Indecent...Nights: Indecent...Exposure / Indecent...Proposal / Indecent...Desires. Jane O'Reilly
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fluster and flap and plump cushions and make inane comments about how busy things are, and by the time I’ve finished, Tom Hunt has nodded a polite hello to the pair of them and left. I get the two of them in position, the typical lovey-dovey pose, she spends about five hours arranging her hair, then we’re all set.
Only I got so distracted by Tom and his mouth and his hands and what he meant when he said that Amber didn’t make him hard that I’ve forgotten to transfer those photos to my laptop and clear the memory on the camera. So when I turn the camera on, the screen that I use to show clients each photo as I take it flashes up my last shot in all its artistic glory. Victoria is too busy adjusting the position of her left hand on her fiancés shoulder, so she doesn’t notice, but he does.
For a second we both stare at the screen, then my brain remembers how this works, and I press the button on the camera that sends the screen to blue. Paul stares at me with an avid curiosity that I do my very best to ignore, hoping to god that he doesn’t ask me if he just saw what he thinks he just saw, and if I do what he’s now thinking I might do.
‘OKthen,’ I say brightly, before he can speak. ‘Shall we get started?’ I start to move around them, directing the position of their hands, their heads, desperately hoping that his fiancée is as oblivious as she seems to be, and that he’s just well padded in the groin area and doesn’t really have a hard on.
‘Paul,’ she says after a minute or two of frantic snapping, ‘do you seriously have an erection right now?’
‘Of course not, darling,’ he says, watching me over the top of her head as I hold my breath and will this to be over. I’m too horny, too wired, too fricking terrified and confused to handle this. I have got to talk to Tom Hunt. I have got to make him promise not to talk.
‘Don’t lie,’ she snaps at him, and the atmosphere in the room becomes suddenly, shockingly frigid. ‘You’ve got a hard on. It’s obvious.’
And then I do something I’ve never, ever done before. ‘It’s my fault,’ I tell her. I actually say the words out loud. ‘I take erotic photographs. I accidentally put one up on the screen when I turned on the camera. I’m sorry.’ And for the second time today, my secret slips out, only this time I’m the one letting it go.
She turns to me then, all glossy hair and big sparkly ring, and I steel myself, waiting for her to tell me that it’s disgusting, that they’re taking their business elsewhere. Immediately. But she doesn’t. ‘Show me.’
‘Um,’ I reply, ‘I’m not sure I can do that. Client confidentiality.’
‘You showed him.’ There’s enough ice in her voice to reverse global warming. ‘Now show me.’
I don’t know how to handle this. I’m useless at confrontation. When someone tells me to do something, doing it is a reflex reaction. It happens before I’ve even had chance to think it through. It’s how I ended up in this position in the first place. I pull in some air, let it out again, and then flick back to the image. It pops up on the screen, in all its visually stunning, pornographic glory.
For a moment, the three of us just stare at it. Then we all sort of sigh. It really is a beautiful shot. The black and white creates that gorgeous arty look, and most of Amber’s face is in shadow. And she is so stunningly curved, and Tom…
I can’t think about what Tom is. I don’t know what Tom is.
‘Fuck,’ says the woman, and for the second time today, I’m shocked by that word. It’s not nearly as shocking as what she says next, though. ‘God, I’d like to suck on those tits.’
Not Tom’s cock, all eight inches of which are displayed in their full, hard glory, but Amber’s tits. She looks at her fiancé, and some sort of silent message passes between them.
‘Sorry about this,’ he says, as he takes her hand and pulls her towards the door, ‘but we’re going to have to cut this short.’
She stumbles along behind him, not saying anything, her heeled boots loud on my polished floorboards. The door slams shut behind them. I stand there like an idiot, trying to wrap my head around it.
I’ve just had two clients walk out on me. Two clients who now know exactly what sort of photographic services I offer, because I told them. In fact, I went a whole step further than that and showed them. But that’s not my biggest problem. Not by a mile. I press my hands to my cheeks, unable to tear my gaze away from the image. Tom Hunt knows about me, I think to myself. What the hell am I going to do about that?
I’m still trying to figure that out at 5 as I’m pushing the hoover round the studio with what can only be described as a microscopic amount of enthusiasm. And I’ve got another problem.
I didn’t get the shot.
I could call Amber and get her to drag Tom back in here and redo the shoot. I’d get to see Tom’s cock and Amber’s tits all over again. Thinking about it makes gets me excited, and that makes me feel just a little bit sick. I can’t seem to stop myself from getting aroused, which is bad enough when strangers are involved. But getting turned on at the thought of Tom and Amber – what is wrong with me? Because it is a turn on, even though it makes me jealous, too. I stop myself a second before my dirty mind starts conjuring up images of all three of us going at it together.
I should be at home. I haven’t had anything to eat all day, and it’s way past normal locking-up time. Instead I’m cleaning the bleeping studio. It’s a definite avoidance tactic. If I go home, I will have my hand in my underwear and I’ll be rubbing myself into a frenzy before I’ve closed the front door and I won’t even try to stop myself. I’m only managing to avoid it now because I’ve left the blinds open and the bathroom is sub-zero.
Bloody hell. I yank the hoover out from under the sofa, kick the switch then drop the hose on the floor. I make my way to the bathroom at the back of the studio and tug on the light. I grab the bleach, tell myself to stop being such a ninny and go home, and am about to blast a shot into the bowl when something on the floor grabs my attention.
I set the bleach down and reach down for it.
It’s a black leather wallet, soft and good quality. I flip it open, although I already know who it belongs to before I check out the cards in the slots.
Tom Hunt has left his wallet in my bathroom.
I lift it to my face and inhale deeply. It smells like him. Leather, citrus and filth. A weird sort of giddy excitement fills me, from the tip of my toes, rushing up through my legs, turning my breasts heavy before escaping from my mouth in a sneaky little sigh.
There’s no avoiding it any longer.
I’m horny.
I don’t want to feel this way, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Watching other people does something to me. I can still remember the first time someone came in and asked me if I did bedroom shots. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but the studio had been open for three weeks and I was low on clients and even lower on funds. So I said sure, and proceeded to photograph her as she stripped off and then pleasured herself with a massive glass dildo. She ordered thirteen 8x10s and sent them to her boss.
A couple of weeks after that, I had a phone call and another client. And then another, and another, until I was doing three or four boudoir shoots a month and I’d seen pretty much everything it was possible to see, including a few things I didn’t even know were possible. I’d broken up with my boyfriend who went a very strange shade of puce after I asked if I could take some photos of him pleasuring himself, but I’d made enough money to pay my parents back the loan they’d reluctantly given me when I started up.
I tug off the light and go back into the studio and lock away all my equipment apart from my laptop and the memory card from my camera. I’m going to look at the shots I did get for Amber, see if I can rescue the situation, and then I’m going to return Tom Hunt’s wallet. I’m a professional. I can handle it.
Only before I can turn the laptop on, there’s a knock at