She allowed her hand to trace the edge of the black photo album. Bettie Page vamped on the emblem embossed into the leather. She couldn't decide which he would like better the pictures or the story behind them.
*************************************
She walked through the shopping district, putting off the inevitable stop at the grocery store. The early fall air reminded her of wintergreen peppermint. It had just the right mix of warm and cold with its mouth filling warmth and tantalizing cold waves with every inhalation. A mannequin beckoned from one of the boutiques. She pondered the outfit – a vintage dress of deep red silk.
Ten minutes later she was walking down the sidewalk with shopping bag in hand and the poor mannequin was left to hide behind some brown wrapping. To celebrate her new purchase, she decided to treat herself to a latte and took a detour towards the coffee shop. The line at the order counter was short. A young man leaned behind the Formica as two teenage girls tried to simultaneously flirt and order. Directly ahead of her stood a tall woman with short dark hair. Bettie Page vamped with a whip, peeking out from under the edge of her white t-shirt.
With a sigh of disgust, the woman turned and muttered under her breath, "God, were we really that silly when we were that age?"
She laughed and made a casual reply as she gave the woman a quick look. The woman was about her height and probably her age, with short cropped hair, Roy Orbison glasses and that tattoo.
"So, what's that?" The woman asked.
Silently, she pulled the red dress from the bag.
"Sweet!" the woman commented as she slid the fabric between thumb and forefinger. "You know, my studio is just a couple of blocks from here. A pic of you in that dress would be a nice surprise for boyfriend? Girlfriend?"
She laughed. "Maybe one of each." She raised her eyebrows in exclamation. "Would you really have the time?"
The photographer assured her the entire afternoon was open, as was a nice bottle of Grand Marnier. Both women laughed and coffees in hand walked down the sidewalk to Bettie Page Studios.
The studio stretched the length of the storefront. Painted bright white it glowed with afternoon sun spilling through the plate glass window. Cameras were scattered around the room, on tables, on tripods. Lights hung from the rafters and looked upwards from the floor.
"I do more formal stuff out here. We are going to the back studio. That's where the fun happens." The photographer smiled mischievously.
She followed the other woman down a dark hall. To the left, she noticed a kitchen and a small office. Stairs at the end of the hallway led to living quarters, so her hostess said. At the end of the hallway, through a brick archway, the photographer stopped and with a sweeping motion signaled her to enter.
Windows also lined one wall of this room, but the exposure was to the west and afternoon sunlight filtered by large trees cast deep shadows. Several furniture groups were set up as little vignettes. There was a white chaise lounge with a reading lamp in one corner, a dining table with a slate top and four black chairs sat on an exotic embroidered rug. Between two of the windows at the back, a four poster bed with its black satin spread and pile of pillows invited...something.
"What a wonderful studio," she had been here before, any number of times but today would be a first. They both knew it; it was the reason they neither one called the other by name.
"I have been doing a series of pin-up inspired photos most recently," the photographer said. As if to prove her legitimacy, she motioned to a row of prints, hung on a floor to ceiling bulletin board. "I think you and that red dress would be a lovely addition."
She leaned closer to examine the photographs as the woman spoke. They were amazing reproductions. Each of a different woman, vamping for the camera in dresses, hiked up to show stocking tops or bending to reveal breasts that threatened to fall from the precarious perch of a push up bra. As she turned to compliment the woman on her work, the photographer leaned forward and kissed her.
The woman's lips were soft and warm and tasted of coffee and cream. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Neither touched the other, save for their lips. She could smell the woman's perfume and wondered if her's was as pleasing. At last, the photographer stepped back offering a shot of Grand Marnier. The women clinked glasses and drank.
"I hope you don't mind. You have such a lovely mouth." She turned and walked to an equipment table and began to assemble a camera. "So, are you interested? I think we'll need two maybe three hours. I would like to shoot you on that chaise and if you're game, on the bed." The photographer winked.
"Well, I know this may sound predictable, but, I have never done anything like this before." She barely kept a straight face as she spoke. She held it together long enough for the photographer to turn and look her way, then both women broke into a gale of laughter.
"Yes, well, that's what the alcohol is for," the woman smiled and poured two more glasses of liqueur. "Now let's have a look at that red dress."
She walked behind a Japanese screen imprinted with doves and began to undress. T-shirt and jeans slipped off to reveal black and beige boy shorts and a matching bra.
"Very nice," the photographer leaned against the screen. "It's almost as if you knew you were coming here"
She smiled and turned to face the woman full on. Her breasts, supported by the thin fabric, rose with each breath. "I like to be prepared."
The photographer laughed. "Pull on the dress and let's start on the chaise."
She did as instructed. As she sat. The white velvet was cool against her bare legs. The woman knelt down and offered her a pair of red stilettos. Silently, she raised her left foot. The woman slipped the shoe on and held out the right. Again, she held up her foot and felt the soft leather as the shoe covered her skin. Then, slowly and still silently, the photographer slid her hand over her calf and past her knee.
She leaned back on her arms and looked to the ceiling as the strange fingers slid closer to her panties. Her legs were spread apart, shoes flat on the floor. Her back arched as the fingers tickled the lace at the edge of her thigh and she exhaled slowly.
"Perfect," the photographer whispered and quickly slipped her hand away. "Don't move."
The woman stood, then arranged the fabric of the red dress so it rose up over one thigh, the panties peeking out. "Tip your head back, and let your mouth fall open, like your waiting for...a drop of something to fall into it."
She sat, positioned on the chaise, and did not move. It was not easy, the woman's words and kiss and fingers had started something. She felt a tickle just inside those boy shorts. And with each click of the camera, she felt her nipples harden.
"Now, stand and straight legged, bend over the back of the couch." The photographer stayed behind the camera.
Again, she did as she was told. The photographer moved closer. Her fingers undid the first few buttons on the front of the dress and then they slipped inside her bra. She stood still as the woman gently lifted her breasts from their silky confines. Her nipples throbbed and the photographer deliberately grazed the back of her hand over the left. It jumped in response.
"Mmm," was all the woman said before moving behind and hiking the skirt up and over her ass to reveal the black and beige panties. She felt her clit clench in anticipation of that dangerous hand but it never arrived and she stood, her sex throbbing as the photographer returned to her cameras.
More clicking. More tingling. She felt her breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps.
"Now, lie back on the chaise." The photographer brought the tiny glasses of Grand Marnier with her and sat on the end of the couch.
"You know we didn't discuss price." She sat, back to the chaise, legs crossed.
"You are actually doing me a favor. I need two really good shots to finish up this show. All I'll need then will be your signature on the release. You get the finals." The photographer held her glass up.
"You're going to put these in a show?" she smiled. This is one gallery opening her husband might want to attend. The photographer nodded yes and they tapped glasses. The sweet orange liquid slipped down her throat and warmed her from the inside, making her head...and her inhibitions delightfully dizzy.
Slowly, she leaned back into the chaise and let her legs slide out in front, nudging the photographer from her perch on the edge of the couch.
