Читать книгу Indecent...Nights - Jane O'Reilly - Страница 12
ОглавлениеFortunately, 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.’
He laughs harder then, louder, slapping his big hands down on his thighs.
‘It’s not funny! Seriously. I can’t have my normal clients knowing I take pictures like that. It will ruin everything!’ There’s more than a touch of hysteria in my voice, and I know it. I try to make myself sound reasonable and not unhinged. ‘And I didn’t take a single shot of them, which means they aren’t going to buy any photos, which means I don’t get paid.’ There. He’s an accountant. He’ll understand that.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. He’s holding in the laugh, but it shows in his shoulders, which refuse to be still. ‘If I’d known my dick would cause you all these problems, I’d have kept it in my pants.’
‘Actually,’ I point out, ‘the problem wasn’t your…it wasn’t you. It was Amber.’
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘She didn’t like the fact that looking at Amber gave him a hard on.’
‘Not quite.’ I hesitate then, but if I’ve learned anything today it’s that Tom Hunt is pretty open-minded when it comes to sex. And by pretty open-minded, I mean has absolutely no shame and quite possibly no limits. I wish I had no limits. ‘I think her exact words were “god, I’d like to suck on her tits”.’ My ears go all buzzy after I say those words out loud. ‘God.’ I cover my face with my hands. ‘I can’t believe I just said that.’
There’s a moment of something then, something silent and hot and scary. He doesn’t look at me and I don’t look at him, but I’m so aware of him that it’s almost like he’s touching me all over. My skin is tight and I’ve never been more aware of my nipples. ‘Anyway,’ I say, stretching the word out as long as I can, ‘I’ve got to get home, and I’m sure you’ve got numbers to crunch. Calculators to dust. Stuff to do.’
He’s still looking at me. I can feel it. ‘Yeah,’ he says, after what seems like forever. ‘Stuff. Why do you think it would ruin everything?’
‘What?’
‘Why do you think it would ruin everything if people knew?’
‘Because…because they’ll think it’s inappropriate. They won’t want me to take their normal photos. They’ll think I’m dirty and messed up.’
‘I see,’ he says. ‘Can I see the pictures?’
‘What pictures?’ I ask, like I don’t know. Like my brain hasn’t been hopping between Tom Hunt sat six inches away, all big and warm and fully clothed, and Tom Hunt in my camera, all naked and hard and coming.
‘Be serious.’ He gets to his feet, pokes one of the overhead lights with the tip of his finger. ‘You know exactly which pictures I mean.’
‘Why do you want to see them, anyway?’ I’m stalling and I know it. The idea of the two of us looking at those pictures is too intimate. Too weird. Too much. But I’m not outright refusing. I don’t seem to be able to.
‘Curious, I guess. So come on. Let’s see them.’
‘You know what they say about curiosity.’ I push myself up from the sofa. Still stalling. Still thinking about him naked and hard and coming. It’s all strange and wrong. He is all strange and wrong. Clearly I am too, because my mind has started to veer off in a whole new direction, one which involves me and Tom Hunt looking at those pictures and then having wild, banging sex on my velvet sofa.
Tom Hunt would let me take pictures of him pleasuring himself. He’d do it without batting an eye. He’d probably like it.
‘Yeah,’ he says, flashing me a grin. ‘If men weren’t curious, women would be bored. Show me the bloody pictures already.’
Curiosity is crawling all over me now, making me hot and sweaty, like one of those viruses that comes on from nowhere and turns you into a wreck. Now I want to see the pictures, too. More than that, I really really want to be in the room with Tom Hunt when he looks at them. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Have it your way.’
I try to pretend that I’m not breathing a bit too fast as I turn on the screen and hook up my camera, then take the memory card out of my pocket and slot it in. I press a couple of buttons. The screen flicks from blue to black and white.
‘Do you want me to set it to slideshow?’ The words come out a little breathy, a little strange.
‘Sounds good,’ he says, so I scroll though the menu on the little screen on the back of the camera and set it up, then I take up position behind the sofa. Tom is still sat on the arm. We get ten seconds to look at each one before the next one appears. Ten long, luscious seconds. By the third picture, I’m throbbing. By the fifth, I’m wet and aching. I rub a hand over the back of my neck, though that’s not really where I want to rub.
Tom is hunched over, rocking slightly forward every time the picture changes. His big shoulders are rigid with tension. The slideshow ends, and I can hardly breathe.
‘Got any more?’ he asks, his gaze fixed firmly on the screen. His chest heaves.
‘Of you and Amber? No. That’s it.’
‘No.’ He hesitates, then sort of coughs. ‘Of anyone.’
I shouldn’t do this. I mustn’t. I should say things about client confidentiality, blah blah blah, and send him on his way. ‘Uh, yes,’ I fluster. I sort of stagger towards the door, where I left my bag, my legs wobbly. I pull out my laptop, and then collapse on the sofa with it. His face is flushed, in total contrast to his neat haircut, but I’m beginning to understand that some things are real. And some things are just the mask he wears so he can sit in his office and tut over bad maths.
I open the laptop, turn it on. We get a dozen folders to look at. Each one is a different colour. Colours are much easier to work than numbers, or letters. They don’t somersault all over the page.
Tom slides down next to me on the sofa. ‘You colour-code them?’
I sort of nod, and my throat makes a tight, hoarse noise.
‘Interesting,’ he says, and then points to one of them. ‘Show me these.’ The red folder. My hand shakes as I click on it. He’s got no idea what’s in here, but I do. And I’m about to show it to my accountant. MY ACCOUNTANT. I don’t need to hold my breath, because I can’t breathe anyway. My hand is shaking so much that I keep misclicking on the icon. ‘Stupid laptop,’ I mutter, as I go in for another attempt. This time, Tom bats my hand away and does it himself.
An image pops up on the screen. We have black and white, we have lingerie, we have tasteful lighting and we have the very velvet sofa that the two of us are sat on. We also have a woman leaning over the arm, dark hair cascading forwards and obscuring her face, as her husband does her in the arse.
‘Oh’ Tom says. That’s it. Just ‘oh’. He shifts a little in his seat. We both sit there and stare at the picture, and I wonder what on earth happens now, because I’m so hot and so tense and so turned on that I think I might faint.
‘Do you want to see the rest?’ I blurt out.
‘Yes,’ he says, and there’s something very definite about his tone. It’s the same one he uses when he’s going through my record books and asking me if that’s a 5 or a 3. It’s familiar, and it makes me just brave enough to say what I say next.
‘I didn’t know,’ I continue, as I awkwardly try and set the thing going.
‘Know what?’
‘That you’re…that you’re a bit of a pervert.’
His jaw goes tight, and I know I’ve gone too far. ‘I could say the same thing about you,’ he points out. ‘I’ve been doing your accounts for the past three years and I had no idea you did this sort of thing.’ One big hand gestures at the screen, as we flick on to the next shot. A close-up. The guy has pulled his cock almost all the way out. A whimper slips out of me as I look at it.
‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ I beg him, half my nerves screaming with arousal, the other half screaming with fear.
Tom glances across at me, his blue eyes heavy lidded, his mouth soft and loose. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes the laptop from me and sets it on his knee, angling it so I still get a clear view of the screen. Then he reaches for the hem of my skirt and lifts it up. The movement is clumsy, with his arm bent at this awkward angle, but I’m too busy being shocked to worry about it. The picture moves on, just as Tom Hunt curves his fingers over the swell of flesh pushing out against my sensible no VPL knickers. He covers me with his hand, but he doesn’t rub. He squeezes.
Oh. My. God.
I can feel the pressure of that contact all the way to the ends of my hair. I lift out of the seat slightly, my shoulders digging back, my hips surging against his hand. I grab the arm of the sofa, the feel of the velvet the only thing that helps me fight off the whopper of an orgasm I’m on the brink of. I cannot come all over his hand. He’s my accountant, for goodness’ sake. He has a good job, a proper job, the sort of job I would have been doing if I was someone else, someone not completely blind to letters and numbers.
‘Don’t you like it?’ he asks me, and his voice is strained. ‘Am I not doing it right?’
There’s no way I can answer that without incriminating myself, so I clamp my lips tight together and say nothing, as he continues to squeeze and the picture flicks on and the throb between my thighs becomes a roar. I swear he must be able to feel my clit pressing into his palm. It’s so hard it’s like a little girly erection, right there between my legs. I want to fuck him with it, right in his mouth, like he did with Amber.
He’s turned around in his seat now, and he’s watching me so intently that I can feel his gaze on my skin like an extra pair of hands. He stops squeezing, and I nearly die. The picture flicks on again, showing my favourite image, the one where he’s spreading her arse cheeks wide and is buried all the way inside her. I turn my face away, biting down into my lip, wanting to scream with frustration, wanting to look, too afraid to do anything but fight this.
‘Don’t you want to look?’ Tom sounds confused. I know how he feels.
‘I…er…’
‘It’sOK,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t mind. Do you want me to touch you some more?’
I’m nodding before I even know I’m doing it. Nodding so much my teeth clack together and it’s a miracle my head doesn’t fall off.
He lifts his hand, angles it in, slides the tips of his fingers under the elastic of my knickers, and then stops. ‘On one condition.’
‘What?’ I huff out. I’m hardly in a condition to speak, and now he wants to negotiate?
‘You have to look at the pictures while I’m touching you.’
I shouldn’t do this. I should pull his hand out of my underwear, and close the laptop and send him away. I’ll find myself someone else to do my taxes and we’ll never speak of this again, probably because I’ve moved to a remote island and am reduced to foraging and taking photos of sheep for Sheep Lovers Weekly.
But my hands won’t seem to work, and the picture keeps changing, and his fingers dip down into the slick, slippery wetness that’s been building all day, and then he drags that hot moisture up to my clit and draws little circles around it with his index finger.
His hand feels strange, so different to mine, sort of hard and stiff as he rubs and rubs and the picture keeps changing. The two of them have stopped fucking now, and instead she’s on her knees, with one hand on his thigh and the other on his cock, which is heavy and veined and swollen. Even in black and white it’s obvious how much the guy needs to come.
The more I try to fight how much this turns me on, the closer my climax gets. It’s rumbling towards me now, like a freight train at speed, loud and unstoppable. I can feel it in my bum, in my vagina, in my breasts, in Tom’s hand and in my clit. I grab the edge of the sofa, the velvet rough against my palms as my hips lift. Tom keeps drawing the same slow, wet circle over me. He doesn’t change the pace, or the pressure. He won’t let me miss, even though I’m trying to.
And then it hits me. Or more accurately, he shoves me into it, lungs burning, mouth dry, muscles cramping. It is blissful, delicious agony, the storm taking over as I come and then I come some more, all over his hand and the gusset of my nude no-VPL knickers.
The last picture flashes onto the screen. One beautiful, perfect popshot. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve taken this picture, but I’ve never let myself fully surrender to the tug of arousal it creates in me before.
And I don’t know what to do now.
