stays on him, stroking him. I don’t look at that hand. Instead, I adjust the settings on the camera, even though they don’t need adjusting. ‘Ellie,’ she says, ‘I want a pop shot.’ I suspect that Amber watches porn. Usually only blokes ask for that.
I nod vigorously, pretending that I’m not on the verge of cracking up. ‘OK.’ It’s fine that she gets to sit there while he finishes himself off, I tell myself. I can tell from the way he’s breathing, ragged and hard, that if he doesn’t do it soon, he’ll probably ask to disappear into the tiny bathroom at the back of the studio so he can do it himself, and that would be cruel, wouldn’t it? I mean, it would be pretty humiliating. And it’s not like I can help him out, no matter how much I want to.
‘Do want me to jerk myself off on your face? Or do you want to do it?’ he asks, and I nearly drop my camera. I didn’t think Tom Hunt had those words inside him. This is a man who wears a beige suit. His office has a map of the Tube network on one wall and a framed photo of a guy climbing a rock face on the other. It smells of Febreze. There isn’t a stray piece of paper anywhere in it.
Amber glances up at him. ‘You do it. Blow that load all over me, big boy.’
I’m not sure what it says about me that I’m friends with someone who can say those words. But this probably isn’t a good time to get all philosophical. ‘Right,’ I say again, bossy voice still intact. ‘Do you want him to ejaculate on your face? Or your breasts? Or somewhere else?’ It always stuns me that I can ask this like I’m asking someone if they want sugar in their tea. At least this will all be over soon, and then that’s it. I’ll only be taking pictures of people with their clothes on.
‘Can he…’ she hesitates, and then she looks up at Tom, wiggles her skinny hips. ‘Can you shoot it in my mouth?’
Tom makes a weird, strangled noise. His face is flushed and there’s a stray lock of hair sticking to his forehead, and the white cotton of his shirt is clinging to his back, and he is absolutely the most beautiful aroused man I have ever seen. Thick with muscle, hairy in all the right places. He’s even got a tan line a couple of inches below his belly button. ‘Yes,’ he manages. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is,’ she says, and then she sort of smiles and sticks out her tongue, which has a small, silver stud in the centre of it, and is glossy with moisture. I get myself in position, check the focus, and wait. Tom wraps one big hand around his erection and starts to pump. I have to be on my game here, can’t let my attention drop for a second. It’s fine when they just want the face-dripping-with-come shot, but that’s not good enough for Amber. Oh, no. She wants the full glory of the action shot. Just the thought of it has me so wet I can feel it, and I know that I’ll be the one rushing off to the bathroom to finish myself off as soon as they’ve gone.
I have no idea how I’m going to speak to him after this. I’m going to have to find myself another accountant. I might have to move town. Leave the country. But I have to act professional. I can’t let either of them know how much this turns me on. I never let clients know how much this turns me on.
Focus, Ellie. Focus.
Finger on the shutter. Eyes on the prize. He’s pumping hard and fast. He’s gone quiet. Everything has gone quiet. The softness of it descends on me, the only sound the slick slip of palm against flesh. No one even seems to be breathing.
I’m definitely not, at any rate. But my heart is kicking like a bitch and I have this weird taste in the back of my throat. I tell myself it’s just panic, because I don’t want to miss the shot. I can’t miss the shot. My hands are slippery with sweat, but there isn’t time to wipe them off. It seems to be taking forever. I’m sure it doesn’t normally take this long.
Tom gives the slightest of pauses. Amber, for all her posing prowess, is fiddling with one of her bra straps. She’s still got her mouth open and her tongue out, but she’s starting to look a bit, well, bored, for want of a better word.
I’m not bored. I swallow, hard, and then I dart the quickest of glances at Tom. His head is tipped back, a trickle of sweat streaking down towards his jaw. It’s hot in here, under the lights. His eyes are closed, his mouth open, and I can see the movement of his shoulder as he jerks himself off as I tell myself that this is the last time.
Please come. Oh god, please come. I grip the camera tightly, though my hands are slippery, and I force myself to watch through the lens, finger at the ready. All I have to do is press the button at the right moment. The technology will take care of the rest.
And then he turns his head slightly to one side, opens his eyes, and looks straight at me. He groans, jerks, goes still. Jerks, goes still again, then the sharp, musky smell of his climax fills the room. He’s coming all over Amber, but he’s looking at me.
Why is he looking at me?
My fingers barely keep a grip on the camera. The silence is really, really loud now. Something weird has just happened between Tom Hunt and me, something that can’t be taken away, even as he turns his back and starts fixing his clothes. Trousers and underwear are pulled up over thighs that are thicker, stronger, hairier than I’d imagined. You can rock yourself to orgasm on thighs like that. I’ve seen women do it.
And then, in that awkward space between sex finishing and real life starting up again, that moment when everyone catches their breath, all the reasons why this was a bad idea come rushing to the front of my mind. I mean, it’s not like this aspect of my job is ever a good idea, but this has taken bad to a whole new level. My secret is out. It’s gone beyond me, and the strangers I’ve photographed, and the best friend I trusted implicitly. It’s out there, now, and there’s no bringing it back.
‘Did you get the shot?’ Amber asks from her position on the floor.
‘Absolutely,’ I say. I’m such a liar. I didn’t get the shot, I didn’t even get close. I don’t need to check the image on the little screen on the back of my Canon to know that. Amber is my friend, my best friend, and I don’t have enough of those to risk losing the one I have. So what if he looked at me? He can look at a copy of flaming Knitting Weekly if it gets him off at the appropriate time. I should have got the shot. I’ve got no excuses. But suddenly all sorts of weird questions start fighting for room in my head, like does this mean he gets off looking at me, and do people really get off to Knitting Weekly?
‘Excellent,’ Amber continues. But Tom, he doesn’t say anything. He just grabs his jacket from the top of the velvet sofa that sits to the left of shot, and disappears into the bathroom at the back of the studio. Leaving me alone with Amber and her black lace lingerie and little silver tongue stud and the glob of Tom’s spunk that is slowly making its way down towards her left nipple. She doesn’t seem to have noticed it. ‘When will I be able to see the shots?’
‘Wednesday,’ I say. Another lie. Everything is digital. She could have a look at them right now. But usually I give myself a couple of days’ leave, time to delete any pictures that might give the impression that I don’t know one end of a camera from the other. I don’t want my clients to think I’m the sort of person who makes mistakes. It’s just that sometimes, I lose my focus a little.
‘Brilliant!’ she says, getting to her feet. The glance she darts towards the back of the studio doesn’t escape my notice. ‘He’s hot,’ she says. ‘And did you see the size of it?’
‘I was working,’ I say quickly. ‘Not letching on Tom Hunt.’ I need to get both of them out of here so I can think.
‘It’s always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for,’ she continues. ‘I mean, look at you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes! Who would think quiet, sensible Ellie Smithson is a pornographer?’
‘Photographer,’ I say automatically. ‘I’m a photographer.’ From