Shortly after we were married, Fiona presented me with a beautifully framed photograph of herself taken the year she turned 19. In it she lounges carelessly on her left thigh, leans forward on both hands and beams into the camera. A deep green lawn embraces her. She is wearing a brightly flowered skirt. Her unrestrained breasts hang invitingly between her arms. Her erect nipples strain the thin fabric of her blouse. She exudes youth, beauty and desire.
“From my summer on Martha’s Vineyard,” she said haltingly. “I found it last week and thought you should have it.” I could only stare at my suddenly younger wife staring at me from the photo. We knew each other’s histories quite well by then, so I instantly understood the implications of the photo. My penis was also instantly hard.
Fiona had spent her 19th summer in Aquinnah with a dangerous college boyfriend to whom she was drawn precisely because he was dangerous. He had claimed her virginity the previous summer, untethering a voracious sexual appetite that is still raging almost 40 years later. He was much older than Fiona and she had been frank about how eagerly she embraced his well-rehearsed sexual desires. “I have always responded to men who know exactly what they want,” she told me during our first exploration of that piece of her history. Indeed, she still does and I am lucky to be that man.
They had spent an extended holiday alone in his family’s summer home on the Vineyard and I knew the contours of what had happened, primarily days spent on Aquinnah’s nude beaches. Fiona described with relish how she enjoyed displaying her trim figure on the beach while men stared and other women eyed her enviously. There were other provocative stories about that trip that Fiona parceled out as we explored each other’s histories with a growing recognition that each of our vivid pasts had prepared us to approach each other as experienced and confident lovers, curiosity sated by past sexual variety and ready for marriage to a partner capable of filling every sexual need for the rest of our lives. We started hot and after twenty years we burn hotter for each other every year.
I knew that Fiona’s lover had also spent the summer photographing her nude, assembling what she laughingly referred to as her “sun tan portfolio,” always noting that in the photos she wasn’t even wearing tan lines.
“There’s more if you want them,” Fiona said somewhat provocatively, I pondered the offer carefully. Finally, I responded,” Keep them for a snowy night. What I really would like is my own portfolio.”
Now it was Fiona’s turn to think. In a moment, she whispered, “Next weekend at our beach house.”
A turgid week later we escaped to our house on the Outer Banks and spent the morning lounging, then shopping until after lunch. I have never been certain whether Fiona was intentionally building the anticipation or simply building up nerve. Whatever her motives, by the early afternoon my cock was throbbing.
Home finally, we flirted over the dining room table until Fiona slipped off her shirt and unhooked her bra, exposing nipples as engorged as my dick. Finally, she whispered, “Wait,” and disappeared into the bedroom while I clumsily assembled my camera.
I sensed Fiona’s presence before I saw her. She was standing silently in the doorway draped in a sheer peignoir. It was buttoned to the neck but sunlight from the bedroom windows behind her silhouetted her legs through the thin fabric. Fiona’s pubic triangle was barely visible. My legs trembled.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I know. I want to celebrate you, to caress you with the camera.”
She stared at my bulging jeans and laughed. “Well, you seem to have a big enough lens. What would you like me to do?”
“By the windows, with your back to me. Look outside for your lover. He will be here soon.”
Fiona glided to the window and began posing, her legs more clearly silhouetted now and her tight round ass clearly visible through the skirt of her gown. Click. Click. Whirr.
She stands on tiptoes, peering toward the dune, looking for an imagined lover, shaping her calves and raising her behind. Click, Click.
“Slowly turn sideways for me now. Part the skirt of your gown slightly and caress one leg.” Fiona complies and the camera purrs as she unsheathes a leg, and straightens her right foot ballerina-like. Her leg is long and shapely, her calf hard. Click.
“Now look at me.” Fiona does. Click. Click. Click. “Tell me why you want to take off your clothes for the camera.”
Fiona pouts. Click. “Because I have a husband who worships me. And thinks I am beautiful.”
“I can see why,” I respond.
“Hands on hips,” I direct. “Legs akimbo.” Fiona moves compliantly. The camera snaps off a burst of frames. Her gown glows around my wife, her form visible through the fabric with only suggestions of detail. I notice again the dark smudge of her pubic hair through the flowing fabric. The top of her gown is satin so Fiona’s breasts are still demurely covered but their shape strains against the fabric. Click. Click. Click.
“I want to surprise him,” Fiona says ambiguously, dropping into an armchair. More clicks. More whirs. “I did this for a man long ago. Now I want to show my husband that my body is his to enjoy. I never want him to envy those old photos.”
I respond to Fiona’s invitation and slip into character. “So, you asked me to come here while he is at work and photograph you?” I ask quizzically.
“I heard that you were discreet. And talented. I am not 19 years old anymore.”
“You need no help from me,” I tell her. “I agree with your husband. You are gorgeous.”
Fiona beams and tosses her hair.
“That’s it,” I tell her. I squeeze off a short burst of pictures, concentrating on Fiona’s pretty face and her glowing hair.
“These boudoir sets are different for every model. Where do you see this going? Lingerie only? Implied nude…”
Fiona interrupts firmly: “No. Everything. But tasteful. We’re keeping these pictures for a long time. I’m replacing some pictures that are 20 years old. I didn’t hold anything back then and I am not holding anything back for my husband.”
She stands suddenly and uncinches her gown. “What now?”
“Back to the camera. Robe off of your shoulders.” She turns and unshoulders her gown. Click. Click. Click. She looks tentatively over her bare shoulder and smiles shyly. Click. Whir.”
Give me all of it now. Let me see your rear.” The gown drops. Fiona’s ass and legs are firm and magnificent. I move around her, clicking away, my cock burning and straining in my jeans. I keep my distance though, appreciative but never approaching her exposed front.
“Kneel, please.” She complies. More frames click off. “Now stand. Go to the window. Palms against the glass.” Fiona is exposed to the world not but her front is still invisible to the camera. The camera’s motor drive whirs.
“Open your stance. Bend slightly at the waist.” She follows directions and slowly the rear of her engorged labia tease into view. Short burst of photos. Whirrrrr. “Hands over your breasts. Now slowly turn to me. Legs tightly together.” Click. Click. Click.
Fiona turns. “Now show me how beautiful you are.” She uncoils her arms, not the least shy. “Hands to hips. Legs spread. Click. Click. Click. Click. My wife is indescribably beautiful in the late afternoon light. She is completely exposed to me, Available but untouchable under the terms of my engagement. Her areolae are flooded with color, her nipples jut toward me. The camera clicks away and I burn with desire for her.
“Weight on one leg, please. Extend the other.” Click. Click. Fiona’s legs part and I can now clearly see her pubic hair. Her clitoris is swollen and peeking out of its hood.
“Now to the chair,” I instruct. “Stretch and relax.” Click. Click. Click. “Legs spread now.” Click whirr. Fiona sinks into an upholstered armchair. She dangles a leg over the arm, displaying herself for my camera. Click. Whir.
I can tell that Fiona is getting lost in the moment. Her hands go to her nipples. She squeezes and moans. Click. Click. Click. She rolls her head back and groans louder.
Her right hand drops to her lap and she tentatively inserts a finger between her labia. More moans. I put my camera down. Now I am bending over my wife taking her face in in both hands. I kiss her deeply. Her fingers are moving faster.
I stand and slowly unbutton my shirt. I unhitch my jeans, step out of them and kneel between Fiona’s legs. She groans as I spread her thighs and I cover her vulva with my mouth. Fiona’s hands move to her breasts. She gasps as I begin my slow ministrations to her pussy.
In a minute Fiona rasps, “This… after…noon.. A photographer…”
I drive my tongue deep into her pussy. It then flicks her clitoris. Fiona’s hips buck.
“Photographer… came to the house… I… posed for him…without any…clothes.” Fiona moans loudly. “For…you.”
I pull my head away from Fiona’s lap, stand and kiss her, smearing her lips with her own scent. “Did you fuck him, baby?” Fiona is concentrating on her nipples now, squeezing them and groaning.
“His cock… was…so… hard… I could see it through his jeans.” Fiona groans. He… was… a… gentleman… but… I needed a good fucking. I…need… to… be… fucked!” She says hoarsely.
I put my hands under my wife’s thighs and pull her toward my cock. Wordlessly I enter her, taking control. Taking possession. I push into her in long slow thrusts.
Fiona rasps, “He… fucked me… so… hard! God, I needed his big dick!”
She screams, then takes my head into her hands and kisses me deeply. I push in harder. Fiona shudders in just a moment and cries softly as her orgasm washes over her. I am next. I convulse and fill her.
Finally, Fiona whispers to me. “I hope you like the pictures. You know, I’m not 19 anymore.”
“Thank goodness you’re not.” I kiss Fiona again, take her hand and lead her to our bedroom.