In any event, I was driven to write to you, knowing how you wait for my replies and the signs that I’ve completed your instructions. The pictures will be taken tomorrow, that I promise. And if there is time I’ll make it to the shop as well, and have my reactions to a self-punished bottom to report. I know you’re angry for my failing to promptly obey, and I deserve whatever measures you require to bring my willful disobedience back in line.
I write this, only half sober, since it is the only way I have the courage. I hope you’ll understand my hesitancy, but know that I’ll be following your commands within the next two days.
I look forward to your next letter.
I am yours always, Savannah.
Chapter Five
The Spice House was probably the last restaurant I’d think of for a seductive date with Savannah. With the clanking china and silverware, the uproar of laughter, and the festive steamy atmosphere of a bawdy fish house, it was next to impossible to relate to another human being over the noise. To my shock however, my date with Savannah in that place changed all my theories about creating a sexually romantic mood.
We met in the entry of the establishment where there was a crowd of people waiting in line for the maitre’d to seat them. Unceremoniously hustled to our seats by a frenetic hostess dressed in the uniform black skirt and white blouse, we found ourselves in choice seats by the window overlooking the wharf. Savannah deliberately took the seat in our booth with her back to the rest of the room. I sat facing the crowd.
She was dressed in a sheer blouse that draped between her breasts; under that she wore a black bra that was easy to detect. Her blue miniskirt was so short that she must have been sitting on her next to naked bottom, though I couldn’t be sure.
“Can you take pictures of me in this light?” she asked.
“I have the right film,” I replied. “You want some here?”
“Yes. And any time it strikes your mood. The racier the better.” She spoke with such a delicious voice, I could listen to the mellifluous tones all day.
I got the drift of her new assignment, no doubt dictated by her absent lover. He had a ripe imagination and obviously an appreciation of her sexual needs. I noticed that she wasn’t as nervous as she’d been in my studio the last time. Perhaps this assignment was easier for her to follow; though I still wasn’t quite certain where the game would lead.
She pulled her blouse open so I could see the lacy push-up bra, her breasts jiggling on the top, her nipples practically poking out. The semi-privacy of the booth became a studio for my work; and I clicked off a half dozen shots of Savannah’s breasts while she made a brash statement of exhibition, cupping the mounds in her hands and even leaning down to kiss them with her mouth. Though our small space was relatively private, I was duly impressed by the brash way she went about exposing herself.
The afternoon’s initiation over, she restored order so we could eat our lunch; though it was hardly peaceful for me the way the gnawing erotic quality of our meeting remained at the forefront of my thoughts. It didn’t help either that Savannah only closed her blouse enough not to get arrested for indecent exposure. I was left with a clear view, all through my chowder and salad, of flesh I’m not normally used to seeing in daytime hours, especially during my noontime meal. When she moved to one side, half of one breast would be bared almost to the nipple, the black lace making certain that I couldn’t take my eyes from the alluring sight. Moving the other direction, the other breast became unveiled. Even just the slightest sway kept the picture before my eyes changing as though I was to be baited, my sexual defenses subdued in the company of this vamp.
At one point, averting my gaze at her taunting breasts, I stared into her eyes.
“Are you sitting on your skirt or your bare behind?” I wondered aloud. I let myself be that bold with her, knowing that I wasn’t about to sit idly back and be wooed by her like some naive school boy.
“Why do you ask?” she asked back, her eyes merrily twinkling as she flirted with me.
“Curiosity,” I said.
Her lips drew into a coy smirk. “My naked ass is on the seat,” she purred her reply very quietly.
“I should think it would be,” I mused. “Since you’re obviously out to exhibit today. “I suppose you’re going to lead me around the city, so I can take pictures of you in indiscreet poses?”
“How’d you guess?” she said.
I laughed—a little sarcasm in the delivery. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure this one.”
“You know I am nervous,” she said.
“You’ve been nervous every time,” I reminded her.
“The more risky the better, he told me.”
“Then we’ll make sure you stretch your limits. I had no idea what that meant and imagined this afternoon could be quite an experience given Savannah’s eagerness to pursue her lover’s desires—which I assumed mimicked her own.
After lunch we were on the street, hiking several blocks until we darted into an alley between two brick apartment buildings. We were in a plush part of town, where alleys weren’t homesites for the homeless and filled with refuse and thugs lurking around smelly dumpsters for their next prey. The walls of the buildings were clean, the bricks looking almost scrubbed and polished. I backed Savannah against one wall and directed her to open her blouse wide and push up on her breasts as she had in the restaurant. A few photographs complete, I had other ideas.
“Let’s just take it off,” I suggested to her in a way that she’d take seriously. I’d found that using a command in my voice netted instant results. It was exactly what she wanted. I noticed how her eyes darted towards the street some yards away to see if anyone was looking. But in a residential neighborhood in the mid afternoon, the prospects of people walking by on the street were minimal, of those, even less would bother to look our way. She wanted the risk, and though she trembled removing the blouse over her head, she took that next step. The body I’d become so familiar with in the studio exposed for me in a black push-up played beautifully against the red brick. I shot several pictures straight on, others as she moved in profile, raising her arm, and then as she pressed her breasts into the brick itself. All that flesh crushed into the immovable wall created quite a contrast—fair, soft, satiny skin against hard brick.
“Take off the bra,” I instructed.
That done, there were just the exquisite lines of her torso to view with my camera. I’d have her striped completely before the afternoon was over, but I intended to wait for other locations for more revealing exposure.
When we were back on the street, her blouse covering her again, we walked some blocks to the entrance of a high-rise apartment. On the corner of the block there was a threshold for the building that featured a fountain with water shooting from a jet, arcing outwards. I had the immediate image of her letting that arc of water hit her exposed genitals; but the possibility of enacting that scheme seemed even a little too remote for my creative mind. We opted instead for the parking garage adjacent to the building knowing it was much easier to play out my ideas in shadows and corners than it was in the glaring light of day. On the tenth level of the massive concrete structure there were the fewest cars and the least likelihood of being discovered. And still there was that thrill of doing something obscene in a public place.
My eyes sought the perfect vehicle for our adventure, spotting a crimson Miata parked between a black Cadillac and a maroon Mercedes.
“Take off the skirt,” I directed her.
Savannah obeyed without hesitation.
“And the blouse.”
She did that too, standing in her underwear, sans panties and high heels. On the hood of the sports car, she posed in a laid-back pussy-revealing pose, legs spread wide. We could do an entire shoot on the hood of that car, on her side, her back and then lastly lying chest down, her feet kicked up in the black high heels, her voluminous hair scattered around her and her lips grinning like a Vargas girl. She was a great tease, eyes gleaming with
invitation.
“For art’s sake?” I heard a voice and turned around.
So wrapped up in our scandalous work, we hadn’t noticed the visitor coming to retrieve his car: another Cadillac several cars down. Savannah had closed her eyes and rested her head against the hood as if she were hiding, letting me answer the questions.
“Yes,” I replied to the man’s curiosity.
“Some men have all the luck,” he said, appreciating the view of Savannah’s glorious behind. Then with a wave of his hand, he climbed into his Cadillac and drove off slowly past us on his way out of the garage.
“How does it feel to be seen?” I asked turning back to Savannah.
“Scary,” she replied.
“That’s not all,” I said.
“It makes me hot,” she admitted. “But I think our luck’s run out here.”
I was inclined to agree with her, and didn’t object while she dressed, keeping a furtive glance around the place on the chance that we’d be discovered again. I kept snapping pictures of the task, noting what an interesting contrast it was seeing this exacting female ritual, getting dressed, being conducted in the stark desolation of the concrete parking garage. We walked out of the place as if we’d just made love, having stolen a lewd moment in the covert semi-privacy of this secluded shelter. I could see the exhilaration on Savannah’s face; and I felt the same myself. My own desire demanded even more of this opportunity. I wanted to stretch the possibilities as far as we could carry the element of risk, without doing something to get arrested for. I assumed that Savannah wanted nothing less than that.
Our trek took us a few blocks south into a seedier section of town. It was amazing how the neighborhood changed from street to street, from upscale housing, to reputable businesses, to something much more squalid. I liked the feeling generated between my legs taking my sexy partner with me into a seamier place of exposure. I sensed her shudder after walking several blocks by ethnic grocery stores, beauty parlors and dry cleaning establishments. At an ancient barbershop, I darted in the door, and asked the balding proprietor if we might take some pictures using his chair. He had a surly grin. An affable fellow, he was easily charmed by Savannah, and had no objections when she sat in his creaky chair, put her feet up on the seat and parted her thighs so I could get a straight-on pussy shot while she grinned happily at me. In another pose, she turned around and leaned over, her skirt naturally rising high enough that I could see her naked ass. In a third, she climbed up on the seat, on her knees, looking back over her shoulder. I caught the mischief in her eye and the smirk on her painted lips. She wore the same soft shade of pink lipstick she’d worn the first time I saw her, though now her lips were wet from being licked by her tongue.
A customer coming through the door had Savannah on her feet and by my side. We scooted outside, laughing uproariously. She gave me a brisk hug as we celebrated a degree of liberation that would propel us on to naughtier deeds, both thinking—while we didn’t speak a word of it—that we could flaunt her naked before the world and no one would ever object.
We took several daring shots of her breasts and pussy in doorways and some small shops. But it wasn’t until we reached the wharf, almost where we’d started, that we reached the height of Savannah’s daring with the public world and her sexuality. Amazed by the way our adventure seemed to increase her defiance of propriety, I was thoroughly shocked when she led me towards a park bench where two men in business suits sat at either end. She plopped right down between them.
“Would you mind if I had my picture taken here?” she asked. Both men gazed at her curiously. “Exposing myself,” she added.
I can’t say they ever responded. But when she opened her blouse to show off her breasts and I quickly took the pictures, neither man balked. I would have liked to have included their astonished expressions in my photographs, but my professional ethics kept the camera trained on Savannah alone.
Her final pose came when she walked in front of me on a busy street and purposely dropped her purse. While she stooped to pick it up, her fanny waved naked before me. In this shot of her rear cleft, it appeared as if this woman was completely unaware that she offered her private body parts to anyone who happened to look.
She was exhausted and so was I when we darted into the bowels of an underground coffee house to end our session. There were no more pictures, just alluring images of her feasting on the afternoon’s excitement. Her face flushed with excitement; her eyes burned like stars lighting up the dreary decay of the coffee house. In the darkness of our private corner we sipped coffee and exchanged lust. Unrequited lust, so I figured.
“You know it wouldn’t take much to bring you home with me,” she said.
“Is that a proposition?” I asked.
“I wish it was, but he’s very jealous.”
“Too bad,” I said, genuinely disappointed. “I’m not sure I could go through another afternoon like this and not have some honest relief.”
“I’m sorry it has to be this way, Michael.” Oh, how she caressed the syllables of my name. I was hearing it as though it had never been spoken before.
“Of course then, we really don’t know each other,” I offered as a reasonable explanation of why we shouldn’t go to bed together, all the while knowing that both Savannah and I had at one time in our lives landed in bed with other people we knew a lot less.
“No, we don’t know each other very well,” she said, readily accepting my observation.
“We’d have no business going to bed just for the thrills,” I added. “Why would we do that?” There was sarcasm behind the remark, but I don’t think she noticed. She was waving to the waiter for an order of scones, telling me she was famished.
We talked ourselves out of the lust, God knows why. How satisfying could a lover be when he remained so aloof to her real physical need, communicating with her only through letters? I’d only been with her three times, but I’d pegged Savannah as a very tactile person. This worship from afar, whatever it was, seemed ridiculous to me.
“Thank you, Michael, for understanding,” she said, when she turned back to me with her powerful eyes turning soulful and almost sad. “You don’t know what this means to me. And you’re so without judgment.”
“You expect otherwise?”
She looked embarrassed. “I never really expected we’d get along this well.” She laughed chagrined. “Frankly, I don’t know what I expected.”
There was a long slow build-up of energy between us, the kind that creates clashes of will and passionately throws away rules in favor of momentary gratification. I ached knowing that this would never end with us in bed. Not this day anyway.
“By the way, you might want to come to my lecture this evening.” There was a real invitation in her voice.
“A lecture on what?”
“Medieval women.”
I thought her cute the way she smiled.
“And where’s that?”
“Silby Hall, at the university, seven thirty.” Forgetting the scones she’d ordered, she picked up her purse, tossed some change on the table that I tried to refuse. She left it anyway, and leaned down to peck me on the cheek, very sisterly. I already had a sister, I certainly didn’t need another one.
***
Savannah had to run to get to the shop on 17th street by five o’clock. It was foolish to race through these erotic activities all in one day. Packing all the wicked excitement into so few hours, she worried about overloading. Her sexual heat raced too fast. And yet, she knew that Guillaume’s patience was wearing thin. She could just imagine his next letter scolding her for her hesitation. With what she had to purchase at this store, there could be a good deal more than just a scolding to his reprimand.
The “Shop Of Unusual Wares” was nothing but a hole in the wall, tucked between the lush over-the-hill edifices of 17th Street’s eclectic mix of shops. Inside the one room store, the space before her was covered top to bottom with so many things it took the eye some time t
o adjust, until the bold-faced fact of whips and paddles and leather good began to explicitly materialize before her eyes. There were masks, odd costumes, riding jodhpurs, leather tooled collars, chain mail, adjustable equine harnesses, mouth bits, metal stocks, and even an ancient whipping post leaning in the corner. Incense burned, and the illumination of the room came from a single stained glass lamp and one 18th century lantern. Yellowing photographs in aging frames, were haphazardly mounted on the walls were, pictures of men and woman bound with ropes, intricately tethered, breasts pushed at odd angles, crotches sliced in two with thick jute. Savannah’s eyes darted from image to image as her hot flushed body went cold with fear.
“I’m here to purchase some things,” she finally announced in her quavering voice to a man behind the counter.
The clerk ambled off the chair, closing a magazine he’d been earnestly reading until she spoke. He was a sly looking man in his mid-thirties with several piercings in one ear. His head was shaved and he sported a perfectly groomed goatee. His ghastly gaze looked right through her, making her bones quake in fear.
“You don’t look like you belong here,” he observed.
She looked down at herself. Having thought she’d been the perfect slut all day long, especially shooting pictures with Michael, she was surprised to find he viewed her differently than she viewed herself. But then, she’d closed her blouse, the two sides now crisscrossing well above her breasts, and though the skirt was short, she’d withdrawn the sexual magnetism that was so obvious and alluring on the street. Now she looked a bit prim. Mack Brundage called it her “stick up the back school-marm routine,” for when she was in front of students. She called it simply being prudent, when being prudent was necessary. Strange that it had never stopped Mack from propositioning her.
“Well I am here,” she stated, trying to be bold when she wasn’t feeling that way at all.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said.
“You have?”
“You’re the woman I got a call about a few weeks back, aren’t you? I recognize the hair.”
Dance For Me Savannah Page 4