"This is a lot of conditions," he said.
"Yes," I agreed, "But you're asking a lot, too."
"Okay, what else?" he asked.
"When I ask you, " I said, "You have to look at the book and masturbate while I watch."
"What!" he said.
"You heard me. I want to be sure the pictures arouse you. It's the only way I'll know."
"How frequently will this be necessary?" he was intrigued by this. Men are such trolls.
"As much as I ask. Maybe every day."
"But..."
"Do you want the pictures, or not?" Now, he's starting to think about how I'm feeling. He looks uncertain. Good.
"Hmmmm..." was all he could manage. He's all aroused at the idea, but I've engaged the other side of his brain. It's fun to watch his words escape him. I try hard to stifle a smile.
I pull off my blouse and show him my boobs in a lacy pink bra. The nipples show through and believe me, they're proud for his gaze. He likes to do me while I'm wearing that bra. I didn't know any of this was coming, but boy, was that a good choice this morning.
"MMMM..." is all he can muster. I laugh out loud.
"If you want the pictures, you're going to have to operate the camera while I'm naked. That's got to be harder than talking."
His trousers are tented out. That's intriguing, but we've got to settle this pictures thing.
I remove my bra, slowly, not like a stripper but in as feminine a manner as possible. You know what I mean. A chaste, but definitely female motion. Admit it, you've practiced this in the mirror.
He's actually having a hard time keeping the extra saliva in his mouth. I'll never get an answer, now.
"I think my breasts are still pretty, aren't they? They'd look nice in a picture. You can just nod if you like."
He nods, emphatically. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.
I unzip my skirt, slowly. I don't think it's provocative, but apparently, he does. I drop the skirt to the floor, revealing the matching panties. They're sheer, also, and he can see the little pink rose above my vulva through them. He calls it the happiest place in the world. Some book. I make him kiss it, sometimes. He swears it smells like a rose. You know, a dab of the right scent, just before. Glamour.
Well, his mouth is hanging open.
I turn so that he can see my butt which is definitely not covered by the lacy panties.
"I'm definitely not eighteen any more, but I think if you're careful, it'll look nice in the pictures, don't you? With the right lighting?" He took a photography course.
I don't mean to wiggle it, but you know, it's hard not to.
He moans, low down in his chest. It sounds like an animal.
His hands are wiggling. They want to touch something, hold something. Possess something.
Me, I guess.
"I didn't mean to get you all excited." (Damn, that's a lie, isn't it? I try so hard not ever to lie to him.)
He makes a noise men are not supposed to make. It's actually frightening. I don't know what's holding him back. All the cerebral stuff like manners, concern for relationships, that's surely ....
He doesn't. Hold back, I mean. When he's done, I'm all wet and icky, but happy, you know. I'm laying on my tummy, the rosy glow on my chest and neck shows, but it's fading away. I don't know where the bra and panties are - I remember a pink arc across the room but I don't remember which direction.
He's still inside me but it's relaxing away, crawling out of me. That weight on my back is his chest.
A hand caresses my neck, my ear, my hair. He's so sweet, after.
"What about the pictures?" I ask.
IV
He's gone now.
Heart attack.
I garden, I shop, I keep the place picked up.
Church every Sunday.
The kids stop by from time to time.
They never let me keep the grands enough.
I remember.
I still feel his fingertips on me, I swear, his ghost reminds me sometimes.
It always makes me smile.
I remember his last kiss, strangely like the first one.
So tender, so full of promise.
"I love you," I say, to the air.
The kids are coming over this afternoon.
I've got to remember to lock up that picture book.
