by Paula Hawkes
“Very lucky,” she teased. “But not you.” She could hardly believe she was saying this, revealing her secret but in a way that she knew Philip would take as part of his favourite fantasy. She knew that she was walking the tightrope, but felt liberated by the fact she could talk about her plans truthfully and Philip would just think it was as part of the game. She had to keep reminding herself that Philip knew nothing about Mark, that he thought this just a game she was finally willing to play for him.
“Well, he had better be appreciative then,” he said.
“Oh he will. I want to look good for him.”
Philip looked at her lustfully. “You will,” he whispered, his eyes half shut with desire.
22:30: HornEnvy : I’m scared
22:31: Tarb4u : You’re not backing out on me are you??
22:31: HornEnvy : No….
22:32: HornEnvy : I don’t know
22:32: Tarb4u : Too late mate
22:32: HornEnvy : What do you mean, too late?
22:33: Tarb4u : She’s all lined up now
22:33: HornEnvy : You can’t make her
22:33: Tarb4u : No need to, she wants it. She deserves it
22:35: Tarb4u : You still there ?
22:37: HornEnvy : yes
22:37: Tarb4u : She’s mine
Chapter 16
The room appeared darker than the day before, and China realised that the curtains had been part drawn, allowing only a narrow band of melancholy light into the room. This shaft of light glanced diagonally across the neatly made bed.
China lowered her black leather tote bag to the floor by the door. Even Mark looked less than his usual confident self today. He had hardly said a word as they had walked to the pub, and China was also deep in thoughts herself, but the silence was somehow both reassuring and appropriate given the seriousness of what she was about to do.
"I'm not sure how this thing goes," she said nervously.
"We've got all afternoon, haven't we? No need to rush." He seemed almost reluctant to start. But now she had decided that she was going to do this, determination set in.
"We'll we're not going to just sit around doing nothing in this gloom,” she said. "Don't I need to remove my bra at least?"
Mark looked satisfyingly shocked, and nodded without a word, his broad jaw slack.
"Turn your back then."
When he turned his back she quickly and self-consciously pulled off her t-shirt and then slowly removed her bra. It felt like a shame to be removing such a pretty garment before he had seen her in it, and she secretly hoped he would be taking a surreptitious peek. The sudden chill she felt at this idea sent shivers across her back and bare breasts. She pulled the silky robe out of her bag quickly tied it around her, folding her arms protectively across her chest. Then she unzipped her skirt, dropped it to the floor and stepped out. She rarely wore stockings but today was different. She thought it would look better. Mark remained with his back to her. Good, she thought at the same time as feeling a slight prickle of disappointment, at least he was a gentleman and had some decorum. She moved and sat on the chair in front of the dressing table again and checked out her appearance in the low light.
It was fairly obvious that she was feeling the cold but rather than embarrass her it only made her feel sexier as she studied the fabric closely hugging the curves of her firm breasts and nipples. She turned each way, looking at the silky contours of her robe as it stretched tautly across her. She became aware that she was being watched and slowly turned her head to look at Mark, daring him to look away. She felt her body betray her further, her excitement becoming even more obvious. The room suddenly felt far too warm and a tickle of sweat ran icily down the middle of her back. Defiantly she held Mark’s gaze, hardly breathing, and edged her shoulders back, offering her figure for his detailed assessment.
“Aren’t you going to start?” she asked.
He seemed unable to reply for a moment and she was pleased to see him flustered, and then he reminded her that they needed to wait for the bra strap marks to disappear. “Otherwise they’ll be a real pain to Photoshop out.” He seemed instantly more comfortable as he spoke about the technicalities of his art.
He produced a flask and poured her a rather decent cup of coffee, and then pulled a pack of custard cream biscuits out of his bag. She couldn’t help laughing at the thought of this being an essential part of a boudoir photographer’s equipment. He looked a little flustered at first, obviously not knowing what she had found funny, but then he smiled as he realised. He didn’t take any coffee himself, nor eat any of the biscuits. He sat on the bed and watched her drink and eat, yet again making her feel even more awkward. But as the minutes of silence rolled by, she started to become used to his brooding gaze, and she wondered if this was part of the preparation. Maybe this was his technique for relaxing his models… although she could hardly believe she was thinking of herself as a model. Get them through the initial awkwardness by just watching them. There was nothing creepy about it, she thought. In fact, the longer it went on the more she enjoyed being the centre of Mark’s attention. She felt like a piece of artwork, a fine sculpture maybe, being pondered by the artist.
After a vague amount of time that could have been hours or minutes, Mark moved over to the camera and lifted it off the tripod. She sat perfectly still as he moved around her snapping image after image. It made her feel so hot that this man was capturing her image for eternity. She had never felt sexier or more poised. Although a part of her thought that she should have felt vulnerable sitting in front of an artist with hardly any clothes on she actually felt empowered, and more importantly, she felt in control. She was fully in charge here, offering herself on her own terms, with Mark a slave to her beauty, unable to stop himself from capturing her image. As the session went on and the only sound penetrating the leaden air was the rapid clicking of the Nikon’s shutter, she grew in confidence. She started striking ever more alluring poses, dipping her head so she could look coyly through her fringe, turning away so that she looked back at the camera lens over her silk covered shoulders. Then she turned to defiantly face the camera, a look of pure self-assurance on her face and she thrust her breasts forward, her nipples sharply straining against the blue silk.
Mark just kept snapping away, as if he dare not miss a precious moment.
China reached up with both hands and pulled the robe so that the centre parted, revealing a little of the inner globe of her breasts, but still Mark did not hesitate in his rhythmic clicking, his smooth moves from one point of view to the next. It became almost a challenge for China. She wanted to shock him, surprise him so much that he would hesitate for a just a moment. But she hadn’t achieved that yet, and the devil inside her urged her to be even more adventurous, even more daring. She edged the robe off her shoulders, acutely aware of her nakedness under the flimsy garment. She dropped it a little more and the camera kept on clicking. She pulled it down low enough to reveal the whole of her breasts and was sure she did detect just a slight hesitation in the rhythm of the clicking.
She could hardly believe that she was sitting here topless, her breasts exposed for the probing eye of Mark’s camera. She could feel a heaviness growing in her abdomen and her stomach muscles tense. A paradoxical contrast of fire and ice that was centred in her lower belly, just above her groin. Her arms remained at her side. Her breasts were Mark’s for now, for him to appreciate, for his eyes to ravage, for the camera to capture. She felt so alive, so desirable. In her mind she was shouting for Mark to just drop his camera and take her, throw her onto the bed and finish what his camera had started, the possession of her waiting, needful body.
Mark remained focused, the consummate professional, as China dropped her robe completely to the floor and arched her back, raising her elbows up, arms behind her head, thrusting her firm, heavy breasts at the camera. She could clearly hear Mark’s breathing, almost a panting that briefly brought to her mind the sound of a wolf patiently loping after it’s prey.<
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With a new level of resolve, China stood up. Somehow, although this act made her feel even more vulnerable, more exposed, her excitement increased. She sucked in her stomach and could feel a wave of pleasure flow through her tightened muscles, an electric rippling of gentle waves lapping at the edge of climax.
“You look amazing,” Mark whispered, barely audible, rumbling, subterranean. She stood there proudly in front of him, imperious, wearing just her light blue, lacy knickers, stockings and suspenders, and her blue stilettos.
The room was fading away for China. The greys even more muted, less saturated, thrown out of focus. All that was sharp was the elegantly moving man and his camera, an informal dance of courtship. It was like she was drugged. She remembered when she had tried cannabis once as a teenager, the muffled happiness, the numbed joy. But this was far more powerful and more real. There was nothing numb about what she was feeling inside. She believed that she was on the edge of control, just the slightest wrong, or right, twitch of her muscles might push her over that edge, into the fiery abyss of desire and she would not be able to stop herself ravaging the man behind the lens. She stood still for a moment, not wanting to move, not wanting this moment to end. China closed her eyes, and her head dropped slightly to one side.
The constant clicking continued, and with her eyelids half shut she dreamily moved her body into new poses that seemed just right, perfectly natural, presenting her body for worship. The shutter click was a very satisfying sound, a pleasing reminder that she was the centre of the universe right now, that she held the power over the eye of the world. Each click represented a new China recorded forever. This sensation of power, combined with an almost childlike sensation of vulnerability and fear of the unknown, was a potent mixture, a narcotic that she could easily become addicted to.
She became aware that the clicking had stopped. Opening her eyes she saw that Mark was standing there, just staring at her, camera held low, half forgotten, at his side. He looked serious. He looked hungry.
“Are you ok?” she asked. “Is this ok?” She made a slight gesture at herself, suddenly worried that she was no longer providing the images he wanted. Her only part repressed ache of self-doubt flooded to the surface, replacing her earlier confidence, the stark contrast and sudden feeling of loss making her want to weep.
“You’re magical,” he sighed. “I wanted to stop for a moment. Just take in the beauty.” The way he said it didn’t sound corny or tacky. His sincerity was captivating.
She turned her back to him, unable to stand the primal heat of his glare any longer. Her own breathing was out of control and she hugged herself. The whirlwind of contradictory emotions spun in her head. Her inner pleasure subsided further, and a feedback loop of guilt and doubt cast her even further away from the miasma of pleasure that had threatened to engulf her just moments before.
“I think that’s it. That’s all I have to give.” She choked the words out, on the edge of tears. “Please, don’t touch me,” she added as she heard light steps indicating Mark was moving towards her. “Please.”
He stopped. The only sound that broke the silence was their breathing, in perfect synchronization, heavy, aligned, a panting salsa of breath. Bending her knees, China reached down and retrieved her robe, quickly shrugging it back around her, her protective shroud of silk. When she turned back to Mark he was no longer looking at her, so she couldn’t read his expression. She studied his back for the first time properly since that day she had followed him back to the pub, when he had been totally unaware of her. His tight white t-shirt stretched over a perfect ‘V’, and complicated contours of heavy muscles which, even as he stood still, flexed and flowed in barely discernable ripples. His dark hair curled down to half cover his neck. His toned arms were flexing sub-consciously.
“I’m sorry,” he said. She instantly felt sorry for him, although she wasn’t sure why.
“Why? What are you sorry for?”
“That you feel you have nothing more to give.” He sounded broken.
“I only meant today,” she said, reaching out a hand and resting her fingers on his forearm.
He turned back to her and there were tears in his eyes, making them seem even more alive. A relieved smile emerged from the sadness bringing light into the dark. “I thought you meant…” but he left the words hanging.
“No. I meant that I couldn’t take any more right now. Today. It’s my first time posing like this. I’ve not done this for anyone else before. You’re lucky I went through with it at all.”
“I know I’m lucky,” he said with clear sincerity. He went to take her in his arms and a sudden emotional turmoil threw a panicked fear into the mix. She quickly moved over to her clothes and turned her back on him as she got dressed. It felt silly, as he had just seen her almost completely naked, but somehow the act of getting dressed again seemed more personal, a private ending, an after-the-credits moment that no one needed or was supposed to see.
When she turned back to him he was starting to pack his camera equipment away. She went over to him and said, “That was weird. I don’t know how to feel about it.”
“You were stunning.”
“Did you get what you needed?”
“No,” he said, turning to her and looking deep into her eyes.
“I didn’t mean that,” she said, her eyes flicking momentarily to his sensuous lips.
“If you mean the images, then yes. More than I could have hoped for. They will be beautiful.”
“You won’t be showing anyone, will you?”
He looked hurt. “Of course not. I’m not like that.”
But could she trust him? A transitory pang of fear and almost physical pain chilled her. She sighed. This just brought home how little she knew about this man. She felt foolish, trusting such an intimate episode to a stranger. And what about Philip? He might be excited at the fantasy of what had just happened, but if he ever found out for real that she had just posed in such a way for another man, wouldn’t he be hurt? Part of her wanted him to be hurt, to be jealous and possessive, and another part wanted the reassurance, the absolution of guilt, that went with him being pleased and turned on by her behaviour. In that way both Mark’s and Philip’s lustful appreciation of her sexual allure were inseparable, and she felt vindicated.
Mark still seemed to be sulking at her last remark. She looked back as she quietly left the room and although he did not make any eye contact, the slump in his posture as he tidied away revealed his mood.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and pulled the door shut behind her.
Chapter 17
21:30: HornEnvy : Fuck
21:30: Tarb4u : Not quite, but close
21:31: HornEnvy : I can’t believe it
21:33: Tarb4u : You still glad we did this ?
21:33: Tarb4u : Not that you have any choice now mate
21:33: Tarb4u : Next wife claimed
21:35: HornEnvy : She looks amazing
21:35: Tarb4u : You should know, you chose her
21:35: HornEnvy : I’ve never seen her look like that
21:36: Tarb4u : You’ve either got it or you haven’t
21:36: Tarb4u : And I have
21:37: HornEnvy : Was there any more?
21:37: Tarb4u : That’s for me to know
21:37: Tarb4u : Be patient
Mark didn’t pass by the café for several days after that highly charged photography session. At first China was relieved that this foolishness was going to end, that she could move on with her life, with their lives, her and Philip back on track. But as the days drifted by in an achingly slow succession of boredom, her feelings of frustration increased. The heat of passion and visceral need that Mark’s photography session had awoken in China would not go away. That fire and ice, heavy stone that sat in her lower belly was a constant reminder of unfinished business. Even sex with Philip couldn’t make that desire go away, the persistent ache, beyond the all-too familiar comforting ebb and flow of love in her marriage.
She remembered the look of hunger in Mark’s eyes when she had stopped posing, and wondered if she had presented that same look to him. Devak was colder than ever with her, despite the lack of Mark’s presence. Was the change in her so obvious? If it was this obvious to Devak, what would her husband be seeing, or was Devak just a lot more sensitive than Philip to such things? That was quite possible. Very likely in fact, she desperately tried to convince herself.
She also remembered Mark’s sulkiness as she left. Maybe his absence was extended stroppiness from not getting exactly what he wanted. She tried to be annoyed with him over this, but then remembered how young he was. She would guess at mid twenties but it was difficult to tell. His behaviour certainly supported her guess. And then she thought of his magnificent, youthful body. And his voice, that delicious Celtic lyrical spicing of Australian thunder. He could be forgiven a little immaturity. After all, she wasn’t seeking a long term partner, just some temporary entertainment.
As she sat there, her coffee forgotten beside her, China debated with herself what she should do next. She was absolutely sure of her love for Philip, and that she did not love Mark. She did, however, miss Mark enormously, miss their conversations and the excitement of flirting on the edge of danger. And she did lust after Mark, of that there was no doubt whatsoever. Put simply, she wanted to have sex with Mark. Even the thought of that sent shivers through her body and made her muscles twitch. She could feel her neck and chest flushing with heat and quickly looked around to make sure that no one had noticed. There were only a couple of other patrons in the café, and they were all far too self absorbed to notice anything.
China realized that this need for Mark was not going to just go away and that she needed to do something drastic. Either she needed to wipe Mark from her mind somehow, maybe her and Philip could go away for a few days but she seriously doubted that would work, or she needed to get it over and done with. That seemed so simple, cold almost, when put like that. Over and done with. A part of her wanted it to be that simple, like scratching an itch. But what if that itch was like a mosquito bite, and scratching it just made her itch all the more intense?