In a more pensive mood today... just wanting everyone to know that there would be no Lizbeth
Dusseau, no naughty erotica, no Pink Flamingo without my partner in this life, in my business and in love. Thinking of you especially today, wherever you are ... my sweet prince.You carved a place in my heart, and there you'll remain.
An excerpt from Ken’s favorite non-erotic book Illusions
by Richard Bach
If
you
will
practice
being fictional
for
a while, you will understand
that
fictional characters are
sometimes
more real than
people
with bodies
and
heartbeats.
Ken was quite the voyeur and he
loved taking sexy photographs, so it’s no surprise that this was one of his favorite Lizbeth Dusseau titles.
“Michael.” I knew her by the sound of her voice. Picking
up the receiver while in the middle of developing film, something never do, I
had to concentrate carefully in order not to ruin my work and still talk to
her.
“Savannah?”
“Yes, it
is. You do remember me?” she replied.
It had
only been three weeks since I’d seen her. “How could I forget?”
I imagined
her smiling that coy half smile that revealed so little.
“Would you
be interested in doing another photo shoot?” she asked.
“Another? Of course. When?”
“As soon
as possible. I have an anxious lover.”
“So he
liked the other photographs?”
“I’ll tell
you when I see you again,” she said, skirting my question. “When are you
available?”
“I think
tomorrow afternoon, but not until after five.” I remembered that I was booked
solid. Actually, I liked it better putting her at the end of the day. I
wouldn’t have to squeeze her in-between other clients.
“I’ll be
there then.” She hung up, and I could already feel a surge of sexual arousal
pumping through me, making my penis throb happily.
For
twenty-four hours I thought of nothing but Savannah appearing for me in the
buff. I pulled from my files her proof shots and thumbed through them one by
one, finding myself masturbating to the images on the paper and even more to
the lusty quality she radiated through them, as if they were alive and moving,
her limbs and lips reaching out to draw me inside them. I wanted her with my
whole being, every fiber in me breathing Savannah, whispering her name, letting
its soft syllables woo me to the energy that surrounded her. I forgot about my
occasional girlfriend, Josie; I forgot about who Savannah really was and that
some other man was behind her photographic quest. I forgot that she was a
client, I a professional. I forgot my common sense, a reasonable thing to do
when masturbating. I simply forgot everything but Savannah and me; my daydreams
readily imagining a scenario in the studio, its finale with the two of us on
the bed together, the camera sitting on the sidelines forgotten. I ejaculated
to the picture of her rose red lips covering my cock, her tongue dancing on the
tip and how after she finished, she’d fall against the bed like a limp flower
past its glory.
I
considered my moments of pleasure self defense. With the edge off my arousal,
perhaps I could objectively do the work she was paying me to do. I wondered if
she had any idea how deeply she affected me.
Savannah arrived the next day wearing red: a severely
cut silk suit, her hair already abandoned to its liberated state and her
lipstick this time a wicked crimson. An impressive change. She gave off the
allure of a much harsher woman, though I still detected the same sweet
shivering vamp beneath the brave attire that I’d seen in our first meeting.
“And did
your lover enjoy the photographs?” I asked when greeting her. I was anxious to
know, wondering if the speedy repeat performance was because the prints were
somehow lacking.
She
hesitated. “As far as they went.”
“As far?” I
sought her explanation.
“He wants
some more stark,” she explained.
“I see. And
how do you see that?”
“Could we?”
She motioned to the curtain that separated the outer salon from the studio. I
nodded and followed her inside.
I’d
already placed the bed in the same position as it had been four weeks before. On
seeing it, Savannah moved directly to it and stripped it of its sheets down to
the bare striped tick. If it was stark she wanted, that certainly worked. “And
the flowers,” she added, moving to the blue bouquet beside the bed. Picking
them up she handed the vase to me. “He’s a very fundamental man, I think,” she
mused to herself, though she spoke loud enough for me to hear. “Can you begin
taking pictures as I undress?” she inquired.
“Whatever
you’d like,” I replied. She was less personal this time, perhaps even more
nervous, and that formal attitude served to keep me at a distance, though I’m
not sure that I could remain distant from her regardless of her efforts.
Savannah invaded my psyche like some alien virus, the molecules of her
elemental form having trickled through my system, implanting an erotic imprint
that fused so completely with my own, I knew I’d be forever altered. If she needed
distance now, for whatever reason, I’d give her that privilege, but I knew we’d
come together in other ways. I would be patient.
Retrieving
my cameras, I loaded both the black and white and color, and worked on focusing
the shutter. She waited, sitting on the bed as demurely as she had the time
before. When I finally nodded for her to begin, she rose from the bare mattress
and began to unbutton the black buttons on her red suit, moving slowly as if in
time to music. Music would have made an appropriate background for her efforts,
but she didn’t seem to need anything added. Her head slightly cocked, her face
blank and passive, she continued unlayering herself before my clicking camera.
The
jacket, the sheer blouse, the bra carefully removed were discarded on the bare
floor beside the bed. I was struck by the motion of her breasts swaying for my
camera’s eye. I sensed her shudder once they’d been completely bared. The
nipples tightened, her face became flushed. She was embarrassed, as though she
believed herself indecent.
Was she
listening to some inner voice? Were the words of her lover directing her? For
an instant she’d hesitate before continuing, and I wondered if she wasn’t
fighting with herself—or the demon that invaded her mind—over her next move. Drawing
her hands behind her back, her breasts jutting out, she released the zipper on
her skirt and let the garment drop. Except for a black garterbelt and
lace-topped stockings, she was naked. And unlike weeks before, instead of the
soft bush of hair to protect the voyeur’s eye from seeing into her sex, she was
shaved clean of hair. Vulnerable. Childlike, though the garterbelt and
stockings defied the childlike quality of her appearance.
Savannah
stepped out of the high heels, an act that diminished her stature even more. In
preparation to remove the stockings it was necessary, but I was beginning to
understand that this calculated unveiling was designed to play inside her
thoughts, transport her to a destination where she could continue with the shoot
as her lover required.
All these
steps she did silently. As I moved about her snapping photographs, I caught as
many angles as possible. She wasn’t playing for the camera, only for herself. If
I were to accurately convey her sexual sense it would have to be a random act,
some moment that occurred by chance where the camera for that instant caught
the nuances of her erotic attitude. Once she finished undressing, she climbed
on the bed and began to move for me. On hands and knees, Savannah swayed her
hind end. Catlike, she clawed at the mattress. With her shoulders pressed to
the bed, her ass still raised, she reached back for her bottom cheeks. Grabbing
the flesh in her fist, she squeezed hard, letting out a whimper, as if it were
someone else doing this to her body. She pulled at her cheeks so the camera
photographed her anus, clear as day, and the shaved pussy and the wetness that
could be seen clinging to her pussy. That display complete, the beastly blonde
dropped to her back, parted her thighs and began masturbating.
I watched
her lick her juices from her fingers, then as she inserted the middle one in
the in the pink hole and draw it out again. She smiled at it, as if it was a
piece of candy she’d devoured. The camera snapped more pictures as she pinched
her nipples and slapped her breasts, as her fingers drove deep into her hole
and pulled out only to slap her mound with a harsh thwack.
My body jolted, as if she was slapping my
genitals. I put down the camera for an instant to catch my breath.
She
hissed, seeing my vexed state, bidding me to continue. So I resumed.
After that
brief pause, her body drove her towards a climax. Forgetting me altogether, she
enacted her masturbation ritual. I wondered how many times she’d played with
herself that way, how many orgasms had
swept through her needy female form. To the end, it seemed no more than a dream
from somewhere inside her fantasies, driven by that mysterious lover.
Again, I
would have made love to her, dropped my camera, thrown off my clothes and
brought myself a pleasurable climax between her thighs. Yet even more this
time, I couldn’t bridge the barrier that came between us. Perhaps another time
when I finally had at least a tacit invitation.
I left her
when it was clear her climax was over, taking several shots just as she was
recovering her sanity from its brief hiatus. I’d have been remiss not including
photos of her at just that moment of consciousness, when she had the presence
of mind to smile at me. Returning to the room fifteen minutes later, I found
Savannah just buttoning the last button on her blouse. She bent down to
retrieve the red jacket.
“Would you
like to have a cup of coffee?” I asked her. My question came as much a surprise
to me as it was to her. She was startled by it, but then smiled again.
“Yes,” she
nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.” She put on her black pumps and then looked for
her purse that had been tossed in a chair.
For the
life of me, I had no idea what I’d say to her, but if she felt comfortable with
the invitation for coffee, I suppose I could find some words. I admit, I simply
wanted to be with her a while longer. To have her disappear again for months or
forever, no, I wanted just another few moments of her time before she was lost
to forever.
Copyright © Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved
