One
Jane O’Reilly
Setting up the money shot…
Quiet, sensible Ellie Smithson is a highly respectable photographer by day – but there are only so many wedding photo-shoots you can take without your mind wandering to what happens when the blissfully happy bride is swept off her feet and straight to the honeymoon suite’s sumptuous four-poster bed…
So after dark, Ellie takes pictures of a more…intimate nature – a dirty little secret she’s kept from her accountant Tom. Until now. It seems Tom is the subject of her next racy shoot!
It isn’t just the blurring of work and personal boundaries that’s the problem; secretly Ellie has always had fantasies of a most unprofessional nature about the almost illegally gorgeous Tom. With such temptation on display, how will she ever stay behind the camera?!
It’s not every day that your best friend crashes into your place of work and asks you to take photos of her sucking off someone you’d really rather she didn’t, and who absolutely shouldn’t know that you’re the sort of person who takes photos of that sort of thing.
So I guess today isn’t an everyday kind of day. Apart from the taking photographs part of it. That’s normal, for me anyway. Usually I take lovely, glossy, clean shots of children and weddings, but that’s not what Amber wants. She wants the other kind. The dirty and hot and downright rude kind that I do on the side and process in secret in my little dark room, like some sort of 1950s mac-wearing pornographer, only without the mac.
I’d gone for a white Marks and Sparks blouse and a knee-length skirt that morning, my routine Tuesday outfit. Everything was following the routine. Everything was normal. I wasn’t prepared for this at all. I can hear Tom’s breathing speeding up. Amber plants her hands firmly on his bare thighs, wiggles her arse up in the air, and gives him a slow, loud suck. She’s completely into this, into being photographed. It happens more often than you’d think. And it always, always gets the best pictures. When the client is getting off on the fact that I’m here, that I’m taking a set of erotic 8x10s for their husband or their boyfriend or just for their own pleasure. A lot of couples like looking at pictures of themselves. You wouldn’t believe the letters I get. Better than relationship counselling, apparently.
‘OK,’ I say, as her head plunges forwards and she opens her mouth wide and takes another long pull on him. She lets out a moan, sucks him deep into her throat again. I’d rather not say anything, but if I don’t, I won’t get good shots. ‘Move your head back a bit. That’s it. Keep the end in your mouth.’ She does as I ask, with some guidance from Tom Hunt’s big hands on the sides of her neat blonde bob. ‘Perfect.’ I take the shot, focusing all my attention on her, despite the fact that it keeps getting away from me, keeps switching to him.
I’ve got to ignore him. He isn’t here. This isn’t happening. I am not taking photos of my best friend giving my accountant a blowjob.
‘Now I’d like to take some shots of you licking the end.’ Her wet, pink tongue slips between her lips, and she swirls it round the fat, swollen head of his cock. I move in closer and adjust the focus, making sure I get the shot exactly right. I lower the camera; check the image in the screen on the back. Dammit, the lighting isn’t right. ‘Hold on a second,’ I tell the two of them, or more specifically Amber, as I lean across and adjust the angle of the light. I’ve got to get the contrast just right. She wants everything to be all black and white and arty, so that when she slips the pictures through the letterbox of her cheating scumbag boyfriend, she’s not just saying two can play at that game, she’s saying and I do it with class. If I didn’t know that was what she wanted the pictures for, I’d have refused to take them.
Amber isn’t listening. Her head keeps on bobbing up and down, one strap of her black lace bra slipping down over her shoulder as she works him. She’s got seriously impressive boobs. I mean seriously. She’s one of those skinny women who is no hips and all tits, the kind that make you feel a little bit sick with jealousy, and normally I wouldn’t torture myself by looking at them, but it’s either that, or look at Tom Hunt’s astonishingly muscled stomach and big, stiff penis, and I really can’t look at that, no matter how much I want to.
I’ve kept my crush on him to myself, mostly because it’s so inappropriate. He’s my accountant, for god’s sake. I take him my pile of account books once a month, and he does stuff with them and then I collect them. And we don’t make eye contact, and I pretend that I’m not staring at his hands, and he doesn’t ask me to explain the difference between ‘portrait’ and ‘personal portrait’, and when I get home I deal with the hot, acute ache I get between my thighs every time I see him and it’s all fine. It’s been all fine for the past three years. I can’t see how it will be fine after this, though.
I adjust the angle of the light. It catches the bottom of his stomach, highlighting the tattoo of a bird swooping down past his belly button. ‘OK,’ I say, not looking at that bird. I am not looking at that bird. If I look at that bird, I won’t be able to stop myself from looking at his cock. ‘I’m going to get some close-up shots now.’
I guess you might think it’s a bit weird, watching your friend suck off a guy and taking pictures of it and directing them like they’re posing for a formal portrait. To be honest, I think it’s a bit weird, when I let myself think about it at all.
Amber lifts her head, wipes her mouth with the back of one hand, the other holding him in a tight fist. His cock is so thick that her fingers don’t even meet. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Cool.’ She’s got absolutely no shame. If I didn’t know it before, I definitely know it now. And Tom Hunt, FFS. Couldn’t she find someone else? Did it have to be him?
No time to worry about that now though. I set my finger to the button, take the shot. Move a little to the left, take another. The
