by Starla Cole
* * *
Anthony pulled off the highway and onto a gravel road, his old Volvo bucking up and down as they crossed ruts from water run off.
Syria had been to other parts of this lake. There was a nature preserve on the opposite side, undeveloped, but with parking spots and a grassy section that led down to a beach. It had once been built up with sand, but time and negligence had left it rocky again.
On this side, though, the scrub brush, weeds, and grass went right up to the banks. Anthony stopped the car on a clearing to one side of the road. “There’s a little walkway down to the water here. Or was.”
“When was the last time you came here?”
“About a year ago. Dad had cancer, and he wanted to do one last bit of fishing.” Anthony looked across the field, the taller weeds undulating in the morning breeze. “We didn’t catch anything that day, but it was still a good day.” He turned back to her. “He died about a month later.”
She reached out and squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” Anthony opened his door. “He was a good one. What about yours?”
Syria stepped out of the car. The wind kicked up her hair. She realized he’d be photographing her without an ounce of makeup.
He came around the side of the car. “Sore subject?”
“Not really. I don’t know my dad. I never met him.”
“Oh, geez. Sorry.”
She shrugged. “You don’t miss what you don’t know. He lied to my mother, seduced her while she was visiting India. She didn’t find out about me until she was back in Oklahoma.”
“Did she tell him?”
“Oh yes. But he was married with a couple children already.”
Anthony wrapped his arm across her shoulders and led her to a narrow path. “Does he recognize you exist?”
“He used to send us letters. And once, a gift. A Santa doll. But then he stopped, about twelve years ago.”
He pulled ahead of her, holding a wispy tree branch out of her way. “Did you ever try to find him?”
“No. Mom won’t talk about him anymore. We used to celebrate all the Indian festivals, but she stopped that too.”
The ground got softer as they approached the water’s edge. Anthony led them around the bank to an area where the grass was shorter and the weeds sprang up with less abandon, just sprigs here and there.
“This is where we’d sit,” he said, gesturing to a little knoll. “Dad said the shallow water there was a great place for the fish to spawn.”
Syria blushed at the reference, and blushed doubly when he opened his case and a handful of condom wrappers spilled out. He grinned up at her. “I came prepared.”
Her belly was still warmed up from the coffee on the way over, but now the heat spread. She looked around. There was no one for miles, and even if someone approached the other side of the small lake, they would easily be hidden by the knoll and weeds.
“So show me what to do,” she said.
He spread a green blanket in the grass, rolling it so that it wasn’t much wider than a person. “It can be itchy for a client lying directly on the grass, so I always try to hide something that won’t show in the picture, but will protect them.”
“So you want me here?” She sat on the center of the blanket.
“Sure.” He pulled a camera from his bag. “I’m going to use a shorter lens, since I’ll be doing close up work. But longer lenses are great for working boudoir, as you can easily make parts of the image blurry, like if they have belly issues, or you want to emphasize cleavage over less than stellar thighs.” He lifted the camera to his face. “But someone like you has no flaws. I can shoot you however I like.”
Syria looked down, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap.
He snapped a few shots, making adjustments. “So, since the sun is low,” he pointed into the sky, “I don’t need much more than a fill flash to pop out the shadows I don’t like.” He snapped a quick shot of her, then messed with the settings, and took a second one, this time with a bit of light coming from the flash.
He sat close to her, and he smelled of grass and coffee. “Look at these two images.” He showed her the first, without any flash, then the second. “See how this brings out your eyes, when I let a little light in?”
She nodded. “It makes a big difference.”
“Now, if your eyes were closed, and I wanted a deep shadow,” he crossed his hands across her breasts, “let’s say here.” He let a finger dip into her cleavage. “Would I want that flash?”
Syria swallowed, her skin tingling where he caressed her. “No. You’d want that shadow.”
“Exactly.” He moved away. “So lie on your side, letting your hair spill on your shoulder.”
Syria moved as he asked, already feeling wet again.
He walked to her feet. “If I shoot up your body from here, I emphasize the curves and let your face fall out of focus. Fun for some shots, but not ideal.”
Anthony moved to her belly. “Shooting in the middle is even less useful, as everything is equal now, and most women don’t want a focus on their bellies.”
He walked around to above her head. “But this is where the magic happens. Tilt your chin up.” He snapped a shot of her. “Close your eyes.” She heard another click, then the rustle of him shifting in the grass. Suddenly his hands were on her, tugging on the bodice to her dress, moving a strap down her shoulder. Her body temperature rose another degree.
He moved away and she heard more clicks. “So look at this.”
She opened her eyes to the screen. The shot was amazing, her lack of make up pointless as the light caressed her face in white, the darkness of her hair leading you to the pale shoulder and the strap falling across her arm, bringing you back to the swell of a breast, just the top visible above the bodice.
“See how I made your eyes follow a path? That is what you want to happen. Lead the viewer to see the image the way you want it to be seen.”
“You didn’t touch Sharon yesterday, even when you needed to adjust things.”
“I usually have a female assistant. She does all the strap shifting and clothing adjustments. I try not to ever touch them. I don’t want to seem sketchy.”
“If I were shooting, though, I probably could?”
“Sure, women get away with anything.”
“Can I try a shot?”
“Sure.” He handed her the camera. “How do you want me?”
“Shirtless.”
He whipped the t-shirt over his head. He was smooth and hard, like she remembered. His hair spiked up, gold and brown, thick all across his head.
She looked at the top of the camera. “This button?” she asked, finger on the largest one.
“That’s it.”
She backed away from him a moment, fitting his glorious face and bare shoulders in the frame. “Nice,” she said. “Angle away just a little.”
He turned and she took the shot, her first photograph, his blue eyes bright, hair wild around his handsome face, sitting strong above the angles of his shoulders. She loved it. She took a few more, shifting around him, then handed the camera back.
He clicked through the shots. “Very nice, Syria. You are a natural with composition.”
Syria flushed with the compliment and lay flat on her back, staring up into the sky. “It’s beautiful here.” A few weeds with pretty lattice on the ends brushed against her shoulder, tickling and setting her to tingling again. She turned back to Anthony. “What would you like to do now?”
“To see more of you.” He hesitated. “You were a little shy last night.”
Syria blushed. “I have scars everywhere.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Syria rolled back to her side and lifted the hem of her dress. “See all these little white lines?” She pointed to a few on her thigh. “We live surrounded by wheat fields separated by barbed wire fences. I used to crawl through them to run through the rows. Sometimes I wasn’t careful.”
He kissed her belly and worked down, nibbling at her skin until it tickled and she kicked her knee up. “Stop it!” Now she was laughing, trying to roll over.
Anthony crawled up her body, nipping at her bare shoulder. “I’m going to do crazy things to you out here.”
Syria’s body flooded with heat now. His shorts scraped against her bare thighs and she longed for him to fill her again. He nuzzled into her neck, his golden brown hair spiking against her cheek. She wanted him like crazy.
He peeled the bodice down like he had the night before, and her nipples puckered in the sunlight. He picked up the camera again. “I have to capture this. Too beautiful.” He snapped a few quick shots, then crawled a few feet away, getting more of her.
“Will you slide that dress down?” His voice was low and husky, like he wasn’t quite in control of it.
Syria nodded, slipping her fingers under the fabric of the dress, pushing it the rest of the way to her waist. He clicked away, shifting positions, changing settings.
She was on fire, every girly part of her licking with sensation. She’d never been so wanton or bold in her life, and might never be again. She arched her back and lifted her pelvis, letting the dress skim her hips. Then it was down, past her knees, and she kicked it away.
Anthony continued to photograph her, clicking madly. “This is amazing,” he said.
Syria rolled to her side, remembering the things he’d told Sharon. She bent her knee forward and buried her hand in her hair. Her breast pulled high and tight and she could feel the lengthening of her waist.
“Perfect. You’ve got it.” He moved in closer, training the lens on her face, then her breasts. “On your back again.”
She rolled over, closing her eyes, feeling the sun kiss all her skin. The clicking went on for a little longer, then stopped.
His hand touched her belly and his face loomed over hers. “I can’t stand this one more minute.” His mouth closed over her nipple.
Syria sucked in a breath, thrilled that he was on her again. He leaned over her and she went for his waist band, yanking at the shorts and boxers and getting them out of the way.
He kicked them into the grass and spread the blanket out more, nipping kisses along her body. His fingers found that perfect place again, and now she couldn’t wait for all the things he could do to her. He spiraled against a little nub, something she could pick out now from the other parts of her. The shards of pleasure splintered across her skin.
She took his face in both of her hands and brought him to her so she could kiss him, her body writhing against his. The sun was getting higher and warmer, and sweat began to break out along his shoulders.
Syria wanted it faster, stronger, and pulled him closer to her. Their bodies collided, his hand still between them, and now she took him in her grasp, working the hard shaft like she’d learned the night before. He groaned, already slippery on the end, so she batted at the bag near their heads and found one of the condoms, tearing it open herself.
He rolled back and let her put it on. She got it backwards at first, but realized what she’d done and flipped it over. It rolled sweetly down his length, the thick circle nestling against a puff of hair at the base. She looked at him more closely, the purply balls, the veiny skin. It was all so different from her.
He lay on his back and now she straddled him. He cupped both her breasts, thumbing the nipples.
“Can I try this?” she asked.
“You can do anything you want with me.”
Syria lifted up, holding on to his shaft, and eased it between her legs. She couldn’t figure out exactly where it went for a moment, moving it up and down, then it suddenly slid in.
“That’s it,” Anthony said.
She felt a little soreness still, but nothing she couldn’t manage. She braced her arms on the blanket and lifted up, then down again, trying not to go so far that he came out of her.
Anthony lay still, his hands moving to her hips, his eyes closed. She rocked above him, loving the control she had, experimenting with moving high and lower, going more flat and sitting up high.
He held her hips more firmly, pushing her down, and the contact where they joined started feeling a lot like when he fingered her. She pressed down in tighter circles, working it, and now she could tell it was building again, that same shower of sparks coming off her skin.
She started making sounds without even thinking about it and Anthony helped her from below, rocking against her, holding her firm against him. The pleasure rolled up and up and then it happened again, she came across the other side, pulsing and tightening and god, it was so incredible. Anthony brought her down slowly, and when she was lying across him, he pulled her tight against his chest and rolled them over, neatly shifting her below him. He lifted her legs to her shoulders, holding her hips, and drove into her with long powerful strokes.
The movements made the pleasure splinter through her and now he moved a finger to that nub again. She didn’t think it was possible but he was bringing her up one more time, higher, harder, and then again, she was over the top and this time he came with her, shuddering inside her, crossing that peak.
He let her legs fall and collapsed on her, holding his weight on his elbows. “I am the luckiest man alive,” he said.
Syria curled her hands across his back. Whatever time she’d had to wait, the loneliness she’d had to endure, it was worth it, for this. He was the one she’d been waiting for.
Epilogue