Jane O'Reilly - Indecent...Nights

‘Fuck,’ says the woman, and for the second time today, I’m shocked by that word. It’s not nearly as shocking as what she says next, though. ‘God, I’d like to suck on those tits.’

Not Tom’s cock, all eight inches of which are displayed in their full, hard glory, but Amber’s tits. She looks at her fiancé, and some sort of silent message passes between them.

‘Sorry about this,’ he says, as he takes her hand and pulls her towards the door, ‘but we’re going to have to cut this short.’

She stumbles along behind him, not saying anything, her heeled boots loud on my polished floorboards. The door slams shut behind them. I stand there like an idiot, trying to wrap my head around it.

I’ve just had two clients walk out on me. Two clients who now know exactly what sort of photographic services I offer, because I told them. In fact, I went a whole step further than that and showed them. But that’s not my biggest problem. Not by a mile. I press my hands to my cheeks, unable to tear my gaze away from the image. Tom Hunt knows about me , I think to myself. What the hell am I going to do about that?

I’m still trying to figure that out at 5 as I’m pushing the hoover round the studio with what can only be described as a microscopic amount of enthusiasm. And I’ve got another problem.

I didn’t get the shot.

I could call Amber and get her to drag Tom back in here and redo the shoot. I’d get to see Tom’s cock and Amber’s tits all over again. Thinking about it makes gets me excited, and that makes me feel just a little bit sick. I can’t seem to stop myself from getting aroused, which is bad enough when strangers are involved. But getting turned on at the thought of Tom and Amber – what is wrong with me? Because it is a turn on, even though it makes me jealous, too. I stop myself a second before my dirty mind starts conjuring up images of all three of us going at it together.

I should be at home. I haven’t had anything to eat all day, and it’s way past normal locking-up time. Instead I’m cleaning the bleeping studio. It’s a definite avoidance tactic. If I go home, I will have my hand in my underwear and I’ll be rubbing myself into a frenzy before I’ve closed the front door and I won’t even try to stop myself. I’m only managing to avoid it now because I’ve left the blinds open and the bathroom is sub-zero.

Bloody hell. I yank the hoover out from under the sofa, kick the switch then drop the hose on the floor. I make my way to the bathroom at the back of the studio and tug on the light. I grab the bleach, tell myself to stop being such a ninny and go home, and am about to blast a shot into the bowl when something on the floor grabs my attention.

I set the bleach down and reach down for it.

It’s a black leather wallet, soft and good quality. I flip it open, although I already know who it belongs to before I check out the cards in the slots.

Tom Hunt has left his wallet in my bathroom.

I lift it to my face and inhale deeply. It smells like him. Leather, citrus and filth. A weird sort of giddy excitement fills me, from the tip of my toes, rushing up through my legs, turning my breasts heavy before escaping from my mouth in a sneaky little sigh.

There’s no avoiding it any longer.

I’m horny.

I don’t want to feel this way, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Watching other people does something to me. I can still remember the first time someone came in and asked me if I did bedroom shots. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but the studio had been open for three weeks and I was low on clients and even lower on funds. So I said sure, and proceeded to photograph her as she stripped off and then pleasured herself with a massive glass dildo. She ordered thirteen 8x10s and sent them to her boss.

A couple of weeks after that, I had a phone call and another client. And then another, and another, until I was doing three or four boudoir shoots a month and I’d seen pretty much everything it was possible to see, including a few things I didn’t even know were possible. I’d broken up with my boyfriend who went a very strange shade of puce after I asked if I could take some photos of him pleasuring himself, but I’d made enough money to pay my parents back the loan they’d reluctantly given me when I started up.

I tug off the light and go back into the studio and lock away all my equipment apart from my laptop and the memory card from my camera. I’m going to look at the shots I did get for Amber, see if I can rescue the situation, and then I’m going to return Tom Hunt’s wallet. I’m a professional. I can handle it.

Only before I can turn the laptop on, there’s a knock at the door. A big, dark shape fills it. I freeze. Then I swear really, really loud. ‘Fuck!’ I don’t know why my brain picks that word. It’s not one I ever say out loud, and certainly not when there’s a chance anyone might hear it. Shaking, I get to my feet and open the door.

Tom Hunt is standing there. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I, uh…’

I pull myself together, sort of; try to tell myself that this is a good thing. Really, it is. He’s saved me a job. ‘You want your wallet,’ I say, even though it’s stating the obvious.

‘Yeah.’

I hold it out and he reaches for it, taking it from me with those big, thick fingers. He’s wearing the same awful beige suit he had on earlier. It’s beyond hideous, but he gets away with it. Probably something to do with the vast quantity of muscle I now know is hidden inside it. ‘Is that everything?’ I ask, hoping it is and then he’ll leave and I can get on with pretending that today never happened.

‘How was your afternoon?’ he asks. ‘Did the shoot goOK?’

My resolve is flimsy. That iota of concern breaks it. ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘Not exactly.’

‘What went wrong?’

He steps forward, into the studio, and my feet move me out of his way. ‘What didn’t?’

He closes the door behind him. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’

‘Maybe.’ It feels strange talking to him about it, but I’ve got to talk to someone. And I can’t exactly talk to Amber right now. ‘That couple that arrived earlier?’

He nods. ‘Looked like they washed before and after sex. And probably during, just to be on the safe side.’

The description nails them so perfectly that I can’t help but laugh, and I dig my nails into my palm when it comes out as more of a snort. ‘Yes. Anyway, we’re all ready to go. He’s looking smug, she’s flicking her hair and flashing the diamond, and I turn on the camera and a shot of you and Amber comes up on the screen.’

‘Oh,’ says Tom. ‘Shit.’

‘You could say that. He sees it, gets…excited, and then she starts giving him the third degree.’ I sink down on to the sofa; drop my head into my hands. Tom plants himself on the arm. This is the second time I’ve been alone and in touching distance of him today, and it’s obviously starting to screw with my head, because I’m finding this conversation almost comforting, and I’m starting to think things I shouldn’t be thinking.

‘Poor bloke,’ he says. ‘She could have been a little more understanding.’

‘Why? Because no man can be expected to control himself when Amber’s you know whats are on display?’

Tom laughs, but he doesn’t answer the question. ‘So what happened then?’

I shuffle a little in my seat. He’s not who I thought he was, not even close. I don’t seem to be me, either. I’m still talking. And I’m saying things that don’t sound like me. ‘She asks him what the hell that’s all about, I tell her I accidentally put up an erotic photo, and she tells me to show it to her, so I do. The pair of them take one look at it and leave.’