Photo Finish

By Anya Wassenberg

Her face is nearly perfect—brows a nice, clean arch over heavily shadowed green eyes, lips sharply defined in a dark red. Just a little loose powder, that's all she needs, for that matte finish the camera loves. I stare at her for a few seconds more before reaching into the vanity drawer to shuffle around for the compact. Translucent finishing powder, ivory. I handle the little brush deftly, almost without thinking, applying a thin layer of dust over all the other paint.

"What time is it?" I call over my shoulder, and Marty answers me from downstairs.

"Quarter to."

I'm right on schedule. Now back to the mirror. Her face is ready and the hair that frames it looks good too, long and blonde, tumbling over my shoulders in soft waves. I give her a wink, this girl in the mirror. No worries, Blondie. You look great!

"He's here," Marty calls up from the bottom of the stairs, "at least, I think that's him."

My heels click across the floor of the hallway quickly to the bedroom, then they're muffled by the carpet as I head for the window. A black BMW with New York plates pulls up across the street. I watch as he parks, then gets out and fetches his equipment from the trunk; a couple of duffel bags, a couple of lights. A quick glance up and down the block, and a few curious neighbors look from the porches of this leafy residential street near the Niagara River. But they've seen this before.

"You must be Rick," and I smile with my hand outstretched. Rick takes it firmly.

"Hi," he says with a big smile back.

"Come on upstairs," and I turn to lead the way. Marty closes the French doors on the downstairs. Rick is right behind me as I climb back up with exaggerated movements.

"So," I turn to face him once we've gotten to the bedroom, "I thought this to start out," and I raise my arms a little to show, turning around so he gets the full effect, as if he hadn't already from the trip upstairs. "Short and sweet, and with all the buttons, it's good for a strip sequence, you know? Then I have lots of lingerie and stuff, different shoes, you can choose whatever you want me to wear."

"Right," says Rick, "yah. That looks great." He sorts out his cameras, sets up his lights, while I sit demurely on the bed and wait. "Ready?" he asks finally.

"Sure. Where do you want me to start?"

Rick studies me for a moment. I'm learning to recognize that look they get in their eyes - clinical, analytical. My spine arches in response, muscles tighten. I curl into an inviting shape.

"That's fine," he says, "just like that."

So we begin our choreography, me twisting and gyrating on the bed, unbuttoning and shedding layers as he circles around with his camera. I'm down to lingerie; bra and panties, and stockings, all in basic black. It's always a good place to start, and it contrasts nicely with my pale skin and hair. I slip the straps from my shoulders, then unhook my bra from the back and let it slide off completely. I fall back onto the mattress, twisting my nipples between thumb and middle fingers until they harden to tiny rosebuds. My fingers skim down farther to my belly, where they push inside my panties.

Rick moves closer, and slowly I move the panties aside to expose the great prize. His eyes are big, wide open, when I pull open my lips for that first all important pink shot.

"Nice pussy," he says. "Really nice."

"Thanks." Everybody says that. I've never been sure what it means, though. "I have toys," I mention casually. "Do you want video clips too? Masturbation maybe?"

"Yah. Sure," he says, pausing for a second to stare at my nice pussy. "You do a lot of video?"

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Photo Finish

By Anya Wassenberg