Photographic Memory

The scene is a Laundromat. A lone man is flipping absently through an outdated magazine, waiting for laundry to dry.

Enter overburdened woman. She is trying to balance two full baskets on top of each other while she props the door open with her foot. She is not young but still trim and pretty in jeans and a white t-shirt. Flip flops on her feet. Her shoulder-length brown hair is a muddle of disheveled dark waves but is thick and shiny. She has attempted to pin part of it back with what looks like a child's barrette but the hair has rebelled and the barrette hangs limply just above her left ear.

The man looks up, bemused, at her struggling silhouette in the doorway. But before he can rise to help, she is already in, intent on her task. Taking note of his presence without acknowledging him, she strides to the center row of washers, plops down the load, and filches a plastic bag of quarters from her pocket. She is completely focused as she clinks quarters into each of three machines. While they fill, she deftly sorts the contents of the two baskets into the washers, clanks the lids shut, and positions the empty baskets, at the ready for transport to the driers. All of this, the notices from the corner of his eye, is accomplished with practiced ease, within minutes, and without looking him.

He is about to return his gaze to his magazine when the woman turns toward him to survey the room for a reading spot. In that brief moment, as she stands facing him in the mixed glare of linty sunlight and fluorescents, a book in her hand, the shock of recognition hits his brain and cock with simultaneous force and he suppresses a cough to avoid calling out. My God, he thinks, his brain spinning. It's her. Standing not six feet away is the woman whose image has hovered before his closed eyes more than any other as he stroked himself, time and again, into oblivion.

He had met her only once, briefly, and she was no celebrity. Still, he knew her by heart: smooth, pale belly, small dark nipples like ball bearings, long legs, trim auburn bush. And those eyes: wide and blue and captivating in their intensity. True, she had technically never been anything more to him than a set of anonymous nude photos on a computer he'd been hired to fix. It was also true that, as a technician, he'd seen his share of private porn. But somehow these amateur images, and their subject, affected him differently. They were just so raw, so blatantly sensual. His mind flashes to an image of her entwined in green satin sheets, dark hair spread like a fan; on all fours on an oriental rug, peering over her shoulder, tempting the lens with her naked ass; draped in an overstuffed chair, a leg thrown casually over the armrest, reading a book; sprawling in the grass, milky thighs spread, lips curled, smiling eyes looking right through him.

It was impossible to tell if they were self-portraits - perhaps taken for a lover? -- or photos taken by a lover, just for fun. In any case, they had stayed with him... literally. In a weak (and undeniably horny) moment, glued to the screen in the back room of the shop, he had saved them -- all 16 of them -- onto his keychain flash drive, marveling even as he did it, that the folder wasn't even password-protected. It was almost as if she wanted to be seen. Their presence on his keychain burns a hole in his pocket even now and he feels himself lurch against it.

Oblivious to his mental acrobatics... and his increasing state of arousal, the woman kicks off her flip flops and seats herself along the top edge of the connected plastic chairs with her feet on the seat in front of her. Resting her arms on her knees, she opens a ragged copy of The Poetry of Emerson and appears to be instantly engrossed.

His mind still reeling, the man clears his throat and shifts position, to gauge her reaction. There is none. So he moves to his drier and opens the door to check the contents. She may be single-minded, but she is a woman, after all, and a woman with a photographer's eye. Her eyes can't help but flit from the book to his ass, his long legs, his well-muscled arms. As he squats to reach into his drier, she can't help wondering ... boxers or briefs?

A second later, there's the answer. The man is facing her with his underpants in his hand, a strange expression on his face. Oh God, the barrette! She realizes she must look like a lunatic and plucks the clip from her hair, pocketing it hastily and offering a weak smile. That's when she realizes that she knows this guy. The computer guy! In desperation, she had taken her laptop for repairs when the screen went out. But the man had acted strange when she'd picked it up a week later and she knew then that he must have seen its contents. Her face goes hot as she silently prays that he doesn't remember... but she feels a strange thrill at the thought that he might.

The man speaks.

"It's wet," he says.

"Wh- what?" She hears her voice catch.

"The stuff in my drier. Still wet and this is the second go-round. Looks like I'm going to be one quarter short...You wouldn't happen to have an extra..."

She thinks, Is this conversation for real? But she says,

"Oh! Oh sure, yeah."

Nervous laugh. She leans back on her seat, straightening her legs to dig in her pocket for the plastic bag, keenly aware of the picture her body makes as she does so. She fishes out a coin and extends her hand.

"Here you go. Is one enough?"

"I sure hope so."

They laugh and he steps toward her to take the coin. Hundreds of computers, she thinks. Hundreds in a month, and every one full of private things. Their eyes meet. Is that a flicker of recognition she wonders? But in seconds he is back at the dryer, his back to her, broad shoulders bent, long fingers extending to insert each coin. How could she have failed to notice before? He can feel her eyes on him now. She is wondering if I know, he thinks. And the thought gives him another jolt.

When her washer finally stops, she throws herself back into the task at hand. But she is self-conscious now as she leans into the machine to pull out the heavy clothes. From the corner of his eye, he watches the curve of her ass as she bends, the way her shirt rises from her back to expose a line of creamy skin. Small circles of sweat have formed under her arms and a tendril of damp, dark hair is stuck to her cheek. This is the woman who spends her spare time stark naked in front of a camera.

Having started her drier, she takes a stained shirt and her bottle of laundry soap around the corner to the sink area against the far wall, grateful for the opportunity to escape his gaze. Willing herself to focus, she spreads the shirt on the counter, dabs it with soap, and is rubbing it a little too vigorously with her finger tip when he is suddenly behind her, close. The noise of the driers had masked his approach and she is startled, then fearful. What if he's some kind of obsessed lunatic? But when she turns to face him, and she sees his bemused eyes, clearly full of recognition but also something like... appreciation?... her fear dissolves and is replaced by something else entirely.

"I was hoping they had a pop machine back here," he says, lamely she thinks. He is looking her straight in the eye and standing just a little too close.

Even before she answers, she can't believe her response. It was so out of character.

"Yeah, right." And a little smile.

It is all the invitation he needs. In a heartbeat, he moves to her, slips an arm around her waist, and pulls her into a deep, full-mouthed kiss which she doesn't resist. It is a strong, straightforward kiss, hot and hungry and full of a year of imaginings. She tastes the tang of his raw desire and feels her knees weaken like the heroine in a B movie. But she doesn't care. He remembers, she thinks. He saw... everything... and he remembers. Until now, her fore into erotic self-portraiture had been a guilty secret, a way to expose herself fully and unabashedly to a non-existent lover. The idea that this stranger with his hot mouth on hers and a growing bulge against her thigh, might just be that lover, is rapturous.

Driven now by a hunger of her own, she moves one hand behind his neck, brushing her fingers lightly through the soft blonde hair there. With the other, she reaches under his shirt and runs the flat of her hand over the hair just above his belt line, causing him to exhale a soft moan into her mouth. Gaining confidence at his response, she runs her tongue in light circles around the tip of his own, then gently but deliberately pulls away to look at his face.

"You know me, don't you?" she whispers. "I mean, you remember who I am."

Her voice comes out in a low, husky tone she hadn't intended.

"Yes. Oh, yes. I'm sorry, but yes."

And with another deft movement, he slips one arm under her and lifts her onto the counter. The look of surprise in those familiar eyes -- now level with his -- makes him smile, in spite of himself. Still smiling, and holding her firmly at the hips, he bends his mouth to her neck and traces a line with his tongue from just below her earlobe to her collar bone. This is the power of a photograph, she thinks, as she willingly bends her head away from him, exposing more of her neck to his mouth like an ingénue to a vampire. She closes her eyes, shudders, and keens softly as a white hot knot of desire begins to form in a spot just below her navel, radiating heat in all directions. The knot is familiar... its undoing is less so.

Not breaking the kiss, he moves his hands from her hips to her knees, which he parts to stand belly to belly with her where she sits on the counter. Oh that belly, that smooth pale skin. How many times had he gazed at it? Close enough now to feel her breath, hot and shallow against his neck, he gently slips a hand under the white cotton of her shirt and lifts its edge to expose her damp skin. He lowers his mouth to her abdomen. She entwines her fingers in his hair and presses his face to her as the as the heat spreads, sending shock waves to her swelling cunt. His kisses, wild, insistent, move steadily up her torso, past where a bra might have been had she worn one, until her shirt is so bunched that he has to lift it up and off to continue. She raises her arms like an obedient child but startles noticeably as the fabric grazes her taut nipples.

Bare chested now, she watches his eyes sweep appraisingly over her small firm breasts, slick with sweat and saliva, their dark nipples like ripe berries. Satisfied that the camera had not lied, had, in fact, not really done her justice, he takes one in his mouth like a starving man and sucks vigorously. She arches toward him in surrender, her breath catching with each hungry pull. The salty tang of her skin is more delicious than his imagination had ever allowed and his aching cock is throbbing to bury itself inside her.

As if on cue, she lifts his face to meet her eyes and moves a hand to his bulge.

"You were naughty to have looked, y'know. Do you go snooping on everyone's computer?"

It is a rhetorical question, a fact emphasized by the gentle squeeze and tug she offers on the word "naughty." Holding his gaze, this woman from his fantasies rubs his bulge from balls to tip with one long, urgent stroke as her legs wrap around his back side and pull him tight against her hand. When she reaches the top of her stroke, she nimbly unbuttons him and reaches in his briefs to wrap her fingers around his naked, twitching prick. Emboldened by the heat and rigidity, she begins a slow, rhythmic movement while her other hand reaches deeper, under his balls, and explores the undiscovered territory there with her fingertips. His jeans slip to his knees.

"Does this feel good?" she asks softly, as she gently pushes one slender finger into him from behind, watching his face as she does so. Even as she says it, she is shocked beyond words at her own boldness. The camera had been a substitute for the eye of an actual lover for so long, she'd nearly forgotten what a live, aroused man felt like. But that is not, she reminds herself, for lack of desire. It is only for lack of opportunity. She is determined not to let this one, so unexpected and exciting, slip by.

"Yes. Oh yes. Oh, God."

His head is bent forward so that his forehead is nearly touching her shoulder. She can feel his warm breath against her bare skin as he rocks his hips with her movement... watching in fascination as the firm reddened tip of his own cock pokes out of her curled fingers again and again. Who could have imagined she would be so compliant, so anxious to please him? It was better than his fantasies.

And speaking of fantasies.

"Please," he whispers hoarsely, stopping her movement by grasping both her wrists. "Let me taste you."

Obligingly, she slides her finger out of him and loosens her grip on his cock. He lifts both arms above her head until her fingertips touch a horizontal metal clothes bar and she understands. She grabs the bar and uses it to pull herself upward as he quickly unbuttons and tugs off her jeans and white panties. For a few seconds, time stands still. He gazes at her, just as he has seen her so many times. And yet, so different, so real, so alive... so incredibly his. On her knees now, her cunt level with his face, she looks to him like a slave girl, bound at the wrists and hanging. Except for the look of rapture on her face. This is the power of a photograph, she is thinking, as his large hands cup her ass and he bends to bury his face in her burning pussy.

She comes the first time with a low, guttural sound that seems to emanate from a place too deep to be inside her at all. It boils up and out of her throat as she pulls herself upward with the bar and pushes her mons into his face in fierce, pulsating movements. Her eyes squeeze shut and her dark hair whips against her neck as her head snaps back and them seems to loll forward. It is dramatic and beautiful and the man finds himself wishing that this moment could somehow be captured on camera, too, saved on his flash drive, carried in his memory and his pocket forever.

Weakened by the force of her orgasm and trembling now, she lowers her ass onto the counter top, takes his face in her hands, and kisses him tenderly, tasting her own juices on his lips. Wordlessly, she watches his face as he pulls her now frothy cunt toward the edge of the counter and his ready cock. There is an awkward moment as they try to adjust themselves, height wise, and they both laugh nervously. But when the head of his prick touches her damp folds and she whispers a soft 'yes', he clenches his ass to push himself, finally, gratefully, into her. His movements are slow, almost tender to begin with, and she is reminded of the gentle rocking of a boat. They are a tangle of arms and her legs as he thrusts deeper into her, feeling her clenching muscles, losing himself completely in this fantasy-turned-reality-turned-fantasy again.

When she comes the second time she takes him with her. The force of her internal contractions on his cock seem to actually milk the cum from his shaft in long, hot bursts as he drills her into the countertop. This time, the sound she makes is more like a delighted laugh, lilting and full of sheer, physical joy. She wraps her arms and legs around him and he hears his own voice, a sound something like a howl, as he empties the last of himself into this long-time object of his desire and succumbs to a series of powerful, wrenching aftershocks.

She holds him, sweaty and spent, against her body as their heart rates return to normal and they become gradually aware of the whir and hum of the distant driers. Awkwardly now, self conscious, he gently slips from her frothy cunt and reaches down to retrieve his jeans and briefs. As she steps delicately into her cotton panties and pulls them up, he has an image of the curtain being drawn on a marvelous show -- a show to which he, miraculously, got last minute, front-row tickets. He feels like applauding. She is yanking the cotton t-shirt over her head when his fingers touch the keychain in his pocket and he pulls it out with something like reverence.

"Here," he says, removing the flash drive from the ring and handing it to her. She has given him so much more than photographs and he knows that the secret images will forever now pale in comparison. In a split second, her face moves through surprise to shock to gratitude and she takes the proffered item with a smile.

"I'm so glad you enjoyed them."

This is the power of a photograph, she thinks, and kisses him deeply. Behind the wall, a drier sounds.