, bored, for want of a better word.

I’m not bored. I swallow, hard, and then I dart the quickest of glances at Tom. His head is tipped back, a trickle of sweat streaking down towards his jaw. It’s hot in here, under the lights. His eyes are closed, his mouth open, and I can see the movement of his shoulder as he jerks himself off as I tell myself that this is the last time.

Please come. Oh god, please come. I grip the camera tightly, though my hands are slippery, and I force myself to watch through the lens, finger at the ready. All I have to do is press the button at the right moment. The technology will take care of the rest.

And then he turns his head slightly to one side, opens his eyes, and looks straight at me. He groans, jerks, goes still. Jerks, goes still again, then the sharp, musky smell of his climax fills the room. He’s coming all over Amber, but he’s looking at me.

Why is he looking at me?

Chapter Two

My fingers barely keep a grip on the camera. The silence is really, really loud now. Something weird has just happened between Tom Hunt and me, something that can’t be taken away, even as he turns his back and starts fixing his clothes. Trousers and underwear are pulled up over thighs that are thicker, stronger, hairier than I’d imagined. You can rock yourself to orgasm on thighs like that. I’ve seen women do it.

And then, in that awkward space between sex finishing and real life starting up again, that moment when everyone catches their breath, all the reasons why this was a bad idea come rushing to the front of my mind. I mean, it’s not like this aspect of my job is ever a good idea, but this has taken bad to a whole new level. My secret is out. It’s gone beyond me, and the strangers I’ve photographed, and the best friend I trusted implicitly. It’s out there, now, and there’s no bringing it back.

‘Did you get the shot?’ Amber asks from her position on the floor.

‘Absolutely,’ I say. I’m such a liar. I didn’t get the shot, I didn’t even get close. I don’t need to check the image on the little screen on the back of my Canon to know that. Amber is my friend, my best friend, and I don’t have enough of those to risk losing the one I have. So what if he looked at me? He can look at a copy of flaming Knitting Weekly if it gets him off at the appropriate time. I should have got the shot. I’ve got no excuses. But suddenly all sorts of weird questions start fighting for room in my head, like does this mean he gets off looking at me, and do people really get off to Knitting Weekly?

‘Excellent,’ Amber continues. But Tom, he doesn’t say anything. He just grabs his jacket from the top of the velvet sofa that sits to the left of shot, and disappears into the bathroom at the back of the studio. Leaving me alone with Amber and her black lace lingerie and little silver tongue stud and the glob of Tom’s spunk that is slowly making its way down towards her left nipple. She doesn’t seem to have noticed it. ‘When will I be able to see the shots?’

‘Wednesday,’ I say. Another lie. Everything is digital. She could have a look at them right now. But usually I give myself a couple of days’ leave, time to delete any pictures that might give the impression that I don’t know one end of a camera from the other. I don’t want my clients to think I’m the sort of person who makes mistakes. It’s just that sometimes, I lose my focus a little.

‘Brilliant!’ she says, getting to her feet. The glance she darts towards the back of the studio doesn’t escape my notice. ‘He’s hot,’ she says. ‘And did you see the size of it?’

‘I was working,’ I say quickly. ‘Not letching on Tom Hunt.’ I need to get both of them out of here so I can think.

‘It’s always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for,’ she continues. ‘I mean, look at you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes! Who would think quiet, sensible Ellie Smithson is a pornographer?’

‘Photographer,’ I say automatically. ‘I’m a photographer.’ From now on, that’s exactly what I am. Nothing more, nothing less. I only wish I’d made that decision before Amber dragged Tom Hunt in here and sucked him off in front of me.

‘I’ll get dressed then,’ she says, with another glance at the bathroom door, which sends my mind into a frenzy. Obviously she wants to get him out of here. She’s probably going to take him home and they’re going to fuck each other silly, which they’re entitled to do.

But that doesn’t stop a nasty little seed of jealousy settling down inside me. I want the man my best friend has just had. I want him so badly. I turn away; pack my camera away into its silk lined case, start turning off the lights. My blouse is sticking under my arms. So now I’m not just a jealous bitch, I’m a sweaty jealous bitch. What’s really bugging me is that the fact that it’s him hurts more than the fact that she told someone I know that I take erotic photographs.

‘Use the screen,’ I say, waving my arm in its general direction. That’s why I invested in it, not just because I like the Chinese dragons weaving their way over the faded red silk. This post-sex bit is always tricky, and the screen gives people somewhere to hide. They usually avoid eye contact too, though Amber is having no problems making it with me. ‘Thanks!’ she says cheerily. Then she moves towards me and gives me a hug. ‘Thanks for doing this, Ellie. You’re the best.’

Five minutes later she’s gone, and she hasn’t taken him with her. Two minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom. His tie is straight, his shirt tucked neatly into his trousers, and he’s tamed his hair. He’s also shivering.

‘Fuck me,’ he says, ‘it’s cold in there.’

Tom Hunt just said fuck. The man who does my accounts and lectures me about my awful handwriting just said fuck. I don’t know why this shocks me so much, given what I’ve just watched him do, but something about that little word sends an electric tremor through my insides. The same thing happened when he opened his shirt and I first saw that tattoo, and when he opened his pants and pulled out his enormous cock.

It occurs to me that Tom Hunt isn’t the person I thought he was, which is terrifying to say the least. ‘Oh,’ I say, my mouth fumbling for the words. ‘Right. Yes. I probably should have told you about that. You have to flick the switch on the wall to turn on the heater. It takes ages. I wasn’t expecting you to come, so I didn’t turn it on earlier. Sorry about that.’

He raises an eyebrow, and I realise what I’ve just said, and the inevitable blush is fast and fierce. Tom Hunt is too much and too here for me to deal with right now, but there are so many questions banging round inside my head. The inevitable happens. One of them spills out. ‘Why did you do it?’

He fastens his jacket. ‘Why did I do what?’

Why did you look at me when you came? ‘Why did you agree to have those photos done with Amber?’

He shrugs. ‘Because she asked me to.’

‘Because she asked you to? Seriously?’

‘She was stood behind me in the queue at the bank,’ he says. ‘We got chatting, and she was telling me about her boyfriend getting engaged to someone else. She seemed pretty cut up about it. I suggested she fuck one of his friends, but she said no, she had a better idea.’ He straightens his tie. ‘She told me about your little sideline, and asked if I fancied a blowjob. You know the rest.’

I’m blinking too fast. I’m breathing too fast. ‘Please don’t say things like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the…the word with f in it.’ He’s so casual about it. I can’t even say it. ‘And the other thing.’

‘Why not?’

‘It…’ I fumble for an excuse. ‘It’s not appropriate, that’s all.’

He stares at me for a long moment, as if he’s trying to figure something out. The weight of those blue eyes on me is too much. I turn away, start fiddling with a light, but it’s worse, somehow. I give in and turn back to face him. ‘Aren’t you worried that people will know it’s you?’

‘No,’ he says, his forehead creasing as if it’s only just occurred to him that this is a possibility. ‘No one is going to recognise me from my dick.’

He said dick. My insides go all sort of squirmy. ‘What about that tattoo?’ I blurt out, pointing in the general direction of his lower stomach. ‘It’s pretty distinctive.’

Tom rubs a hand over the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, I guess there is that.’

I pick up my camera and take it over to the desk where I keep my laptop. I turn it on, then go over to the windows and open the blinds. I’d like to have a big place, the kind with separate rooms and permanent sets, and an office. Who am I kidding? I’d like to be Annie Leibovitz. But at the moment I’ve just got this place, and it’s pretty cool. It used to be a jeweller’s, a seriously high-end classy place, until one day the police raided it. The place was empty for so long after that that the rent is dirt cheap, which is how I can afford it.

The back of my neck starts to prickle, and it occurs to me that he isn’t picking up his briefcase and leaving. Why isn’t he leaving? I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want to beat about the bush, either. We’re not strangers but neither are we best buddies. Just because once a month I sit in his office and listen to him tut, and because sometimes when he walks past me in the street, I think about what it would be like to shag his brains out, doesn’t mean that I feel OK being here alone with him.