The Pictures

Welcome to a new series, and thanks so much for your kind words and follows of my prior stuff here on Literotica. This series should be shorter than my other long one, Ideal Suburbia, but still about ten chapters.

This one starts with a long, slow burn, but I think it is a fun one, and the finish sure makes me happy.

Standard disclaimers apply: Everyone is over 21, and if you demand "realistic" you are in the wrong place. I go for "deliriously plausible" at best.

----------------

"Ha!" I laughed, as the video my friend Tony was showing me finished. I took another bite of my lunch while he enthused about the Theater Sports competition clip that we had just watched. Theater Sports is the precursor to improv formats like the TV show Who's Line is it Anyway?, except in Theater Sports, the points

do

matter.

"It really isn't that great a sketch, you know," I said, trying to slow down the freight train of Tony's enthusiasm. "The first part wanders, there are two awkward points, and the only real laugh is that killer one at the end. And you can tell they probably kept going after that joke. The only person who had the sense to walk away on that high point was the video editor."

Tony was not to be derailed. "But that's what I love about doing improv," he insisted. "The audience doesn't expect every punch to land, so the ones that do, land harder! Kimmie and I have competed twice now for real, and it is a rush, man! But two people aren't enough to be competitive. That's why I want you and Steffie to join our team. I've seen you in class. You are both really good at it."

I knew that this had been where he was going... again. "Tony," I said exasperatedly, "no! I know Steff has told you no, too. I'm in this acting class so I can learn more about

writing

scripts and stuff. I know we have fun when we do improv exercises in class, but I just don't have the time. I have hard classes you know, beyond just these 5 easy credits." I also was moderately skittish about doing improv in front of strangers, instead of the supportive environment of a class full of people I knew. Tony didn't need to know that.

"But the rush!" insisted Tony. He lowered his voice and looked around for a second. "I mean, it is a

rush

. You should see how revved up Kimmie gets after a show. The night we did the first show, she about sucked my...."

"TMI!" I interrupted.

"This is why I'm telling you that you need to get Steffie to do it with you, man!" Tony emphasized. "At least, the next time you two have a date, why don't you double with me and Kimmie? We can talk about..."

"Dude, Steff and I are not dating. We have never dated." I interrupted. "Where the hell did you get that?"

"Pull the other one, Scott," laughed Tony at my assertion. "You cannot keep your hands off that girl... even right in class! It's been that way from the start of the semester."

"I just sit behind her in the theater so I can lean in and be part of the conversation with whomever she is sitting next to that day. As an excuse for leaning in and invading their space, I usually give her a neck rub. Steff doesn't mind, and she carries a lot of stress in her shoulders."

"Doesn't mind?" Tony scoffed at me. He leaned forward intently. "If you think that's how she feels about those little shoulder gropes, it's just because you're behind her and can't see the O Face she starts making after a few minutes of Scott's Magic Fingers. Look, if you are not just shitting me and genuinely aren't dating her, you need to fix that, stat. Your penis will thank you. And then you guys can double date with me and Kimmie, we can berate you into joining us doing improv, and we can all go on to fame and glory on SNL someday."

"So you want me to probably fuck up a damned good friendship, just so

you

will have a putatively easier time convincing

me

to do something I really do not want to do? The audience isn't buying it, dude."

"'Something you don't want to do?' Scott?" Tony leaned in. "Tell me with a straight face that you don't want to 'do' that glorious piece of ass."

I rubbed my face in frustration. "All right, I have eyes. Steff is in fact a knockout," I said, then bore on swiftly before Tony could get a leer in. "But I am not trying to date her. Get over it."

Steff really was just a good friend. Maybe the best one I had made since going back to college there in Atlanta. At 23, I was beginning to become vaguely aware that the friendships adults made and had were different from the disposable but intense ones you have in high school or college. I was also more than vaguely aware that I did not have the greatest history of success with dating. Not my fault, but history was not flowing in my direction at that point. I would have far rather had Steff the wealthy and powerful lawyer be my friend for the next fifteen years or more, than have a couple of dates (assuming she'd actually go out with me in the first place),

maybe

some sex, and then ending up never seeing her again. I explained all this to Tony, in acid, specific detail.

What I did not explain, because he didn't fucking

need to know

, was that I did not consider Steff some 'glorious piece of ass'. To me, she was the

most

glorious piece of ass at school. Seriously. Rubbing her shoulders was a privilege.

But it wasn't like I was fixated on her. Sure, she was number one in appearances in my masturbatory fantasies at the time, but I had quite the roster of regulars there, celebrities and real life acquaintances alike. And Atlanta had lots of sexy women. There were plenty of guest appearances just from random passengers I had seen that night on MARTA.

Look, what I'm saying is that I was not rubbing one out to thoughts of Steff every night.

It did happen, I'll admit. Regularly.

But the two of us were not going to happen, so I was content to be friends, and was glad for that.

"I still say you two are this close to boning," grumbled Tony. He snatched my script off the table before I could stop him. It was the scene Steff and I were doing for our performance that was the semester final exam in the mighty Acting 101. "I've read this," taunted Tony. "This is by far the steamiest thing any pair in the class is trying, and by a country mile. Did Steff pick this one out?"

"I did," I replied hotly. "And don't raise your eyebrows! Do you think I'd have even considered suggesting that scene to her if I was trying to get in her pants?"

"Yes," said Tony in all seriousness. "I think you were being diabolical."

"You have a higher opinion of me than you should," I laughed back, meaning every word of it. "Now, will you please shut up and move?" I went on, indicating the chess board between us. "I only have twenty more minutes to beat your ass before I have to go to my dumbass College Republicans thing."

"How can someone as cool as you be a Republican?" Tony asked in another frequent refrain, as he finally took the pawn I'd just exposed.

"How can someone who has enough foresight to think three moves ahead like you be a Democrat?" I replied with a laugh. I pondered the board longer than I needed to and slid my bishop up and over two spaces. "Check."

"Dumbass," replied Tony, sliding his Queen toward the bishop, but I stopped him.

"You don't think

four

moves ahead though," I laughed. "When I moved my bishop, your queen became pinned by my rook. Such a shame...."

To be honest, I, and probably Steph, was feeling a little uncertain about how ready we actually were for such an intimate scene, with such racy dialog. It showed in how long we took to get around to rehearsing with each other. But by this point, we only had a couple of weeks left, so we finally made arrangements. Steph lived in a house and I lived in a dorm, so the venue was obvious, and I arrived for our first rehearsal that Sunday night. She lived in a gorgeous house with one of those circular driveways which was way-out in the burbs. I pulled up right in front of the entrance and rang the bell. In less than thirty seconds, she opened the door.

I always freeze for just a moment every time I lay eyes on her, though I've learned to hide it. At 5'4", Steff had short, very stylish brown hair with natural highlights, an open, intelligent, utterly symmetrical face with dark blue eyes, and wide, delicate, expressive lips that smiled easily and dazzlingly. She ushered me in, brandishing her copy of the script and leading me into the great room of the very expensive home. I wanted to take it all in as we moved, but Steff walking in front of me was, as usual, distracting. I tore my eyes off her slender, swaying hips though, and examined the space. It was huge, and two stories high. The furniture was obviously expensive and managed to look both stylish and comfortable at the same time. Over the huge fireplace was a giant portrait of a very handsome man who seemed in his late forties, early fifties.

"Is that your dad?" I asked.

"It was," Steff replied, a little subdued. "He died just over a year ago."

"Wow! I'm so sorry," I exclaimed. "You've never said anything about your family."

"It would have been kind of a downer subject," replied Steff. She straightened her spine almost imperceptibly and continued, "And besides, I don't want people's image of me to center on 'orphan'."

"Ouch. Yeah. But you still have your mom, right?" I said, blundering further.

"Mom dies six years ago. Meredith is my

step

-mother," Steph told me, with some firmness. "I've never called her mom, and to her everlasting credit, she never wanted me to. Have a seat," she said indicating the huge couch in the middle of the room. There was a condensation-covered carafe of ice and water, and two glasses on a tray sitting on the coffee table before it.

I sat near one end and looked at Steff with a grimace. "Sorry about the M-word. I guess you and she don't get along?"

Steff actually looked around, as if looking for the lady in question. She obviously didn't see her and plopped down on the couch about two-thirds of the way along it away from me with a tom-boyishly elegant lack of feminine grace. "You could have said that in spades right at first. Sixteen year-old girls are not known for their welcoming attitudes when their forty-seven year-old widowed fathers marry twenty-nine year-old junior partners at their law firm. I was pretty brutal, actually," she added sheepishly. "But Meredith was totally cool and understanding, and gave me my space. She's closer to my age than she was to my dad's, after all. She didn't want to be my mother, and God damned sure didn't want to

replace

her. She just set out to be my older female friend who had been there and done that, and had some insights for me if I asked for them. I stopped hating her in less than a year, but it took me two years to realize that she'd taken away the miserable shell of a man that my father had become when my mom died, and given me back my Dad. I've always thanked her for that," she finished quietly.

"Those are beautiful words, Steff. Thank you," came a soft alto voice behind us. "But let the record show that I don't think I've ever actually heard you say that to

me

..."

Steff whipped around with a start, and I turned a little more slowly. A woman I correctly assumed was Meredith had just come out of the kitchen.

"Jesus, Meredith," exclaimed Steff. "I didn't see you! What were you doing in the kitchen?"

"I do cook, you know," replied Meredith archly.

"Breakfast," laughed Steff. "When was the last time you cooked in the evening?"

"Stipulated," shrugged Meredith. She raised a mug in her hand and went on, "I was steeping a cup of tea. I'm still something of a junior partner, so I still have to take late-nighters. I have a trial in the morning."

"Bummer," said Steff. "We are going to order pizza while we work on this scene tonight. What can I get you on yours?"

"Hawaiian, please. And thank you," said Meredith. Then she paused for just a moment longer than was comfortable, as if waiting. With a twinkle in her eyes she at last turned to me and extended her hand. "I'm Meredith Chisholm, Stephanie's... roommate," she said.

"What Meredith is trying to say, in her ex-step-not-my-mom way, is 'aren't you going to introduce me to your friend, young lady?'" said Steff drily.

The banter between Meredith and Steff had bought me time, and thank God. Because if every time I laid eyes on Steff caused me to freeze up a little in appreciation, that effect was nothing compared to encountering Meredith for the

first

time. Even in the soft flats that she wore, she turned out to be nearly as tall as I was, and her loose, flowing khaki trousers and icy pink blouse that was buttoned to the neck didn't so much hide her figure as loudly whisper about some impressive curves lurking within. Only the narrow waistband of the slacks testified as fact that she had a narrow waist and a belly flat as hell. Her hair was a mass of shoulder-length blonde waves that bounced as she moved but always returned to rest in perfect position. It had either been colored that morning, or that blonde was her natural hair color. Her eyebrows supported the theory, as they were barely a shade darker, but still unmistakably blonde. When I noticed that, my brain swiftly rebooted, twice, to stop my instant speculation about what the hair on other area of her body was colored....

Meredith's face was stunningly, if unconventionally, beautiful. Her brown eyes were wide set and large, and made cunningly more so by careful makeup. The smile on her darkly painted, generous lips was always a little uneven, as if the right side of her face was always more happy, and the left a little skeptical. Her nose was sharp and regal, if a tiny bit large for its setting. The overall effect was arresting; this was a Woman--fully formed, confident, gorgeous, successful, and smart. She turned her gaze on me fully and I felt myself being analyzed swiftly but comprehensively. There was nothing hostile or protective in her examination of me. It just seemed the natural product of a curious and competitive mind.

As I said, it was fortunate I had time during her byplay with Steff to process her appearance enough to move and speak freely. I rose like a gentleman and took her hand. Her grip was inevitably firm, confident, but still feminine--the handshake of a professional adversary who was also unutterably feminine. I was pleased at myself for returning the firm handshake in kind, but less pleased at the way my voice verged on babbling when I spoke. "Pleased to meet you Mrs. Chisholm, uh, ma'am," I blurted. "I'm Scott Talbott."

Meredith laughed. Even with the tiniest hint of irritation it bore, her chuckle was almost as rich, genuine, and beautiful as when Steff laughed. "Wow! A 'Mrs.' and a 'Ma'am' in a single greeting. Where's my walker?" She smiled her delightfully crooked smile again and instructed me, "Meredith will do." She added a "Please?" that was both relaxed and a tiny bit plaintive.

We exchanged a few comments about the linguistic perils of being raised and living in the South, and Meredith asked me if that was my Tesla parked at the front door. Steff buried her face in her hands and sighed, "Oh for Christ's sake, Meredith, now you've got him going about that damned car. I swear he'll try to get you to buy one online before he runs down on the subject... about two hours from now!"

"I," I said archly, "was merely going to ask if Meredith had driven one, and perhaps offer her a chance to drive mine later if she hadn't." I was then unable to help myself and began to go on about how much I loved my damned car and how great it was. Steff and most of my other friends had learned to not get me going about Teslas.

Meredith simply held up her hand good-naturedly and said, "No driving for me tonight, and I'll probably stick with my 500SL anyway, thank you very much. And I am about to hie off to the exercise room upstairs, anyway. That will give you two your privacy to rehearse your scene, and I will have mine, along with the mirrors up there to rehearse

my

arguments for tomorrow."

As she turned to leave, giving me my first glimpse at what was probably a great ass moving elegantly beneath those loose slacks, Steff called after her, "I'll call you when the pizza comes!"

Our first rehearsal did not go terribly well.

First, neither of us had done as much work as we should have on actually memorizing our lines. I, in particular, kept jumping forward or backward in the scene, whereas Steff just flat out forgot words or even whole lines of dialog. But at least she usually knew where the hell we were supposed to be in the scene.

More importantly, our acting sucked. The two of us had a little talent, I thought, and were usually incredibly at ease with each other, but not now... not at all. The scene was of a young married couple who were having relationship troubles. My character wanted to fix everything by going to back to having sex as much as they used to. He doesn't say so straight out, because he's not an idiot, and not a bad guy at all, really. But as the argument goes on and becomes more intense, his vocabulary and intent becomes more and more... ardent. Steff's character in turn worries that their relationship has always been only about sex and wants to focus entirely on everything but. Both characters actually want a full relationship, but they have each become focused on fixing only one thing, the same thing, but in opposite ways. The whole relationship works out once they both finally come out and say what they actually mean, but the scene is long, intense, and sexually-charged. When our professor approved our choice of scene, she said that it would be a hard one to do well, but that she thought the two of us would be up to it. Once we started rehearsing together, it didn't take long for both of us to question her judgement.

For my part, I was having a miserable time hitting the lustful notes. They had been my best work when rehearsing alone, and only imagining saying the words to Steff, but with her there before me in the flesh, listening to my voice, I was frankly terrified to sell some of those lines. I had never been alone with Steff, ever. We hung out a lot, but it had always been in public, usually with other friends in a group. Now I was saying--trying to say, these sexually charged lines to her, and in a social vacuum. I found that I was wildly hesitant to do so. While still trying to remember only half-memorized lines, my mind raced to analyze what was the problem. Fortunately, I mostly kept my outer cool. Unfortunately, that just meant that I just sounded like I was the worst actor in the sixth grade play.

Steff was not on her game either. The hesitancy and deflection that she was supposed to be exuding were pretty dim. But she was a hell of a lot better than me at that point, and I could sense she was happy to divert her own dissatisfaction with herself onto my own miserable efforts.

"Look," Steff said, breaking character after I managed to mangle a line both with the words and the delivery, "maybe this scene just isn't for us. Do you think she'd let us change this late in the game?"

"Probably not," I sighed, "but we could try." In saying it though, my pride, and perhaps some other parts of my mind, informed me that I didn't want to quit on this thing. "But look, I know we are sucking,

I

am sucking right now, but it is a great scene. This is only our first rehearsal. I think we can do this, if we put in the work."

"Maybe," said Steff almost eagerly, but then she shook her head and grumped, "Neither of us is going to be an actor though, and I don't want to screw up my Pre-Law GPA over Acting 101!" We stood there going back and forth and things were generally going south when we were saved by pizza.