Jane and I came upon Shangri-La suddenly while walking a path along the pond. It was the morning after a party at the cabin of a friend of Jane's, a rather unique kind of party. A friend had invited me there for Friday night.
"It's a photo party," Jane said. "Where the women get to photograph the guys."
"Are the guys going to be naked?" I asked.
My friend gave a coy smile that told me the answer.
"They do not have to be, but I am sure some will be nude," she said.
Jane was true to her word. I accepted her invitation out of an adventurous spirit, knowing that I rated no special merit as a model. My body was nothing for a woman to drool over, and my looks did not amount anything over the average, if not qualifying as ugly, and could not even match Jane's delectable form.
"I like your eyes," Jane said, "and want to photograph them."
It is a rare thing for a male to have a woman of Jane's demeanor desire him in any way, much less with a camera, so, from this fact and a spirit of adventure, I accepted her invitation. The party was true to her word, except that all the men, including me, got naked and were the indiscriminate subjects of ladies wielding cameras. Flashbulbs popped wildly around the room as dressed ladies took in our naked attributes. Jane did pay special attention to me, though not just my eyes. The cabin was in front of a pond at the end of a dirt road. Yet, despite the action and the setting the party was controlled. If there was any sex, it happened in one of the two bedrooms and none of the guys would go down on each other in front of the group. Jane wanted more privacy and, in the morning, we sallied off down a path that led away from the cabin to see if we could find what her camera eye was seeking.
Though I left the cabin in shorts and a tea shirt I was soon naked. My clothes were waiting for me behind some bush along the path and the luscious Jane positioned her camera to take in what I could offer it. I watched her long auburn hair fall gently across her shoulders and the bounce and rhythms of her supple figure as she walked and photographed my nudity for her pleasure. I was getting less inhibited and less afraid to show her more eroticism. My cock flapped around my legs and I would touch it under the canopy of trees out there in the woods and during one of those moments along the path, I stumbled into a clearing and saw Shangri-La.
It hardly compared to that mythical place of perfection in the mountains of Tibet and in the Buddhist faith. It was shaped like a Swiss chalet with two floors, a porch on the second floor, a slanting roof, and a wooden sculpture of an Indian chief on the deck, complete with spear and headdress. A sign posted on the door said Shangri-La, with the words "The Stanleys," painted underneath the famous legend. We had stumbled on the second home of a family from somewhere named Stanley, and this cabin was, no doubt, their escape.
"Do you think we should," Jane asked.
"We could always say that we did not see the signs," I said.
There was another dirt road that led to the cabin. Another photographer would have had the spectacle of a clothed female with a camera prowling for any signs of life while a naked male model waited in the woods.
