Ellie. Focus.
Finger on the shutter. Eyes on the prize. He’s pumping hard and fast. He’s gone quiet. Everything has gone quiet. The softness of it descends on me, the only sound the slick slip of palm against flesh. No one even seems to be breathing.
I’m definitely not, at any rate. But my heart is kicking like a bitch and I have this weird taste in the back of my throat. I tell myself it’s just panic, because I don’t want to miss the shot. I can’t miss the shot. My hands are slippery with sweat, but there isn’t time to wipe them off. It seems to be taking forever. I’m sure it doesn’t normally take this long.
Tom gives the slightest of pauses. Amber, for all her posing prowess, is fiddling with one of her bra straps. She’s still got her mouth open and her tongue out, but she’s starting to look a bit, well, bored, for want of a better word.
I’m not bored. I swallow, hard, and then I dart the quickest of glances at Tom. His head is tipped back, a trickle of sweat streaking down towards his jaw. It’s hot in here, under the lights. His eyes are closed, his mouth open, and I can see the movement of his shoulder as he jerks himself off as I tell myself that this is the last time.
Please come. Oh god, please come. I grip the camera tightly, though my hands are slippery, and I force myself to watch through the lens, finger at the ready. All I have to do is press the button at the right moment. The technology will take care of the rest.
And then he turns his head slightly to one side, opens his eyes, and looks straight at me. He groans, jerks, goes still. Jerks, goes still again, then the sharp, musky smell of his climax fills the room. He’s coming all over Amber, but he’s looking at me.
Why is he looking at me?
My fingers barely keep a grip on the camera. The silence is really, really loud now. Something weird has just happened between Tom Hunt and me, something that can’t be taken away, even as he turns his back and starts fixing his clothes. Trousers and underwear are pulled up over thighs that are thicker, stronger, hairier than I’d imagined. You can rock yourself to orgasm on thighs like that. I’ve seen women do it.
And then, in that awkward space between sex finishing and real life starting up again, that moment when everyone catches their breath, all the reasons why this was a bad idea come rushing to the front of my mind. I mean, it’s not like this aspect of my job is ever a good idea, but this has taken bad to a whole new level. My secret is out. It’s gone beyond me, and the strangers I’ve photographed, and the best friend I trusted implicitly. It’s out there, now, and there’s no bringing it back.
‘Did you get the shot?’ Amber asks from her position on the floor.
‘Absolutely,’ I say. I’m such a liar. I didn’t get the shot, I didn’t even get close. I don’t need to check the image on the little screen on the back of my Canon to know that. Amber is my friend, my best friend, and I don’t have enough of those to risk losing the one I have. So what if he looked at me? He can look at a copy of flaming Knitting Weekly if it gets him off at the appropriate time. I should have got the shot. I’ve got no excuses. But suddenly all sorts of weird questions start fighting for room in my head, like does this mean he gets off looking at me, and do people really get off to Knitting Weekly?
‘Excellent,’ Amber continues. But Tom, he doesn’t say anything. He just grabs his jacket from the top of the velvet sofa that sits to the left of shot, and disappears into the bathroom at the back of the studio. Leaving me alone with Amber and her black lace lingerie and little silver tongue stud and the glob of Tom’s spunk that is slowly making its way down towards her left nipple. She doesn’t seem to have noticed it. ‘When will I be able to see the shots?’
‘Wednesday,’ I say. Another lie. Everything is digital. She could have a look at them right now. But usually I give myself a couple of days’ leave, time to delete any pictures that might give the impression that I don’t know one end of a camera from the other. I don’t want my clients to think I’m the sort of person who makes mistakes. It’s just that sometimes, I lose my focus a little.
‘Brilliant!’ she says, getting to her feet. The glance she darts towards the back of the studio doesn’t escape my notice. ‘He’s hot,’ she says. ‘And did you see the size of it?’
‘I was working,’ I say quickly. ‘Not letching on Tom Hunt.’ I need to get both of them out of here so I can think.
‘It’s always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for,’ she continues. ‘I mean, look at you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes! Who would think quiet, sensible Ellie Smithson is a pornographer?’
‘Photographer,’ I say automatically. ‘I’m a photographer.’ From now on, that’s exactly what I am. Nothing more, nothing less. I only wish I’d made that decision before Amber dragged Tom Hunt in here and sucked him off in front of me.
‘I’ll get dressed then,’ she says, with another glance at the bathroom door, which sends my mind into a frenzy. Obviously she wants to get him out of here. She’s probably going to take him home and they’re going to fuck each other silly, which they’re entitled to do.
But that doesn’t stop a nasty little seed of jealousy settling down inside me. I want the man my best friend has just had. I want him so badly. I turn away; pack my camera away into its silk lined case, start turning off the lights. My blouse is sticking under my arms. So now I’m not just a jealous bitch, I’m a sweaty jealous bitch. What’s really bugging me is that the fact that it’s him hurts more than the fact that she told someone I know that I take erotic photographs.
‘Use the screen,’ I say, waving my arm in its general direction. That’s why I invested in it, not just because I like the Chinese dragons weaving their way over the faded red silk. This post-sex bit is always tricky, and the screen gives people somewhere to hide. They usually avoid eye contact too, though Amber is having no problems making it with me. ‘Thanks!’ she says cheerily. Then she moves towards me and gives me a hug. ‘Thanks for doing this, Ellie. You’re the best.’
Five minutes later she’s gone, and she hasn’t taken him with her. Two minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom. His tie is straight, his shirt tucked neatly into his trousers, and he’s tamed his hair. He’s also shivering.
‘Fuck me,’ he says, ‘it’s cold in there.’
Tom Hunt just said fuck. The man who does my accounts and lectures me about my awful handwriting just said fuck. I don’t know why this shocks me so much, given what I’ve just watched him do, but something about that little word sends an electric tremor through my insides. The same thing happened when he opened his shirt and I first saw that tattoo, and when he opened his pants and pulled out his enormous cock.
It occurs to me that Tom Hunt isn’t the person I thought he was, which is terrifying to say the least. ‘Oh,’ I say, my mouth fumbling for the words. ‘Right. Yes. I probably should have told you about that. You have to flick the switch on the wall to turn on the heater. It takes ages. I wasn’t expecting you to come, so I didn’t turn it on earlier. Sorry about that.’
He raises an eyebrow, and I realise what I’ve just said, and the inevitable blush is fast and fierce. Tom Hunt is too much and too here for me to deal with right now, but there are
