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When I woke up in the morning and remembered what I'd done last night, it took me a few minutes before I could sort everything out. I'd been in, like a trance or something driving home, and I'd undressed and fallen into my bed and immediately into a deep sleep. This morning, lying back on my pillows, knowing I had to get up and go to work, I took the time to try to get it all straight in my mind.

I liked Marc. Of course I did. What was not to like? He was as cute as any guy I'd met recently, or maybe forever. And I was sure he liked me. But wait a minute. He'd come on to me at the plaza outside my office, all smooth and sexy and smiling and all dimples and you're the one. How many women had he tried that on? And how many had looked at him and listened to him, just like me, and gone to his place and let him take their pictures? I mean, what was so different about me? Well, the obvious. I'm adorable.

Figuring that all out was a relief. I kicked off the sheet and hopped up and stood in front of the standing full-length mirror in my bedroom. Even fresh out of bed, I looked gorgeous. Or especially fresh out of bed. I thought my slightly puffy, half-open eyes and tousled near-black hair made me look extra desirable. In a sexy, just out of bed sort of way. I twisted before the mirror and let my eyes glide over my body. My pale skin contrasted with my dark hair. At times I'd wished it was blonde, but wasn't there something about dumb blondes? Whatever. I lifted my arms over my head, and my boobs tightened against my chest. Even so, they stood out like grapefruit halves, and my nipples capped them like ripe raspberries. Ripe and ready to eat. Sometimes I can be so silly.

I loved looking at myself like this. Not for the first time, I wished I could be two people at once. One to admire my perfection and one to, what do I want to say? One to bask in the adoration. I turned to get a look at my buns. Yep. Tight and round as ever. And my legs. I was trying to decide what my best feature was when I caught a glimpse of the clock. Oh, shit, I was going to be late.

I showered and got dressed as fast as I could, but even when you're in a hurry, it takes a while. I knew I'd never get to work on time. I was dashing down the stairs to the door of my building when I suddenly thought, "Fuck it. Fuck being late, and my tight-ass boss, and ...Oh, just fuck it all." I could be late for once. Instead of flitting around trying to remember where I'd parked my car or frantically looking for a taxi, I decided to walk. It was another beautiful sunny day, and I sauntered through the city streets, loving my morning of freedom.

And loving all the glances I got from the men along the way. I may have rushed to get ready, but I'd put a lot of care into it. I always do. My hair shone, my skin gleamed, I was shaved as smooth as a marble all over. My make-up was perfect. My top showed just enough, and my skirt danced over my bare legs above my high-heeled sandals. Guys leaning forward in a double-time march to get to their jobs caught me on their radar and slowed to take a peek, then stopped to swivel their heads and follow me with their eyes. Delivery-men paused in their work and whistled. I laughed and gave them a wave of my hand. All of a sudden I wasn't walking. I was floating. This was me. Laura. I loved being me. I loved being seen.

In the lobby of my office building I stopped and talked with Stan, the security man. Hey, did you hear that? I made a rhyme. Anyway, I'd been watching him watching me like forever, and today, since I was in no hurry, I gave him time to get a better look. I twirled my hair in my fingers and looked into his eyes and giggled at whatever it was he was saying. Then I got on the elevator and rode upstairs.

I was bent over, reading the missed call notices on my desk, when I sensed Mr. Butt-hole behind me. My boss? You know, I told you about him last time. OK, his real name's Mr. Butler, but I think the one I'd made up for him suits him better.

"Laura. In my office. Now."

I knew from the way he said it that he was pissed off at me, but I was still floating. So I just floated in after him and watched as he settled into his big desk chair and got all important. When he was done I dropped into the chair across from him, where I usually took dictation and listened to his lame attempts to seduce me.

"Laura. Do you know what time it is?"

"Gosh, Mr. B. I've no idea." I crossed my legs and raised my arm to look at my bare wrist.

"Well, then I'll tell you.' He lifted his own arm and pulled back the sleeve of his suit. He was trying to check his watch, but he couldn't quite take his eyes from my legs. My skirt was short, silky-thin and all but transparent, and my tan thighs stretched from under it. He yanked his cuff down and cleared his throat.

"Goddamit, Laura. It doesn't matter what time it is. You're late. That's all that matters. I'm a busy man. I've got things to do, and I can't wait for you to show up whenever you damn well feel like it. You pull this shit again and you're gone. Fired. Got it?"

So it had gone from "You're a lovely girl my wife just doesn't get it maybe we could…" to "You're out of here." Mr. Butt-hole had turned into Mr. Big-shot. At least he wouldn't have to get the monogram on his shirts changed.

I leaned forward and clasped my knees. I knew my arms would push my breasts together, exposing more of my cleavage. I chanced a look up and saw him lifting off his chair to get a better view.

He stood and came around the desk.

"You know, Laura, maybe I've been too hard on you. Maybe you and I got off on the wrong foot."

I sat back and let a little more leg show, and dangled the foot we'd gotten off wrong on. I peeked up at him from below my lowered lashes. I know how to do this, and I knew I had him

He leaned back onto his desk. We'd been through this all before, but this time he was so sure he was in charge.

"Listen," he said. I looked up. His gaze was all over me, everywhere but my eyes.

"There's no reason we can't start over. If you can promise you'll be here for me when I need you, I think I can let this little lapse slide."

I wasn't sure how long I wanted to let this scene play, but I was ready for some pay-back. I re-crossed my legs and looked up at him.

Oh, Jesus, this was too easy. He was almost slavering. I decided to put him out of my misery.

"Mr. B, I only came in this morning to tell you I'm quitting." I don't know where that came from. I just said it.

What do they call it? Sputtering? Spluttering? Anyway, that was Mr. B. It was all Laura you can't and Laura you know I need you, and then it was Laura you bitch and Laura you'll never get another job in this town, and then more of both. I thought I handled it pretty well. I stood up and pulled down my skirt as far as it would go, and straightened my back and walked out. I wasn't about to flash anyone who talked to me like that.

On the way down in the elevator I considered having second thoughts, but who needs those. Outside, I dug in my purse for Marc's card and punched in his number on my cell-phone. Voice-mail. OK, maybe third thoughts. Still, I was looking good, and feeling good. The walk to work had been gratifying, and I figured a stroll to Canal Street, or anyway in that direction, wouldn't do me any harm. I got plenty of wolf-whistles and cat-calls along the way, and I was pretty satisfied with myself when I rang the top bell at 114 Canal.

No answer. I tried his phone again. Voice mail again. I sat down on the stone stairs outside the ware-house. I'm usually pretty up-beat, but at that moment, I was wondering if I'd counted the birds in my bush too soon.

I tried to make a score-sheet in my mind. It's not as easy as you'd think, but my brain just works like that. So on the plus side was I'd blown off Mr. Butt-hole. On the down side, I didn't have a job. That seemed to even out pretty well. Again, on the plus side, I'd met Marc. And then on the down side, he hadn't answered my calls, and wasn't at home. But if I waited here long enough, he'd have to come home, and that would have to go on the plus side. I was pretty sure that had me ahead. I was still figuring the up side and the down side when Marc came walking up the street in shorts and a T-shirt, grocery bags in his hands. That's how the up side works. You can see how not everybody can do it.

Whatever side, he smiled. "Hey, Laura. Wow, am I glad to see you here." The way I was sitting, with my feet on the step below me and my skirt way up, showing my legs, he'd have to be a wombat not to be glad to see me here. He handed me a bag and said to come on up.

Marc led the way. The stairs were as steep and treacherous as they'd been last night, but at least now I had a view. Dimples, shmimples. Those legs. And what a butt.

Upstairs we put the groceries away and Marc asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I'd been in such a rush this morning that I hadn't had my coffee or juice, but now I was celebrating, so I reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. Marc raised an eye-brow, but he opened it and poured two glasses. We went and sat on the couch.

Like last night, he ogled my legs, and I let my skirt ride up some more, happy to see he really cared for me.

Marc leaned over and clicked his glass against mine. That smile. Those dimples. "So, Laura. Cheers. What's new?"

"Well, everything. You know, after last night and all, I was late to work."

Marc just looked at me, like he was waiting for more, and after a few seconds I realized he wasn't following me.

"So I quit."

Marc was still staring at me with a confused look. It occurred to me he might not be the brightest puppy in the tool-box. But OK, I'm probably no Eisenstein, either, and with Marc's looks, and his dimples, and that butt, who cared?

I took it slow and explained. "Remember Mr. Butt-hole?" Not even a glimmer. I notched it back another gear. "My boss. I'm sure I told you. He's been, like, all over my case? Ever since my first day. And then yesterday. That stack of papers? I mean, I should have told him where he could put them all by himself. You always think of that stuff too late. You know? And today. All Mr. Puffed-up, never got up late. And still his eyes are like three sizes too big for his head looking at me, and then he's like bitch and you'll never work again and stuff, and here I am."

Marc looked like I'd lost him someplace. I didn't care. He was just so cute. I put my glass down and leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. Just a little kiss, but with a flick of tongue. Of course my skirt slid up even higher on my legs.

"You don't mind I came over uninvited, do you?" I whispered.

"Are you kidding? I've been thinking about you ever since I woke up." Wow. I bet he never said that to those other girls. I was really beginning to like this guy.

"So, what do you want to do today?" I purred at him. I stretched back away from him over the couch and wiggled my body. "Want to take some more pictures?"

"Do you?"

"Hmmm. I might. Or maybe you could just kiss me a while."

Marc put his glass on the table. Then he was on my side of the couch, propped on his arms over me, his face a few inches from mine. I lazed my arms around his neck. Damn, he was even cuter up close. Then I closed my eyes and felt his lips brush mine. For all his hard muscles crushing into me, his lips were like silk. Slippery soft and warm/cool. I let my tongue slide out again and run across them. Marc pulled away and raised himself up on his arms. I opened my eyes and he was staring down at me.

"Jesus, Laura. You're beautiful."

"Yeah, I know. Come here." I tightened my arms around him and pulled him back to me. We'd done stuff last night I'm pretty sure my grandmother would never have dreamed of (how the hell did that old bat get into this?), but I'd never held him in my arms. I let my hands slide over his broad back, keeping him pressed to me. He twisted his body, and my legs opened and wrapped around his hips. Everywhere he touched me, he was all hard hot muscle, burning through our clothes. His chest and stomach on mine, his fore-arms under my shoulders. I reached lower. That butt. More muscle. All hard. I dug my fingers into him, clutching. Between my legs, where I was softening, slackening, melting, he pressed against me like a branding iron. Every curve, every bump, every vein and bulge translated itself through our clothes into heat, etching my skin. I wiggled my hips to find the perfect contact.

And then I started coming. Not coming in a frenzied blast like you do in the parking lot with some guy you just met in a bar, or with your own fingers when you're sure you'll never get the key in the lock and the door shut behind you fast enough getting home from work. This was slow. Is incremental a word? Anyway, it crept up on me so gradually, almost unnoticeably, that the first inkling I had of it was immediately buried by the waves washing over me and through me. And then it was a tornado, blowing me into a million pieces. I clamped onto Marc's body with my arms and legs, crushing him to me with my whole being. I was in an electric chair of sensation, where the only question is whether your brain or your body is going to fry first. I held on tight and felt my chest thrust against his with every breath.

Slowly, I eased my spider-grip on Marc's body, and he did a push-up and lifted his weight off me and sat beside me on the edge of the couch.

"Um. You OK, Laura? I don't think, well I've never, um, seen..." He looked so concerned, it was kind of touching.

I waited, my breathing slowing, until I could speak. I lifted a hand and stroked his cheek. "No, I bet you never have. Me, either. Just give me a minute." I still didn't really know what had happened. Now that I was coming around, I thought I'd be sore, or exhausted, but I realized I'd never felt better in my life. I was totally energized. In an easy, relaxed, brains fucked out sort of way. And we hadn't even fucked.

I let my hand drift down over my panties, just to see if everything was still alive down there. I'd expected them to be soaked, and they were, but the little shock-waves that raced through me when I stroked over the silk surprised me. I looked at Marc. His eyes followed my fingers as they probed under the elastic.

"Whatcha looking at?"

Marc gulped and stood up. He hooked his fingers in his shorts and started to tug them down.

"Wait," I told him. "Can you? Not long. I promise. Let's take some pictures."

Marc was dying. I knew it. I loved it. I stood up and peeled my skirt down and stepped out of it and stripped my top over my head so that all I had on were my panties. I grabbed his hand and led him over to the corner where his bed stood. I saw the tent in his shorts and knew how much he wanted me. I wanted him just as much, but I bent at the cabinet and pulled out a light-stand. Marc knelt next to me. He could barely keep his eyes off my ass, but he helped me, and in a moment we had the spots and the silver umbrellas set up and the camera fixed on its tripod.

"How does it work?" I asked Marc.

All either of us wanted to do was fuck each other into outer space, but I had the germ of another idea, and Marc seemed willing to show off his stuff. His photographic stuff, I mean.

"It's actually less complicated than the Brownie you shot on vacation when you were a kid," he explained. My brownie? What was that all about? How could he know I was dropping my bikini bottom and spreading my cheeks and showing my butt to every boy on the beach who wanted to see it all those summers ago? One more for the up-side. This guy was absolutely my soul-mate. "It's got auto-focus," he was saying, "and it adjusts for the available light. You just point and shoot. You can see what you're shooting in this screen here, and then you just push this button. It's all automatic."

I bent and looked.

"All I can see is the bed. Pretty boring with nobody in it. Go over there so I can see you."

Marc went and sat on the bed and filled the little screen in front of me. He looked so tiny. I raised my head and saw him, all big and muscles and all. I wanted to go over and jump on him, but I even more wanted to hold him here captive. I looked back at the screen.

When I had focused my eyes on it, I told him, "Go on. Do it."

"Do what?"

I think I'm pretty patient, but did I have to explain everything to him?

"Take off your clothes, dummy."

Marc's pea-sized face looked surprised in the screen. I pushed a button with my thumb and zoomed in on his eyes. I pushed it the other way and got the full body shot again. This photography business couldn't be that simple, could it?

Last night I'd thought there was something about posing for a photographer, a real professional photographer with a web-site and his own business card, not just some boy from the street behind you in his father's garage with his father's camera and a couple of his friends watching, that made what I was doing some sort of art. OK, it had ended up with me on the floor fingering myself to death, and Marc watching me and stroking himself off and painting my feet. These things happen. But I'd been the one who stripped and posed for the camera, and Marc had taken all the pictures. He was the artist. Now the chairs were turned.

"Come on. Do it." I had the camera, and the power.

I have to give Marc credit. Women's lib didn't seem to bother him too much. He peeled off his shirt and twisted this way and that, smiling in the screen. Well, why not. He had a beautiful body to show. I had to keep reminding myself to look at the screen and not over it at him on the bed. But I mean, really, those shoulders, and that chest and those thighs under his shorts, they were all so tiny on the camera, and there, just a few feet away, they were all so big and like, right there. I made myself focus on the screen. I guess this is what they mean when they say an artist sacrifices so much for his art. Or hers.

I was about to tell Marc to get out of his shorts, but he was already doing it. I wasn't too sure I liked him taking artistic decisions out of my hands like this, but oh god, he was stripping his boxers down and there was that cock, that beautiful pillar of flesh I'd seen last night and that had burrowed against me just a few minutes ago and nearly made me expire, if that's the word, and well, oh god, oh jesus, he'd said it was all so simple and automated, I didn't really need two hands for the camera, did I?

I have to say I was proud of myself. It would have been easy to let it all go and just close my eyes and diddle myself to smithereens, but I kept my eyes on the screen and one hand on the camera. Professional. Marc was naked on the bed, sitting back with his legs bent under him, his hands behind him on the bed propping him up, and his cock was pointing up at the ceiling and sort of bouncing, and all wet and shiny, and I swear even bigger than I'd seen it last night. His face was turning red and his eyes were half closed, and all his muscles were jumping and twitching. Oh, my god.

This was new, even for me. As far as I could tell, and I had seen enough in my life to know, Marc was right on the very edge of coming, without me even touching him. As much as I wanted to be the artist behind the camera, I wanted even more to be the one. The one to make it happen. I hoped the camera was as automatic as he said it was and would go on taking pictures. I walked over to the side of the bed and looked down at him. He was having trouble zeroing in on me, but I lifted my left foot and placed my high-heeled sandal on his thigh. That got his attention. He flinched and his eyes popped open.

"You ready, Marc?"

He just groaned. God, what a sweetie.

My legs were spread wide and my dripping, pouting little pussy was pointed at his face. I needed him to see more of me. I reached down and pulled the thin, soaked strip of my panties aside. I watched him. I could see he was dying for me, dying to just reach out and touch my fat swollen lips. His eye-lids had drooped again to half-mast, but even so, his gaze was white-hot, seeking, probing, scalding me. His hand stretched toward me, but I backed away just out of his reach. He went for the next best thing. I knew he would, the state he was in. When his fingers were opening to wrap around his cock, to finally bring him to the place he'd wanted, needed to be since we started this, I told him, "Stop. Don't touch it."