The Photographer
The classified ad in the paper hadn’t said much. Just “Model
wanted. Young, noticably pregnant a requirement. PO Box 2347″. Seeing
as you fit the description, you wrote an introductory letter and sent
it in. A few days later, the phone rang. The man on the other end
introduced himself as David and asked to set up a meeting. He said he
would pay you for your time. Since you needed the money, you agreed to
meet him at his studio Friday evening at eight.
Now you are standing at his door, looking for the bell. It is a
large steel sliding door on the upper floor of an old warehouse
downtown. Clearly, David’s studio is in a loft. You finally just knock
on the door. A moment later, the door slides open and light from the
hall spills across a hardwood floor. The studio is dimly lit and you
can’t see anyone there.
“Hold on, let me get the lights,” you hear a voice say.
Suddenly, bright overhead lights come on, exposing the entire loft. You
walk in and look around. David is standing there, smiling.
“You must be Trish,” he says.
“Uh, yeah. You must be David,” you reply, slightly uncomfortable.
David is about six feet tall, a good eight inches taller than
you. He has short black curly hair and a young but weatherbeaten face
that has crinkles at the eyes and mouth. You can tell that he laughs a
lot. He has a well toned and muscled body; you can see his wide chest
straining at the black commando’s sweater he’s wearing. He has on a
baggy pair of black fatigue trousers. His bare feet even look strong;
his toes grip the floor as he walks.
The loft studio is much nicer than you expected, given the looks
of the building outside. The front of the loft is obviously David’s
apartment. The kitchen is set aside from the rest of the room by a
wrap-around countertop. It sits to the right of the door. The door
itself is halfway between the front and back walls. The furniture is
comfortable and modern. There is a long couch that surrounds a coffee
table in front of a fireplace. The entire front wall is glass, looking
out over the city. On the far wall is a raised platform with steps
leading up to it. On top of the platform, which sits six feet high,
is a waterbed. Off to one side of the platform is a bathroom. Oddly,
there are no walls around it. It’s shielded from the front windows by
the bed platform, but it is open to the rest of the apartment. There’s
a sink, cabinet, mirror, commode and an old iron free-standing bathtub.
The walls are brick, from the floor to eight feet up. Then the
walls are white up to the 15 foot ceiling. The ceiling is white too,
and track lights reflect off of it to fill the room with a soft glow.
“Tea?” David is standing in the kitchen holding a pot.
“Please,” you respond, walking along the brick walls, looking at
the pictures hanging there. Many are covers from famous magazines.
Many others are pictures of nature scenes. Sprinkled among them are
pictures of women in seductive poses, or wearing suggestive clothing.
David sets your tea down on the table and invites you to have a
seat. He walks to the wall and turns a dimmer switch, dimming the
lights to a dull glow. “There’s a storm coming; I want to watch it.”
You look out the window and see flashes of lightning. David
retreives his own tea from the kitchen and sits sideways on the couch,
facing you.
“Tell me about yourself,” he asks quietly.
You tell him about your school and your hobbies. He has a lot
to talk about; seemingly, he has an interest in everything. You talk
about accounting and running. You talk about swimming and skydiving.
You watch the storm. David has a quick smile and a gentle laugh and
after a couple of hours you feel very comfortable with him. He keeps
you teacup filled.
“You have neat pictures,” you say after talking for a few hours.
David smiles a thanks. “Let’s go take some pictures.” He
stands up and offers you his hand.
You take his hand and stand up. David leads you by the hand
back into the dark back half of the loft. He reaches out and turns a
switch someplace and a few lights come on. There are strobes with
reflectors lined up neatly along the wall. There is black shag carpet
on part of the floor and white on another. David leads you over to the
black carpet and sits you down in the middle.
You watch as David turns to a control panel on the wall. The
lights come up further, including some focused on you, and soon you are
at the center of attention. David opens a cabinet and takes out a
camera. He sits down on the floor in front of you and takes a few
pictures. “Good choice of clothes,” he mentions between shots.
You are wearing a white maternity shirt with a bright yellow
maternity jumper over it. You feel the warmth of the lights on you as
David moves around, photographing you from different angles. Every so
often, he reaches out and adjusts your position, moving a hand here or
adjusting the angle of your head there. He sets you so your one leg is
drawn up with the other crossed under it. He places your hands on your
knee and rests your chin on your hands. Oddly, your heart beats harder
as he moves your body around and you find yourself admiring the fluid
grace with which David moves.
David takes a few more pics in that pose and has you lean back
on your hands. Your breath catches in your throat as he unbuttons one
shoulder strap on your jumper and re-adjusts it so the front left corner
is hanging down, showing the swollen curves of your enlarged breast
through the shirt. David leans back and takes a few more pictures. He
pauses and sets the camera down on the carpet. He slides over next to
you and puts his hand on your raised knee and squeezes it.
“Are you doing ok,” he asks.
Your heart is pounding and you can’t seem to catch your breath.
You feel beads of sweat break out across your stomach and legs. You
realize that his touch and his closeness have aroused you considerably;
you can feel your damp cotton lace panties rubbing against your thigh.
You manage a breathy yes.
David smiles. “Good.” Never breaking eye contact with you,
…End of the part1. To be continued..
The Photographer
The classified ad in the paper hadn’t said much. Just “Model
wanted. Young, noticably pregnant a requirement. PO Box 2347″. Seeing
as you fit the description, you wrote an introductory letter and sent
it in. A few days later, the phone rang. The man on the other end
introduced himself as David and asked to set up a meeting. He said he
would pay you for your time. Since you needed the money, you agreed to
meet him at his studio Friday evening at eight.
Now you are standing at his door, looking for the bell. It is a
large steel sliding door on the upper floor of an old warehouse
downtown. Clearly, David’s studio is in a loft. You finally just knock
on the door. A moment later, the door slides open and light from the
hall spills across a hardwood floor. The studio is dimly lit and you
can’t see anyone there.
“Hold on, let me get the lights,” you hear a voice say.
Suddenly, bright overhead lights come on, exposing the entire loft. You
walk in and look around. David is standing there, smiling.
“You must be Trish,” he says.
“Uh, yeah. You must be David,” you reply, slightly uncomfortable.
David is about six feet tall, a good eight inches taller than
you. He has short black curly hair and a young but weatherbeaten face
that has crinkles at the eyes and mouth. You can tell that he laughs a
lot. He has a well toned and muscled body; you can see his wide chest
straining at the black commando’s sweater he’s wearing. He has on a
baggy pair of black fatigue trousers. His bare feet even look strong;
his toes grip the floor as he walks.
The loft studio is much nicer than you expected, given the looks
of the building outside. The front of the loft is obviously David’s
apartment. The kitchen is set aside from the rest of the room by a
wrap-around countertop. It sits to the right of the door. The door
itself is halfway between the front and back walls. The furniture is
comfortable and modern. There is a long couch that surrounds a coffee
table in front of a fireplace. The entire front wall is glass, looking
out over the city. On the far wall is a raised platform with steps
leading up to it. On top of the platform, which sits six feet high,
is a waterbed. Off to one side of the platform is a bathroom. Oddly,
there are no walls around it. It’s shielded from the front windows by
the bed platform, but it is open to the rest of the apartment. There’s
a sink, cabinet, mirror, commode and an old iron free-standing bathtub.
The walls are brick, from the floor to eight feet up. Then the
walls are white up to the 15 foot ceiling. The ceiling is white too,
and track lights reflect off of it to fill the room with a soft glow.
“Tea?” David is standing in the kitchen holding a pot.
“Please,” you respond, walking along the brick walls, looking at
the pictures hanging there. Many are covers from famous magazines.
Many others are pictures of nature scenes. Sprinkled among them are
pictures of women in seductive poses, or wearing suggestive clothing.
David sets your tea down on the table and invites you to have a
seat. He walks to the wall and turns a dimmer switch, dimming the
lights to a dull glow. “There’s a storm coming; I want to watch it.”
You look out the window and see flashes of lightning. David
retreives his own tea from the kitchen and sits sideways on the couch,
facing you.
“Tell me about yourself,” he asks quietly.
You tell him about your school and your hobbies. He has a lot
to talk about; seemingly, he has an interest in everything. You talk
about accounting and running. You talk about swimming and skydiving.
You watch the storm. David has a quick smile and a gentle laugh and
after a couple of hours you feel very comfortable with him. He keeps
you teacup filled.
“You have neat pictures,” you say after talking for a few hours.
David smiles a thanks. “Let’s go take some pictures.” He
stands up and offers you his hand.
You take his hand and stand up. David leads you by the hand
back into the dark back half of the loft. He reaches out and turns a
switch someplace and a few lights come on. There are strobes with
reflectors lined up neatly along the wall. There is black shag carpet
on part of the floor and white on another. David leads you over to the
black carpet and sits you down in the middle.
You watch as David turns to a control panel on the wall. The
lights come up further, including some focused on you, and soon you are
at the center of attention. David opens a cabinet and takes out a
camera. He sits down on the floor in front of you and takes a few
pictures. “Good choice of clothes,” he mentions between shots.
You are wearing a white maternity shirt with a bright yellow
maternity jumper over it. You feel the warmth of the lights on you as
David moves around, photographing you from different angles. Every so
often, he reaches out and adjusts your position, moving a hand here or
adjusting the angle of your head there. He sets you so your one leg is
drawn up with the other crossed under it. He places your hands on your
knee and rests your chin on your hands. Oddly, your heart beats harder
as he moves your body around and you find yourself admiring the fluid
grace with which David moves.
David takes a few more pics in that pose and has you lean back
on your hands. Your breath catches in your throat as he unbuttons one
shoulder strap on your jumper and re-adjusts it so the front left corner
is hanging down, showing the swollen curves of your enlarged breast
through the shirt. David leans back and takes a few more pictures. He
pauses and sets the camera down on the carpet. He slides over next to
you and puts his hand on your raised knee and squeezes it.
“Are you doing ok,” he asks.
Your heart is pounding and you can’t seem to catch your breath.
You feel beads of sweat break out across your stomach and legs. You
realize that his touch and his closeness have aroused you considerably;
you can feel your damp cotton lace panties rubbing against your thigh.
You manage a breathy yes.
David smiles. “Good.” Never breaking eye contact with you,
…End of the part1. To be continued..
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