“Can you be discreet?”
I thought about hanging up, but needed the work more. “What does your client have in mind?”
There was a pause. “Before we discuss anything further, I must know whether you are discreet.”
“Absolutely… but I won’t shoot anything illegal, got it?”
He chuckled. “I assure you my clients are consenting and law-abiding adults. Where shall I mail the contract?”
I had moved to New York only a few months prior when I was first contacted by their attorney. He sent a cryptic email stating that he represented a party who admired my work and inquired if I was interested in taking some action stills. Since I hadn’t been in town long, I assumed it was a referral from my website and that usually put me on my guard. With all the freaks and cyberstalkers, it was a rarity to actually land a legitimate, and paying, client.
This inquiry was genuine. I checked out the attorney’s credentials; he was a partner at a mid-town firm and well-respected, so I wasn’t surprised when the first of several letters arrived with a lengthy contract and a hefty up-front deposit: a cashier’s check for ten grand. At least I could pay the rent for my crappy apartment for the next six months.
The contract terms were standard, but the action was not. It seems the parties of the second part, a certain Mr. and Mrs. X, were determined to preserve their intimate moments for posterity on film and wanted me behind the camera. I guess Mrs. X liked the way I photographed women.
They had thought of everything. I’d provide the camera, lights and alleged artistry, and they’d provide the bodies, location and USB cards which were to be immediately surrendered at the shoot’s conclusion. Not likely I’d try and sell them to a tabloid even if they were a rather high-profile couple. Not my style, and I’m not fond of prison, the other location threatened if confidentiality was broken on my part.
I didn’t know much about them, so I did a little cursory research. Both were wealthy, privileged and attractive. Beyond that, I didn’t care. Too much knowledge was dangerous, and all I wanted was to complete the job and get the remainder of my fee.
The terms agreed, we met at the Hotel XXX, a four-star boutique. I set up the lights, as unforgiving and clinical as they had requested, around the bed and waited. It didn’t take long. She arrived first, long and lean, in an expensive fur which hit the floor as soon as the door closed. Clad only in her Louboutin heels, she strode to the bed, positioned herself in the middle and opened her legs.
“Take a few shots of my pussy,” she said blandly. “I want some before and after pictures, just to see how red and swollen I get after a hard fucking.”
She might have been ordering a deli platter for a church gathering, her voice was so disinterested. I complied, snapping away while she contorted and pleasured herself with a rather large, but well-oiled instrument.
“Might as well get started,” she said dully. “I like to come a few times before he fucks me.”
Which she proceeded to do, in short order, screaming and working her tool overtime. I was grateful her husband arrived between the shrieks and didn’t alert hotel security. He, too, dropped his clothing unceremoniously and stood at full attention, giving me last minute instructions before climbing atop his wife.
“Make sure my cock is photographed at its best angle,” he said in a voice equally as flat. “I want it to appear like it’s splitting her apart.”
Not that that was difficult, judging from the disparity of the objects in question. For the next two hours, I photographed them copulating in every conceivable position. They carried on as if I didn’t exist. Sweaty, loud and with a fierce dispassion that I wouldn’t have believed possible had I not witnessed it with my own eyes.
When they had their fill, I was requested to take close-up shots of the wreckage between her legs. Pink, swollen and running with fluid, like the inside of a flower. I stared in spite of myself and wondered if her clitoris tasted as good as it looked.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you took a few licks,” said Mr. X with a nudge and a wink. “She’s the best fuck this side of the Mississippi.”
“Yeah, go ahead,” she said with a yawn. “I could use a little tongue action after all that pounding.”
I was tempted, I admit, but not a complete idiot. I thanked them both and turned over the USB cards as agreed. That was the last I heard of them, or their pimp attorney. Never found out if they liked the shots or not, but that probably wasn’t their motive anyway. Sometimes you just need an audience.