Fantasy Snap Shots

[emily.babe135790]

Credits to original author.

It was the walk up the stairs I seem to remember most. Simply thinking about it always sets my heart to thumping. I find myself, mostly late at night, but too, at the oddest and occasionally in the most public of situations, succumbing to the daydream and reliving vividly everything about each step, from the creak of that one loose board to how her hair looked in the afternoon light and the way her dress moved as I followed, watching her from behind. It was one of the most singular events in my life, so alive, so indelible, imbued upon me with a level of immediacy and intensity, I'm sure, something akin to the scale of awareness and anticipation a condemned man must experience, when he takes that last, long walk.

Her name was Cynthia, but I almost always called her Cynth. We were neighbors. Neither one of our homes was very much by today's standards. We lived in one of those lower middle class neighborhoods, which seem to sprout amongst the cracks and fringes of every big city. Except for the occasional pink, plastic flamingo displayed in the small plots of lawn out front, or perhaps a slightly different color of paint on the shutters or door, it was virtually impossible to tell one house from any other, row after row after row.

That day, I'd found her out on her porch. Summers here were always so hot, and come about late July a heavy boredom always set in. Our neighborhood was always quiet, even more so now as lots of families were away on vacation, at the beach, the mountains, anywhere they could find a cool breeze or breath of fresh air. For those who remained, the hours stretched out interminably to where it seemed one could easily count from one to ten between each tick of the second hand. Ironically, during these dog days even the neighborhood animals seemed to have fallen prey to the monotonous languor, and it became rare to hear a dog bark, or for that matter, to see a car drive by and momentarily disturb the heavy hush hanging over the streets. The very stillness of the air and the emptiness of the haze lingering in the sky were all just elements of the doldrums of summer.

I'd come outside and noticed her right off. She was wearing one of those summery, cotton dresses. I can still recall, for a fact, it had a pattern of little, blue flowers sprinkled across a light, yellow fabric. Cynthia Marshall, two and a half years older than me, and an effortless beauty with soft brown hair and lips so rich, so sweetly pink, when she smiled those bright, green eyes of hers just seemed to melt my heart and snatch my poor breath away.

We'd known each other forever; you can't live fifteen feet from someone else's driveway all of your life and not get to know them. When I was little, Cynth used to trick–or–treat with my older brother and me, the two of them holding my hands between them as we ran from door to door. Our families would sometimes share Easter egg hunts between our houses and bar–b–ques on the Fourth of July. She'd always been sweet to me, but in a big sisterly way. Yet, she'd been the one, through the luck of a spin, to endow me with my first real kiss, when we both found ourselves playing a game of spin the bottle during a neighborhood birthday party. Even before that unforgettable afternoon, when that empty Nehi bottle spun our way, she had been the featured highlight in every fantasy of mine ever since I could remember.

But most things change as we grow older; and she'd become one of the girls who ran with the big kids long before I ever did. I came to know about her, more than I knew her. I remember lying in bed, in the room I shared with my brother, Mark, and listening awestruck to stories about Cynthia ringing people's doorbells and running away, or teaming up with other kids to cause feuds between the cranky old ladies at the end of the block by switching around or stealing their prized ceramic garden gnomes and molded cement figurines. She was rare for such a beauty, because she was fun, maybe even what some people might call a little rambunctious. I never remember having seen her out on the street when she wasn't either running or skipping, her long pony tail flying as she passed. And as she began to mature, she was one of those girls who just suddenly blossomed. By the time she was in her middle teens, there wasn't a boy I knew who didn't hope she'd turn a smile his way. Yet, along with her budding physical charms, she was one of those girls possessed of a rare nature, which complements a sincere sweetness and an ease of confidence about herself. And later, when she was a senior in high college, and I was just a gangly freshman, there wasn't a person I knew who didn't think she was someone entirely special. Unfortunately, for all the rest of us waiting breathlessly in the wings, her boyfriend, a guy who owned a car and was a sophomore in college, was the one who was lucky enough to be the apple of her eye.

But that afternoon, that became our own. It will always stand out so freshly in my mind. The frescoes on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel won't endure as long or shine as clearly in time as does the clarity of this memory. I remember being bored, so bored I wandered outside, as that in itself was something to do. Seeing her out on her porch, I let the screen door slam a little too loudly and was rewarded when she sat up and looked my way. Sitting down on my porch railing I waved, and she waved back. Crossing my feet at the ankles, I hitched my thumbs in the pockets of my shorts, nowhere to go and nothing to do.

"Hey!" She called out, making another quick wave, beckoning over her shoulder with her hand. "Jimmy! Jimbo! Come on over!"

No sooner had I stepped up on her porch than she halted her swinging on the porch glider and scooted over, patting a spot for me to take a seat. "How've you been doing there, Jimbo?" Her voice was as warm and friendly as if we'd spoken only yesterday. "Haven't seen much of you this summer."

"I haven't seen you either," I came back. There simply was no feeling uneasy around her. With some friends you haven't seen much of, it sometimes takes a bit to get the awkwardness out of the way and get back on track. But there was something just so easy about everything with Cynth, so amiable, so sincere, totally at ease and completely disarming. "Where's your boyfriend, Cynth? I haven't seen him around much either."

She kicked out, setting the swing going in an easy arc. "He went with his folks to the mountains. They're going to be gone 'til Labor Day." Even her acting out an exaggerated childish pout couldn't fall flat. "He left me here to wilt while he goes plays chess with his dad and fishes for bass with his brothers. More likely though, he's just lying around like a big lout drinking beer all night and sleeping most the day."

"Sounds like the life," I replied.

"Yeah." That little half smile of hers was distant and wistful, and her eyes looked so far away. "I miss him."

We sat like that for quite awhile, maybe an hour, maybe more. Who knows? Time didn't mean a thing on such a sleepy summer's day. I hadn't really even said ten words to her in months, only "Hi" now and then in passing. But like old times, we fell back into ourselves, and before long we were remembering the old stories and recalling kids we used to know and things we used to do, just kicking back and chatting, again the best of friends. After a bit she went inside and got us some lemonade. We talked and sipped at our straws, laughing, as she could always make anyone laugh. And when my lemonade was gone I sat back, sucking on the ice cubes and just listening to her ramble about nothing of any importance, which was exactly what I was in the mood to hear.

"How's that brother of yours doing?" She asked out of the blue. "Does Mark still have that same cutie girlfriend?" She spiraled a hand above her head. "The one with all that hair?"

I wasn't really focusing on anything, just looking off across the street, but seeing her little pantomime got me to laugh again. "Yeah, I think so," I grinned. "Last I heard of, anyway. You know, he's going to be graduating from college next semester." She gave a quick whistle, her lips forming a note of genuine surprise. For some reason my eyes were spellbound by the shape of those lips.

"Where'd time get off to?" She asked after she'd let the whistle trail off. "Seems like forever since I last saw him, Christmas I think it was." She hitched her feet up under her dress, cross–legged, planting her hands down in the center of the spread of her dress and letting me swing the swing. "I'm glad next fall I'll be transferring to a college that's reasonably close. I'll be able to get home weekends and holidays. I get real lonely so quickly being away from everybody. I guess I'm just a hometown girl at heart. Mark though, who knows where that guy will end up."

"He's just a ramblin' kind of guy," I came back, feeling good about getting a laugh out of her.

"I forget," she asked. "What's he studying?"

"Photography," I answered, "just like my dad did. When he graduates the plan is he's supposed to work at my dad's portrait studio for a while. But he really wants to get in with an agency, in New York or LA and do some advertising photography and maybe even some freelance or artistic stuff. He's been shooting weddings to make a little extra cash." I raised my eyebrows and leaned in close to confide to her in a whisper. "He even did a boudoir shoot a couple of months ago."

"Boudoir?" Right off, her eyes lit up, and she leaned into me nudging me with her shoulder. "Isn't that," she started slowly, "isn't that where women pay to have pictures taken of themselves in sexy lingerie or bathing suits ... like for their husbands or boyfriends?"

She was so close, almost nose–to–nose; and the way she looked at me. It was as if the air around us had gone suddenly still and the heat had grown up around us. She was staring right into me, and I could see she was thinking of something. In a bit of panic I couldn't believe I had let that slip. I wondered what I could possibly have been thinking to have been so stupid as to have blurted that out. Mark, I'm sure didn't want it getting around. Even though it was 1965, and Playboy had been around for quite a while, some of our local Neanderthals could still get pretty up in arms about that kind of thing. Mark had told me about it when he was home over Memorial Day. I hadn't seen the pictures, but I knew he'd had to borrow my dad's private darkroom to develop the negatives and make the prints, as he probably would have gotten arrested had he tried taking the shots to a regular lab.

Suddenly Cynthia leaned back and planted her feet, stopping the swing. She slapped her hands down on her legs and stared back at me with that Cynth wildness in her grin. "You still shoot photos, too, don't you?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "I just got a new 35mm Ricoh for my eighteenth birthday last month. It's got a 28mm wide angle lens, f1.4, and my dad even got me a 100mm to go with the stock 50mm." I was always proud of any opportunity to talk about my cameras. I scooted around a bit to better face her. "It's got a flash, too! My dad's been helping me get the knack of it; flash is tough though. But you need it if you want to get an indoor shot just right. Of course, my dad he knows it all. He's got a full set of background lights with filters and gels, and he uses a system of umbrella strobes he's got synched to his large format Hassleblad."

She locked a hand down on my knee. "You've got film and stuff, too, right?"

"Sure, color and black and white." Her hand on my knee made me suddenly conscious of how close we truly were. Maybe it was the air had changed, but we seemed very alone together out on that porch. And up close, like this, I became aware I could smell her too. There wasn't any particular scent or flowery fragrance to her, just fresh, a breath of Cynth, clean and sweet.

She took her hand back and swiveled a bit more to face me straight on. She started to say something, but didn't. Maybe it was the heat, but her cheeks looked hot and flushed.

When she didn't say anything I asked, "What?"

She pursed her lips and shook her head.

"Come on, Cynth," I pressed. "It's me, Jimbo. What were you going to say?" I recall thinking she'd probably come up with one of her infamous gags or jokes to play on someone.

"I don't know." She pulled her feet out from under her skirt and let her legs swing down, twining her ankles and locking her knees. "I just kind of had a goofy idea." She shrugged and cocked her head, looking awkward for the first time I could ever remember. "You know me."

"Yeah, I know you," I came back. I must have been crazy because another wild admission came flying out of my mouth. "You're the one who gave me my first kiss."

Her mouth fell open, for but a moment, then the most wonderful smile came across her, and she laughed. "You remember that?"

I fell back in the glider trying to show her I was devastated. "Remember! Remember?" I stammered. "Are you kidding? Does a Texan remember the Alamo?"

Those emerald eyes of hers were positively afire. "I had no idea, Jimbo. I'm flattered." She pressed a hand lightly to her breast, as though stunned. "Was that really your first kiss?"

I nodded. It was my turn to lock my knees and twine my ankles.

"Well, well, Jimbo. I'm sure it wasn't your last."

Now I really was embarrassed. It seemed there was nothing I wanted to look at right now more than my sneakers.

"Don't worry about it," she said, obviously sensing my discomfort. "You've gotten to be quite a handsome guy. Wait 'til you're a senior this coming semester, then everything will change." She again put her hand on my knee. "You're gonna be a real lady killer, mark my words. You've got everything it takes. You're good looking." She noticed my chagrin and gave me a playful little shove. "You are! Don't sell yourself short, Jimbo. But most of all you're a good guy, and let me tell you," she locked her eyes on me, "that's something. That, coupled with that bod of yours, what else could a girl want?"

I looked up at her. I couldn't tell which made her seem to shine more, that she so honestly appeared to care or the candidness of the sincerity which rang in her voice.

"Hey!" She suddenly clapped her hands. "I'm going to ask you to do me a favor, a big, big favor."

Right then I would have run across a busy freeway blindfolded had she had asked me to. "Anything," I came back. "You name it."

"I'd like to send my boyfriend, Peter, a picture of me, not any old snapshot, but something nice, professional looking. You know, remind him what he's missing when he's gutting some fish instead of giving me a kiss. Do you think you could help me out?"

I sat up. "Now?"

"Sure. I mean, if you're not doing anything. I want to send something to shake that boy up."

I remember hardly even hearing the last of what she said. I was already thinking about where, indoors or outdoors, flash or no flash, wide angle lens or long focal length, sharp depth of field or soft focus.

"Hey, hey!" She jiggled my knee. "What do you say?"

I jumped up and flew off the porch. I was already across her driveway when I yelled back "Don't go anywhere, I'm getting my camera!" In a heartbeat I was back, camera bag slung over one arm and tripod in hand.

Standing with one foot on the stoop, I panted breathlessly. "Where do you want to do it?" Right off I knew how stupid that sounded.

It's a shame I didn't have the camera already set up because the charmed way in which she smiled back at me from where she sat on the glider was priceless. Her elbows on her knees she spread her hands. "Hey, you're the photographer; you tell me." She got to her feet, striking a pose without even thinking about it by just stretching out an arm to lean against the roof support. "I'm all yours, Jimbo."

"I'm all yours!" The words rang in my head. Ten thousand ideas sprung into my bedeviled mind all at once. But thankfully, I had a clarity of moment. "Hold it right there!" I blurted out, fumbling and dropping the tripod as I unslung my bag. "Just hold it. Don't move. Don't move!"

My fingers were trembling so wildly the lens cap flipped away like a wild shot in a game of tiddlywinks. Where it went I didn't even give a damn. I kept looking back up at her as I frantically tried to get the camera set on the tripod. When the camera was mounted, I fumbled around for my light meter, convinced that if a fugitive wanted to never be found all he had to do was find a way to hide out in a damn camera bag, and he'd be able to completely disappear. I finally found the thing and ran back up the steps waving it about as if I could possibly remember what I was doing. The whole time Cynth kept that pose, just relaxing into it, and her amused expression at my fluster and confusion was just about as perfect as it could be.

"Okay!" I yelled. "All set." I jumped back down and carefully set the shutter speed and f–stop. Walking around behind the camera I looked in the viewfinder, amazed at the picture I saw, then came back to myself and adjusted the angle to get her framed just right. I wasn't about to cut off this girl's head. Gripping the shutter's cable release, with my thumb poised, I thought about telling her to say: "Cheese." But on quick second thought decided I didn't want to do anything to upset the perfection of an almost classic Mona Lisa quality smile. "Be still," I called out, then counted: "One, two, three!" I pressed. Nothing!

"Did you get it?" She asked. "I didn't hear a click."

I looked down, bewildered. Everything was right: shutter speed, 30; f–stop set at 5.6; film speed indicator on 100. Then it hit me when I saw the frame count; I'd forgotten to advance the damn film. "Hang on! Hang on!" I cried out. Advancing the lever with my thumb, I then had to reset the framing in the viewfinder, and felt a wave of relief when I pressed the button and heard the shutter's click.

Cynthia had heard it too, as she pulled away from the post, standing and stretching with her arms up and her hands out. She winked at me. "I guess like a kiss, the first one's always the toughest."

"Do you want to take some more?" I fired back.

She dropped her arms. "Got more film?"

"Half a roll."

She stepped down and came walking over. There was something so feminine about how she looked in that dress, how she appeared to cross her knees with an easy, lilting step when she walked. The way her hair, it looked auburn in the sun, seemed to frame the lines of her neck and shoulders, and how the two buttons left undone at the top of the dress just allowed a hint at the fullness of her breasts concealed below. For the first time, too, I noticed I was now taller than she was, quite a revelation.

She reached out and tousled my hair. "You just tell me what you want me to do."

In the next hour I began to learn the unique thrill any photographer must enjoy when presented with a beautiful and willing model. Little by little, I started to loosen up and apply what I knew. I did one shot using my long focal length, 100mm lens. Moving back at a distance I had Cynthia stand next of one of the Mulberry trees, which ran down the city sidewalk in front of every house. Compressing the depth of field so that an entire block's worth of trees appeared only inches apart, I had her peek around the side of the closest trunk, kicking up one foot and stretching out her skirt while her hair fell away to the side. I took another shot with her sitting on the hood of a car and another up in a tree. It was so much fun, even a bit of a thrill to have her so willingly comply and follow my every command.

But then, I had a revelation. I told her to lie down in Mrs. Wilbun's flowerbed and face the camera. Doing just as I asked, she spread her elbows on the grass, propping up her chin in her palms. I came in for a close up, lowering the tripod and changing to my wide–angle 28mm. Lying as she was, the tops of her breasts were framed demurely below her hands, adding a spice of sensuality to an otherwise picture postcard pose. Kneeling in front of her, maybe I lingered too long taking in the view, because she momentarily broke the pose to look down, having followed my eyes. My ears caught fire when she saw what I was seeing. But to my surprise she didn't get angry at all. Instead, she sat up and gave me that wild, door–ringers smile I'd heard about, cocked her head in a "what the hell" salute, and reached down and popped one more button loose. Then she lay back down, moving so her breasts were pressed out by her weight against the ground and said, "How 'bout this? Is this a little more of what you were looking for?"

[emily.babe135790]

I nodded and swallowed dryly. Feeling emboldened, I came over and knelt down with my light meter, my trembling hand bare inches from her breasts. But she held still, only following me with her eyes, and smiling, always smiling. Coming back to the camera, I mounted my polarizing filter on the lens and stepped the aperture all the way down, intending to squeeze out every bit of ambient light the sun had to offer. As a last thought I even set my flash to use as a fill. I wanted to capture her up close, but full frame, surrounded in an explosion of color and vivid detail. I then knelt down and took my place at the viewfinder, again taking my time. She was so beautiful like that, yet something more. She knew I was looking at her, and I knew it! I could sense it as much as see it in her, and the most exciting aspect of it was I could tell she liked it. She liked posing like this, knowing I could see. It was my last shot on that roll, and even as the shutter clicked, I knew it would be one of my best.

[emily.babe135790]

CHAPTER TWO

"Out of film," I called out, rising up from behind the camera. I ambled over to help her up, and gave her my hand, forgetting not to blatantly look when the top of her dress swung out.

She caught me, red–handed, but only smiled that smile. She rebuttoned that one button and then began brushing the grass and twigs from the front of her dress. "Do you think you got any good ones?" She asked.

I was so flustered, not just from her catching me peeping, but from the excitement of the last hour. "Are you kidding?" I blurted out. "You just wait. You just wait until I develop these and make us some prints. You'll see." I repeated myself. "You'll really see. That last one's going to really be something."

She plucked a bit of grass that was clinging to the curve of the front of her left breast. That wild spark hadn't even begun to subside one bit. "Do you think I'll be able to send that one to Peter?"

"Why not?" I replied without thinking. "It's going to be great!"

"I don't know." She playfully pushed my shoulder. "I couldn't see what you saw in your lens, but from what I remember, he might be real curious to know who took it."

I hadn't thought about that. But right now, nothing could have dampened my enthusiasm.

She seemed a bit breathless herself. "You really got all worked up, Jimbo. I don't think I've ever seen you like this. You were like a..." she paused as she sought for a word "...like an artist behind that camera. So forceful. You'd say: 'Cynth, move your head,' or 'put your arms back.'" She had deepened her voice in an attempt to sound like me. Then she laughed again. "Now that was what I call fun!"

"It just came to me," I replied in rapid fire. "At first I was a bit nervous. I mean, you're so beautiful, and you just ... I don't know, you just come alive. Does that sound silly?"

It was her turn to surprise me by showing a bit of a flush, and now it was she who suddenly seemed interested in the tips of her toes. There was a long silence, and then she said quietly, "It's a shame we have to stop just when we were going so well."

"I think all I have left is one roll of black and white." I fished around in my bag. "Yeah, just one roll of black and white." I turned it over and read the box. "And it's a faster speed than the color I was using. It's really best for indoors."

That wild look came back, and with it the flush in her cheeks and neck bloomed. She locked her eyes on mine and said hesitantly, "What if we did one of those boudoir shots?"

My mouth instantly went stone dry, and I know for a fact my heart skipped two beats.

Surely, she'd noticed my distress, because she instantly added, "Not one of those, you know." She was twining her fingers, knotting them into a cats cradle at her tummy as she wound her arms and spread her elbows apart. "I mean, I'd wear my nightie."

Stupidly, I stood there gaping, brain freeze on a sweltering July afternoon.

She unraveled her hands, slapping them to the sides of her thighs. "What am I thinking?" She said apologetically. "I must be crazy." She held her hand over her eyes. "Must be the sun."

An alarm went off in my head, and my instinct for self–preservation screamed, "Do something, you big dummy!"

"No, no!" I yelled, way too loudly. "No, you're not crazy!" Something, probably that voice from within, thankfully took over. "I could really do something nice, you know, soft and beautiful. Black and white is so arty. It would be really tasteful, especially with black and white." For a moment I was sure she had changed her mind; I'd never seen Cynth look so sheepish. I pulled my light meter from my pocket and took a half step closer holding it near her face. "What color is your nightie?"

"Blue," she said. "I thought maybe I'd wear my blue one. I have a yellow one, but it's longer. The blue's kind of..." she let her hands fall down to indicate a hem halfway up her thighs, "...a shortie."

"Blue's great!" I choked back a hard swallow as my imagination jumped too far ahead. "Blue will be just fine."

"But you said your film is black and white? Color doesn't matter?"

I nodded then shook my head. "It does somewhat. The light's what's most important. The thing is where should we shoot the picture?"

All traces of her earlier reluctance had vanished. That mischievous smile was back full force, and there was no escaping the contagiousness of her excitement. "My room'll be the best. I've got a skylight, and my window faces west. With the afternoon sun, I get a lot of light. We could even use the curtains to help with the lighting, you know, if you'd think that'd help?"

Again I swallowed, just the thought of being in Cynth's bedroom with her dressed only in her nightie made my palms go cold. Somehow I managed a smile and a nod.

"Come on." She grabbed and tugged at my wrist. "Get your stuff. My mom's not going to be home 'til at least six and my dad never gets home from work before seven. We've got a couple of hours at least."

I remember zipping up my camera bag and picking up my tripod, her last words, "A couple of hours," going round and round in my head. It was almost too much for my poor brain to handle. Not only was I going up to Cynthia Mitchell's very own bedroom, but she was going to be wearing her nightie, a shortie, and letting me take pictures of her!

The next thing I knew we were in her house. Like coming in and out of a trance, I could see the family room, though I don't even remember going in the door. They had one of those big, wooden ships over the mantle. Her dad's leather recliner was empty, facing the TV, with a newspaper spread out on the floor. Then, we were on the stairs, and I stepped on that loose board. It squeaked, and she looked back. "My dad should really fix that step."

There we were. It was then that it really hit me. The warmth of the afternoon sun was streaming in from the family room windows. At that moment my thoughts stopped, and right then and there I snapped my own timeless snapshot, a permanent image silvered on my mind's eye 'til at least the day I die.

When we arrived up at her room I was a mess, almost catatonic, but she didn't seem to notice. She went right to her dresser and fished something blue out of an upper drawer. I, of course, stood right where I was. She stopped, holding the nightie balled up in both hands.

"Are you all right?" She asked and reached out to touch my cheek. "You look like you've got a fever."

I mumbled something; whatever it was it must have been okay, as she patted me on the shoulder sympathetically and stepped past me. I remember smelling her again, that same fresh, clean, Eau de Cynthia, though now, somewhat more real, more hot and earthy than when we'd been sitting out on the swing eons ago.

"Why don't you get your camera set up?" She called back, hanging for a moment in the doorway. "I'm going to take a quick, cold shower. I won't be but a sec."

She left me alone. I stood there, listening to the clock until I heard through the walls the sound of a shower begin to run. Coming back to life, my strangled mind began to make sense of where I was. Two walls were done in wallpaper, a print with some bluebirds and robins. The others were a pastel green. Surprisingly, her furniture was antique, not some white girly stuff. She had a mahogany dresser with a few old letters pressed under a glass top, a vanity, and a queen sized bed with a light green bedspread made neatly between the matching headboard and footboard.

Little by little I found myself coming back to life. I went into her closet and changed film in the camera, the smell of Cynthia seeming to come alive around me as I fumbled in the dark with the film. I made double sure, then triple sure, the color roll was sealed and put away before daring to come back out.

She was right; the light was good in her room, the skylight adding just the extra amount of brightness to where the flash probably wouldn't be necessary unless I really stepped down the aperture. Too, it wasn't hot, like outside in the sun. The window was open, the lacy, white curtains moving now and then under the glance of a subtle if not sporadic breeze. And she had a ceiling fan overhead. The slow swing of the blades was providing a gentle wash of moving air. I had the time to look around a bit. There were those letters, I guess special to her; she had them pressed under the glass on the dresser. And there were lots of photographs, pictures of family, snapshots and college pictures of Cynthia at all ages, and surprisingly, one including me. I picked it up. We were kids in swimsuits, playing with a garden hose in my back yard, maybe a summer day just like today, but long ago. I couldn't have been more than five or six. Cynthia was wearing only a little two–piece and, of course, that smile. I put it back and wandered over to look at one wall. It was plastered over entirely with awards, and framing her new high college diploma she had honor roll ribbons and certificates for best in just about anything imaginable.

I heard the running of the shower stop, accompanied by the squeak from the turn of a handle as the water was shut off, and suddenly realized I hadn't really begun to get ready. The first shot, what was I going to do? I still had my bag slung from my arm. I put it down on the dresser and prepared the camera and tripod, spreading the legs and locking the knobs. Pulling my light meter from my bag, I began to walk around gauging the light from every available angle. Somehow going through the motions helped calm me and return me to some semblance of normalcy. Then the door opened, and all that vanished.

Incredible! There she was, standing framed in the doorway, a towel wrapped around her head. For a moment she looked so shy, but then that smile came back to her face. I noticed her eyes; they were dark, the first time I could ever be sure that Cynthia Mitchell was nervous.

"I feel better," she said, stepping in.

Our eyes touched for a moment, and instantly we both looked away.

She walked over to the vanity and unwrapped the towel, tossing it on the bed. I watched spellbound as she took a brush, and with her back to me, she faced the mirror and began brushing her hair.

"So?" She said. "Did you think of any good shots?"

"Uh, yeah," I croaked. "I think so." With each forward stroke of the brush, the hem of the little, blue nightie rose up, revealing her legs and a lacy pair of panties. The top's fabric was sheer, but not completely see–through. The darker color of her panties was easily visible, but from behind there wasn't any trace of a bra. Suddenly I forgot why I was even here.

She was looking back at me through the mirror. "Hey," she called back. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah," I started. "Just stay like that." I stepped behind the camera. "I'll get one from behind, using the reflection of you in the mirror. You know, kind of artsy."

She stopped her brushing and looked back at me. "Do you want me holding the brush?"

Even through my own nervousness I really sensed the trace of anxiety in her voice. Just realizing she was nervous, too, did a lot to help me settle back down. "Yeah, with the brush," I called back.

Moving the tripod, I reset the f–stop and shutter speed according to the reading I remembered from my light meter. "Okay, hold it like that. But don't look at me. Look in the mirror. Look off to the side like you're thinking about something, something pretty."

"I'm so nervous," she said. "I can't seem to think of a thing."

"That's fine. Don't worry about it. Just give me a little smile. Yeah, like that." It was incredible how Cynth just naturally seemed to respond, enhancing whatever feeble idea I imagined. "Raise your arm a little," I said, never looking up from the viewfinder. "There! Stop!" I called out when I could see the top of the elastic of her panties framing a slice of her skin revealed below the dbanging hem of her nightie's top, and with the click of the shutter, with that first shot, so much of my own fear and anxiety melted away.

She turned around to face me and leaned back, gripping the edges of the vanity with her hands. Her hair seemed to just flow down over her shoulders with a slight natural wave, thick and full. Her cheeks were flushed; this was all natural, not an effect of any rouge. In fact, I doubt she had any make up on at all. It was something about her, or her bedroom, or maybe it was the quality of the light, but her skin appeared softer, whiter, yet those eyes of hers were every bit as bright and richly green as they had been out in the sun.

"Hang on," I said coming forward and holding my light meter out as though it were a compass guiding my way. "I'll get a shot right there, just like that." I stepped right up, happy to be able to keep focused on the meter's needle and relieved not to have to let her look into my eyes.

"I had no idea you were such a pro," she said, her nerves now definitely showing through with the occasional dry crack and tremor in her voice. "You know," she spoke in almost a whisper, "I wouldn't think of doing anything like this with anybody other than you, Jimmy."

I was trying to concentrate on reading the needle, but being so close to her it seemed even my hair had begun to sweat. I stepped back in two longs steps and readjusted both the shutter speed and the aperture, then put a Wratten filter over the lens. I wanted to drop out the wallpaper in the background and feature just her, standing just like that in crisp focus. Looking into the viewfinder, I noticed something I somehow hadn't seen before. I looked up, taking a moment to let the vision sink in.

She fidgeted slightly. "Something wrong?"

"No." I shook my head. "Just give me a minute, I need to think." She was so absolutely stunning. What had me flustered was I could see the outlines of her nipples showing through the sheer material of her nightie. The wispy blue tint of the fabric changed the flesh color slightly, but I could see they matched the gentle, pink hue of her lips. And with her posed as she was, the scalloped hem of her top was only covering half way down her panties. The way the lines of the lacy edges came together and disappeared down into the fold where her thighs came together was enough to make me terribly aware of just how hard I'd become. In contrast, it seemed my knees had turned to rubber. And not even aware if I had the shot framed completely right, I pressed the release.

Instantly, she came away from the vanity, and stepped right up to me, putting her hand on the camera. "Jimbo, I mean Jimmy, I know I don't need to ask, but this is just between you and me right? You wouldn't ever show these photos to anyone else, right? We're just having fun, right?" She nodded. "Right?"

Again I swallowed. Up close it was almost impossible to not look at those nipples. The hints of her breasts were so alluring. I couldn't truly make them out, but that in itself made the whole experience even that much more tantalizing. "Yes," I stammered. "I mean, no. I mean I wouldn't show them to anyone. I'll give you the negatives and the prints. You know I wouldn't ever do anything to be mean or hurtful to you, Cynth. Not you. This is something just between us. Okay?"

Maybe it was that a cloud had passed outside, but it seemed the whole room lightened. Any last vestige of her anxiety seemed to pass, and that wild smile returned.

With her mischievous grin back, she let go of the camera and reached out and ran her finger down my cheek. "You can keep a set of prints for yourself. The artist deserves to see his own work." She suddenly jumped, bouncing back and causing the lamps on the nightstands to shake when she landed. She spread her feet and raised her arms, drawing up the lower line of her top almost to her naval. "What's next? You just tell me what you want me to do." She dropped her hands and bending over clasped them in a knot at her stomach. Looking up at me she said, "This is so much fun!

Poised like that her breasts hung away, the circle of the top of the neckline only just hiding them from full view. I know my mouth was open, because I became conscious of how stupid I looked when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

"I can see you're having fun, too," she said, coming back up and waggling her finger. She then put her hands at the back of her head in her hair so her elbows faced forward. She twisted back and forth. Her voice had a playful little sing–song snap to it. "I don't know if you know, but I can tell."

The hem of the top had again come up, this time rising to above her naval. Her matching blue panties were dark, but still somewhat sheer. I could easily see the darker outline of the delight which was hiding within. Instantly, I became aware it was she who was watching me, able to recognize everywhere my eyes were focused. Feeling my own flush wash over me, I quickly looked back to my camera.

She dropped her arms, her hands slapping the sides of her thighs. "How 'bout a couple of shots on the bed," she offered. "We can't have any self–respecting boudoir shots without at least a few on the bed."

"Sure," I replied, the words "On the bed" echoing through my mind. "You go lie down, Cynth. Let me move the camera around."

We had to scoot past one another so she could get by, and when she actually brushed against me I know I almost dropped the tripod. It seemed she filled the room. The scent of her, the color of that blue, the pink of her lips, the heat of her breath, the flush in her cheeks, the way her hair moved, everything, she seized my every sense and so much more. I was more wound up than anything I had ever known. Yet I managed to keep a grasp of reality telling myself this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I had to concentrate and stay focused if I could ever hope to record any of this on film. But concentrating was hard; I was hard. I resolved, despite the distractions of how she was teasing me, I was going to maintain some level of sanity and do my best to try.

I turned back from resetting the camera to find her settled down in the center of the bed, sitting with her knees drawn up. The look of naughty playfulness she cast back at me was almost spellbinding. My response was such she even broke character and laughed at my distress. Fortunately, or unfortunately, she was positioned slightly sideways to me, the hem of her top cascading down in an arc around her thighs. Had I been able to see her panties framed from just a slightly different position, I might have had a melt down right then and there. As it was, the curves of the side of her right breast were in full view through the gaping armhole, and I knew she knew it.

Angling the camera, I was a bit unsure if the light was too bright. It was behind her as I was now facing the widow. I stepped right over, whipping out the light meter, and held it next to her shoulder. Standing as I was at this angle I could see almost her entire breast. Trying to concentrate on reading the needle I heard another little laugh.