Over the following months the business ticked along nicely. It was easy enough to pick up prospective models from amongst the tour guides, tourists, back packers and so on. Then of course there was the private clients from amongst the cabin cruisers moored at the various marinas along the coast. I had continued to frequent the marinas, speaking to possible clients among the wives and mistresses of the wealthy. They were a very lucrative source of income, and paid in cash of course. I preferred cash, and they were happy paying cash because there was no documentation, so another lair of secrecy and discretion, which suited me fine. However, nothing quite prepared me for my next client, and if anyone had told me such a story, I wouldn't have believed it either.
I got a call one day, about three or four months after I had started. To be honest, I thought it was a hoax at first. The voice was quite refined, and he spoke excellent English, with a slight accent. He asked if I would be prepared to photograph his wife, and I said of course I would, but only on the understanding that he wasn't there. There was a long silence, and I thought for a moment that he had hung up, until he asked me why, so I told him. I don't do shoots with spectators, because I've found to my cost that amateur models just don't relax and build that essential rapport with the photographer when someone else is present. Especially husbands, because every time I ask them to do something they look at their husband as if to get his permission. It kills the flow of the shoot, and it just becomes hard work. If you want the best result from your photo shoot I explained, take her here, leave her, and once the shoot is finished come and collect her again. He asked if it was okay to come over and have a look at the villa, and I agreed. He could be there in ten minutes he said, and that suited me.
Almost exactly ten minutes later, a big black luxury car pulled up outside the villa, all windows blacked out, and a chauffeur got out and opened the back door. What looked like an Arab prince, or an extra from, 'Lawrence of Arabia,' stepped out, dressed in flowing white robes, including the headdress, or Keffiyeh, and strode confidently towards me. We shook hands and he introduced himself, and bugger me, it turned out he was a Prince. I invited him inside.
'I wish you to photograph my wife,' he began, 'but it must be understood that complete and utter discretion must be guaranteed. If any rumours or gossip of this escapes, the consequences could be very dire... not only for me, and her, but also for you,' he warned. I assured him that complete discretion was the foundation stone of my business, and explained the security measures I had put in place. He seemed happy with that, and asked when I could organise a shoot, so I looked at my diary, and offered the next day. He thought for a moment, and then confirmed that tomorrow would be fine.
'Before we go any further your highness,' I said. 'What exactly do you require? You know that I specialise in glamour and nude photography, so I presume that's how you want me to photograph your wife? He confirmed that my suspicion was correct, and that was exactly how he wanted her photographed.
'She is my most beautiful, dutiful and loving wife, and I want her photographed so I can remember her beauty when we grow old together,' he declared. It seemed like a reasonable request, and so the appointment was made. He spoke into his mobile, which he produced from some inner pocket; a rapid burst of what I presumed was Arabic, then he looked up at me. 'She is coming to meet you now,' and two minutes later an apparition, dressed entirely in black from head to toe appeared through my open front door. She seemed to glide rather than walk, her slippered feet making no sound on the tiled hallway. She didn't raise her head to look at me, her eyes firmly fixed on the floor. 'Look up, my sweetness,' he said, and she looked up at me. 'Aren't those the eyes of an angel,' he said proudly, and oh my god he was right. They were so dark they were almost black, clear, and sparkling as she looked at me. I could tell she was smiling at me despite the veil that covered everything but her eyes. I told her that I was honoured to meet her, and she bowed her head in acknowledgment, but said nothing. He told me her name, but for the sake of security, I'll just call her Layla, as in the ancient Arabic tale of Layla and Majnun. I reckon if it was good enough for Eric Clapton, which is where he got the name for that song, 'Layla,' from, then it was good enough for me.
Next day, the big black car pulled up outside my door, and the Prince got out, followed by Layla. She was dressed exactly the same as she was the day before, a shapeless black dress, (burkah?) He led her inside, handed me a small suitcase, and asked how long it would take. I replied that I wasn't sure, probably three hours maximum, but if Layla had a mobile, she could call when we were near the end of the shoot and arrange to be picked up. That seemed agreeable to him, and so he left me alone with his wife.
I asked her to follow me, and led her up the stairs. I could see her looking at the photographs, just as curious as any of the other women who came to be photographed, and then I led her into the bedroom where the shoot would take place. She placed her suitcase beside the bed, and opened it to reveal some stunningly beautiful lingerie.
'You know,' I said, 'I don't even know your name,' so she told me, and I heard her voice for the first time. She had the most wonderful low-pitched velvety voice, 'That's a lovely name,' I said, and meant it.
'It's not my real name,' she informed me. 'My real name is very Arabic, hard for westerners to pronounce, so I use one that's easier for you to say.' She had virtually no accent, her English was impeccable, and when I remarked upon that, she informed me that she had been educated at a girl's school in England, then on to Oxford University where she had gained a first-class honours degree. This young woman was full of surprises, and my worries about being able to communicate with her vanished. 'And then I got married,' she said, making it sound like it was a complete anti-climax, sounding rather disconsolate.
'You would have preferred to get a job after university?' I asked, and she said she would have liked that. To use her education for something other than producing more Saudi princes. I felt sorry for her.
'But' she said, hesitating for a moment, 'as a Saudi princess, I was expected to do my duty and obey, so here I am today.' Bloody hell I thought, how many photographers get the chance to photograph a real princess? 'Don't worry,' she assured me, as if reading my thoughts, 'I'm nothing special. Princesses are ten a penny where I come from,' and she laughed, it was a lovely throaty laugh.
As we were talking, I had been going round, switching on the studio flash units, checking things, but now I was ready, so I turned to her.
'Ready?' I asked, and she said that she was. 'Normally,' I informed her, 'I start with the model fully dressed and strip down to lingerie, and that's as good a place as any to start. Are you going to put on some of that beautiful lingerie I see in your suitcase.' She told me she was fully prepared, and was already wearing suitable lingerie, so if I just told her what to do, she would do as I asked. Don't forget now, she was dressed in a long black robe, full facial veil, and head-dress, so first of all I got her to sit down on the edge of the bed, and took a few pictures of her there, moving in for a close-up. I did a series of shots of her eyes, demure at first, looking away, then let her turn the full power of those glorious eyes on me, and they
were
glorious.
I don't think I've ever seen eyes so beautiful, almond shaped, with a slight tilt upwards at the outer edges, lined with kohl that did nothing but enhance eyes that were already stunningly beautiful. Of course, I was telling her this as I photographed her, which is part of the glamour photographer's armament. Praise for your model helps build her confidence, and lets her know she is doing the right thing, it stops her doubting herself, which is easy to do if the photographer says nothing. I can't emphasise enough how important this skill is for the photographer, and for the model's peace of mind. Tell her she looks wonderful, and she will feel part of the creative process, and it becomes, 'us,' rather than, 'you and me.'
Next, when I asked her to start removing the veil, she didn't hesitate, and I photographed her as she did it, slowly revealing one of the most beautiful faces I think I've ever seen. Her skin was perfect, a light honey colour, almost white, flawless, her nose was slightly on the long side, but suited her face perfectly, and her mouth was full lipped and sensual. She smiled as I spoke, revealing teeth that were, 'toothpaste advert,' perfect. My heart was racing with excitement, what a privilege to photograph this beauty, and rather than roll on to get her to undress as quickly as possible, I took a wide range of facial photos. After all, it's not every day you get to photograph a real honest to god princess, and one who must have been one of the most beautiful ones in the world at that.
Rather than get her to stand up, I let her stay seated on the edge of the bed, and asked her to pull her, 'dress,' up higher, and she pulled it up above her knees and let the excess material hang down between her open legs. She pulled it high enough for me to see that she was wearing black, sheer stockings with the deep lacy tops, the most expensive ones, and shoes. Not the soft, Arab type slippers she was wearing the day before, but sexy, four-inch heel, black stilettos. Her legs did not disappoint either - they were slim and shapely, with very fine, trim ankles, really lovely legs.
After shooting a few shots like this I got her to pull up the middle section to show off her open legs, stockings, and the tiny white panties she was wearing. When I suggested that she place her hand on the front of her panties to make it look as if she was being sensual with herself , she placed her hand on the front of her panties and stroked and rubbed, slowly and sensually. She closed her eyes as she did it, and tilted her head back, opening her mouth a little and looked for all the world as if she were about to have an orgasm, She looked wonderful and damned sexy too.
Now, I had to contrive some way of removing the dress, so I asked if she could open it, or how it worked, not being familiar with traditional female Arab clothing, and she told me she had this one made specially for easy removal. It had some arrangement with strips of cloth that tied, and as she untied them, the dress began to part at the front. She started with the top part, and as she loosened the ties, her upper half came into view, and I could see she was wearing a white lace confection of a bra that matched the panties I'd seen just minutes before. The white lingerie contrasted beautifully with her skin tone, and again I couldn't help but be struck by just how beautiful she looked.
She pushed the black shapeless material of the dress back off her shoulders, but held it at the front, her shoulders bare. After a few shots like this, I got her to stand up, still holding onto the black dress, but now it was open, all the way down the front, showing her off from head to toe. With the black dress now open but draped off the shoulder, it was such a contrast with her beautiful white lingerie, and not really hiding much at all.
