Amateur Photography 1

The best thing about the neighbor's pool wasn't that it was the biggest on the block or that it had a brand new heating system, but that Barbara Hamilton owned it. Now that summer had come and her husband had gone, it was time for Barbara to make the most of the warm weather. She lay face down, sunbathing on her raft.

Thirty feet away, a shutter clicked. Steve Malone was making the most of the warm weather as well. His father had given him a two-week ultimatum to find a job, and he was damn well going to make sure he did absolutely nothing until then. He had just graduated high school, it was time for a break.

He had gotten quite a break. It just so happened that Barbara had moved in that spring. It just so happened that she was the most beautiful woman on the block. And it just so happened that she had a predilection for wearing bikinis, and sometimes not wearing them.

Steve admired her for her awareness of the new trend in fashion. Many women were still too prudish to wear bikinis. Didn't they know the one-piece was going the way of the Edsel? Didn't they realize that if they wanted to remain in vogue, they'd have to lose that pesky strip of cloth around their midriffs?

Steve brushed his fingers against the bulge in his swim trunks. He didn't know how long he had until his arousal would force him to put down the camera. During the first days of summer, he had pleasured himself to a tanning Mrs. Hamilton (she had kept her married name). Then he decided that his memories of her exposed body would be better preserved on film. He used the money he had saved up and asked his folks for the few dollars more it would take to buy a Scout 120. His dear sweet mother wanted to cultivate his interests, but she didn't realize that Steve wasn't going to be photographing landscapes or his friends.

Barbara floated on her raft toward the edge of the pool. She got up and walked toward the fence that separated her yard from Steve's. Steve choked for a moment – she was looking directly at him. But she didn't seem to notice. He did have quite a good hiding spot in the shrubs, after all. And her eyes were hidden behind her sunglasses. She was probably looking down at her discarded top.

Besides, there was no way he could move the camera off her. He was getting the best shots of his short career as a photographer. This was the closest Barbara's bare breasts had ever gotten to his camera. He reached into his trunks as the shutter clicked over and over. Then Barbara reached forward and picked up her top and sun hat.

He cursed silently. She hadn't given him the chance to get off this time. But he consoled himself with the fact that he had gotten some amazing photos. For a brief moment, he imagined sending them in to Playboy.

"Look at this, Jim. Some kid in Jersey sent us pictures."

"My God, look at these, Bob. He captures every detail of the feminine form so well. And it was all done on a cruddy little Boy Scout camera. This is the kinda guy we need working for us!"

Imagine taking pictures of the sexiest women in the world, naked, and getting paid for it! Steve did just that as he walked back into his house – Marilyn Monroe stripping down to nothing while he captured every inch of her body. Just as Marilyn let her bottoms drop, the doorbell rang. Steve stuffed his erection down the leg of his trunks and trudged over to the door, muttering.

The next thing he saw was the light reflecting off of Barbara's sunglasses. He almost jumped back from the door when he noticed she hadn't put anything on over the bikini.

"Hi, Stevie-boy."

"Um, hi, Mrs. Hamilton. What's going on?"

"I was just wondering if I could speak to your mother?" She stepped inside the house and strutted into the living room, her rear wiggling in the tiny bikini bottoms. A cigarette holder bounced against her hip, held to her body by the waistband of the bottoms. She marched on into the kitchen.

"She's not here right now," he called from one room over.

"Well, then, take a message, will you?"

"Sure, what do you want me to say?"

"Just write, 'Look upstairs.' She'll know what I mean by that."

"All right, then." He picked up a pad and wrote the two words out.

Barbara came back into the living room. "Where do you keep the cigarettes in this place, anyhow?"

"Just over there, ma'am." Steve pointed to a drawer. She pulled the box out, stuck a cigarette in her holder, and lit it. Then she tossed the box onto the table, in front of where Steve sat.

"You should have one as well. You know, to celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"The fact that you've got pictures of my bare breasts, of course! Not many boys can say they've got a snapshot of these things."

"Mrs. Hamilton?" He gripped the arms of his chair, his palms getting sweaty.

"The pictures, dear boy, the pictures. Don't tell me you've forgotten already."

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about, I didn't take no pictures."

"Oh, really? What a shame, I do love being photographed." She took a long drag.

"Whaddya mean, Mrs. Hamilton?"

"I mean if you haven't photographed me, then you ought to."

"What is it you want? I don't understand."

"What I want is for you to take your camera up to the master bedroom and wait for me. Unless you'd rather not have my picture."

"No, I get it, ma'am. Right away." He grabbed the box of cigarettes and lighter, then dashed up to the bedroom, still befuddled by Barbara's request.

Barbara came in holding two lowball glasses. "A scotch on the rocks for my photographer?"

"Oh, uh, thanks." He grabbed the glass. "So when do you wanna do it?"

"Don't be thick, dear. I want you to take my picture right now, in this." She ran her hand down her chest and over her stomach. "Maybe less if you're good."

Steve's erection finally won its struggle against the leg of his shorts and popped upward. He had lost concern for hiding the tent in his trunks, though. He drew out his next words excitedly. "Yes, ma'am, certainly."

He got up, lit the cigarette, sipped his scotch, and then hoisted his camera up to his eye. Barbara lay back on the bed and spread her arms, keeping her legs locked. "How do you want me, Mr. Photographer?"

"Oh, any way you feel comfortable, Mrs. Hamilton." The flash went off. He had attached it for the indoor shoot. The camera was in one hand while the scotch and cigarette were in the other.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself, Stevie."

"Don't mind the man behind the camera, Missus. You just sit there and look pretty." Another flash. He took a swig of scotch. Maybe he could be a photographer. Maybe this shoot could be the start of his career.

He imagined two girls in bikinis walking into the room, grabbing at him for attention.

"Ladies, I'm in the middle of a shoot here, what is it?"

One grabbed his arm and said, "You've just got to take my picture and make me famous, Mr. Malone."

The other did the same. "No, he's going to take my picture. I'll be famous."

"Please, girls, don't be ridiculous. There's enough film for all of you."

The one on his right arm complained. "But I want to be on all the film."

The one on the left shot back, "But I pose nude."

"I pose nude, too, and I give my photographers blowjobs."

"Well, I go all the way."

"Step aside, girls." Marilyn Monroe appeared. "Can't you see Mr. Malone has more important business to attend to – like me."

She unfolded a piece of paper that she had pulled from the pocket of her robe. She scanned it and then put it away. "Now it said there I was going to be nude and then we'd have time for some fun afterward." She opened the robe to reveal her nude body.

"Oh, Marilyn," he said, slobbering.

"Did you just say 'Marilyn'?" asked Barbara.

"Uh, no, didn't say anything. Why don't we try another pose?"

"What pose, Mr. Photographer?"

"Let's do some without the hat and sunglasses."

"All right." She pulled off the sun hat and sunglasses and stood up on her knees to drop them on the nightstand. Funny, he thought, take a girl's picture when she isn't looking and you're a pervert. Take it when she is and you're a hot commodity. Maybe he could go all the way with Mrs. Hamilton.

"Hold it right there. Great pose." She had her glass held out in one hand and her cigarette holder in the other, making a slight shrug with her shoulders, a quizzical look on her face. Not to mention that her stance drew her wide legs apart as well as affording a better angle to see down her top.

"Should I lose the drink and smoke?"

He stuck his cigarette in his mouth. "No, it's great. I love it. Perfect wild woman. You look like you're saying, 'So what? I like to drink and smoke and take my clothes off in front of a camera, what are ya gonna do about it?'"

"I see."

"Now talking about that last part, why don't you lose the top?"

"Oh, my." She turned her face away and ran her hand across her chest. "Well, can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure, what is it, Missus?"

"Well, I'd feel more comfortable if I was, you know, aroused."

"All right."

"Can you go down on me?"

His member somehow stretched his trunks even further. He was going to go all the way. Despite his elation, a bit of panic set in. He needed rubbers, music for atmosphere, and a place his mother wouldn't find them. He looked at the clock – 3:50. "Uh, Mrs. Hamilton, maybe we can take this to your place?"

"Don't be silly, dear. It'll be so much more exciting if we do this in your parents' bed."

All right, they'd get down to business no problem. Barbara would cover for him. No way she wanted to get caught either. "Fine. Let's do it."

"There's one more thing I have to ask, Stevie. It's a little embarrassing, but I sort of have this fetish."

"What is it?"

"Well, when men go down on me, I like their heads to be between the bars on the bed."

"Between the bars on the bed?"

"Yes, I know, I know, it's weird. But, please. You want to do more, don't you?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll do it." He put his cigarette in the ashtray and finished his drink. Then he lay down on the bed. His head was poking between a pair of bars. "Like this?"

"Yes, that's it."

He shoved his head through the bars. She stood over his head. From his vantage point, all he could see was the little white strip that remained as his last obstacle between him and Barbara.

"Well, go on then," she said.

He strained his neck upward but couldn't reach. "Can't get it. Lean in closer." She stepped in, squeezing his head between her legs. He stuck his tongue out and still failed to hit anything. "Closer. And take off those bottoms."

Barbara stepped back from Steve. "I changed my mind." She hopped on the bed. "But I do like to see a man behind bars."

"These need to come off." She tugged at his trunks.

As they slid down, he said, "Oh, Mrs. Hamilton. You are one kinky animal, and I love it."

"I can tell." She dabbed her finger in the pre-cum that had formed on his tip. Her fingers traced up and down his shaft.

"Yeah, rub it for me."

Her fingers continued to tease. "I might if you tell me where the other pictures are."

"What other pictures."

"Time to stop playing dumb, boy. I know you've got more than what's in that camera. Now tell me where they are."

"Why don't we screw first, ask questions later?"

"Don't mouth off like that to me, Stevie-boy." She flicked one of his testicles.

"Ow, what the hell was that for?"

"I want those photos."

"They're not even developed yet anyway. It's just film. What do you want with just film?"

"Feel this," she said. Her hands made the full strokes on his penis that he had requested. Unlike the girls at school, her hands knew all the right motions. They glided up and down his shaft with expertise. Being foreign to having correct technique used on him, Steve's arousal built. All the pent-up lust from the photo-shoot only added to the fire. He was going to lose it.

Then her hand pulled away. "You won't get any more until you tell me where pictures are."

"Oh, come on, just a little more."

"Pictures. Now."

"All right, all right, the film's in a shoebox under my bed."

Barbara returned with the shoebox after a minute. It contained more than film. Next to two canisters were a stack of Playboys and a pile of photos. Barbara held up the canisters. "Are all these me?"

"Yeah."

One by one she exposed every roll to the light. Steve struggled to free himself from the bars on the bed. "Hey, my film! Stop that!"

Barbara tsked as she finished unrolling the last of the film. "Naughty, naughty boy."

"I thought you wanted your pictures taken, ma'am."

"I think you can guess what I think of your pictures, Stevie. And what are these? Is this your little stash?" She reached into the box and pulled out the magazines. Her eyebrows arched as she flipped through the pages. "Do you think your mother would be happy with you reading these?"

"It doesn't matter, I'm old enough to buy them on my own."

"I think you were a tad young to buy Playboy when this one came out." She held up a copy of the first issue. Marilyn Monroe was on the cover and he had to have it, so he had pilfered a copy from his friend who had in turn stolen it from his brother. It was his first nudie magazine, a pornographic piece of nostalgia. It still saw quite a bit of use as a self-pleasure aid to that day – like the memory of experimenting with a first girlfriend.

Steve whined as he saw Barbara tear out the centerfold. She leaned it against the bars he was stuck between so it was right in his line of sight. "Here, keep yourself occupied."

"What?"

She placed his hand on his erection. "Stroke, pig." He did as he was ordered. "But you better not cum."

This had to be part of Mrs. Hamilton's fetish, right? She was just a little kinky in bed. Steve sighed and kept doing his job. He was still preoccupied with the loss of his film. Marilyn had turned on him as well. She was taunting rather than pleasing.

"Now who was it you said you were taking pictures for?" asked Ms. Monroe.

"Uh, me? Uh, no one, you see–"

"Well, I don't do work with amateur photographers, and I certainly do not – what was it you said? – 'go all the way' with them. Now hand me my clothes so I can go find a real photographer."

"Ms. Monroe, wait, please!" Too late, she had exited the centerfold stage right.

"I said, 'Stroke, pig!' Now get going." Steve had let his hand stop while Ms. Monroe occupied his mind. "Come on, faster. I know you can do better. Don't you just want to eat Marilyn right up?"

She tore the cover from the Playboy, crumpled it, and stuffed it in his mouth. He whimpered at the mutilation of his old companion. Barbara, meanwhile, sifted through the rest of the box. "Pictures, pictures, more pictures. Good lord, this is disgusting. You probably pass them around at school, post them in your locker, and play with yourself when you look at them, don't you?"

"Mmf," came a muffled reply.

"Yes, you do. I was going to be in this box, wasn't I? All your little friends would leer at my breasts and ask if they could borrow the pictures to jerk off with. Well, whoever these girls are, you won't see them again." The little piles of photographs soon became little piles of shredded paper. Barbara froze for a moment when she came to the last pile. "Oh fucking hell!"

She picked up a photo and shoved it in his face. "Do you masturbate to this? Do you?"

"Mmf." She pulled the paper from his mouth. "It's in the box, isn't it?"

"I don't know why I asked anyway. Look, you're still stroking. I'll bet this is your favorite one, isn't it? Is it your favorite?"

"Yeah, I guess it's a good one."

"That's my sister, you freak! I don't know how you got hold of that picture, but you're going to regret it." She ripped up the photo right in his face, causing some flakes of paper to fall into his open mouth, and then replaced the crumpled Playboy cover. "You know, I was thinking of going easy on you. I thought maybe this could be a lesson for you, then I'd tear up that note you left your mother and get you unstuck. But this is just sick. You're too much of a pervert to let this stop you, I know it. You'll just be even more discreet about it. You deserve to be punished, but I can't imagine a punishment fitting enough."

"Mmf." Steve shook his head, trying to get free, but it was futile. Barbara got up off the bed and walked over to the dresser. She rifled through the drawers. Dread shot down his spine. What was she doing?

Barbara pulled a pair of lacy panties from the bottom drawer. "Get a whiff of these." She waved them in Steve's face. "I bet these are one of your mom's favorite pairs. Shame you're going to ruin them."

"Mmf?" Steve raised his eyebrow as Barbara slid the panties up his legs to his thighs.

"That's right, dear, you're going to drop a load in mommy's panties." She looked down at his cock. It had wilted and the flow of pre-cum had halted. "Well, not like that you're not. Let's get you nice and hard again."

"Mmf-mmf! Mmf-mmf!" he tried to cry as he shook his head. Barbara straddled him and sat on his arms to keep him from resisting. Her hand wrapped around his shaft again. With just a few strokes and tweaks of the head, he regained his stiffness.

There was Mrs. Hamilton in a white bikini, jerking him off. There was Marilyn, right in front of his face. Steve couldn't have imagined such a situation could possibly be a bad one, but his wet dream had turned into a nightmare. Somehow, he had to hold back. He peered over at the clock – 4:17. His mother would be home from the market soon. Maybe if he could hold out long enough, Mrs. Hamilton would be caught in the act.

But how could he after the photo session and the preceding and succeeding stroke sessions? He had never held so much tension in his sexual organs before – a whole afternoon of titillation and no release. Though he still had Marilyn, but he really wished she would put some clothes on right now. Mrs. Hamilton was the main issue, though. Her hands danced and weaved complex patterns over his member, creating an effect the girls at school could never hope to achieve. And just the sight of her, the woman every boy in the neighborhood wanted to know with her hands on his shaft was driving him wild.

That sight was improved tremendously by her little white bikini. It showed off everything but the most intimate of details. Bikinis were obscene, he thought. Didn't she realize that modesty was more important than fashion? Didn't she realize that if she wore such a thing, a boy wouldn't be able to help himself? A bare midriff and exposed cleavage were liable to make a young man lose control.

Lose control. Don't lose control, he thought. He closed his eyes. Now he was alone with just the feeling of Mrs. Hamilton's delicate fingers working their magic. No Marilyn, no bikini. Then he felt something that was definitely not a finger on his member. It was moist and warm. His eyes popped open to find the tip of Barbara's tongue moving up and down his shaft. A stream of pre-cum flowed from his tip. His balls tightened until they drew up as far as they would go. He was done.

The sound of a car backfiring rang down the street. Steve's ears perked. Their second car, an old one that his mother used, was a jalopy that could be heard coming a mile down the road. That had to be her. Barbara seemed unconcerned and continued her work. He would have to summon every ounce of willpower to hold back. Steve's mother was pleading with her car to hold together just as Steve was pleading with his body. Just one or two more minutes, he begged, one or two more minutes, you good-for-nothing bastard.

Miraculously, Barbara removed her hands and tongue from him. She bent forward, leaning on the top bar of the footboard. Her breasts hung over the rail, stopping just above the centerfold page and creating a spectacular display. "Isn't this what you wanted, Stevie? A nice handjob from little old Mrs. Hamilton? Huh?"