Strip Naked For Your Photographer

Emma wore a variation on her oldest, most popular costume for the photoshoot. There was the white corset, the cape with its fur collar like a stole around her neck, the white panties and the miniskirt and the thigh-high boots that, altogether, almost made a complete pair of pants—Heaven forbid she’d ever be caught in that.

It wasn’t that she needed the exposure, or the money, but she’d seen the man’s work. She liked his eye and she liked being looked at; she wondered how he would eye her. With the gaze of every man in the place on her, she took the elevator to the hotel’s fifth floor, found the room, and knocked.

The photographer had dark features. His body was lean and muscular, with a curly shock of dark brown hair shining softly on his head. His eyes seemed to drill into Emma’s body, reading the little quivers of anticipation that went through her nerve endings. She wouldn’t mind him touching her. But first, she wanted him to look at her.

“Hello Ms. Frost.”

“Hi,” Emma cooed as she walked in, just close enough for her cape to brush against him.

“I’m so happy you came,” he said, holding up his camera from the strap around his neck.

“Happy enough to get over parting with my fee?”

“In a moment,” he said. He was checking his camera, loading a new pack of film into it, then he went to get an envelope from the dresser. 

He handed it to Emma and the usual greedy ting of excitement vibrated inside her as she counted the fat wad of bills inside it, then put it into her purse, which she shed onto the bed along with her cape.

“If I may ask—why? It’s not like you need the money. And if you just like to model, why make me pay for the privilege?”

Emma smiled at him, appreciating the attempt at shrewdness. He’d never talk her into lowering her fee, but at least he wasn’t letting her walk all over him. Yet. “The food at homeless shelters is free, but you don’t see anyone making a reservation there. If you want steak, you either pay for it or you kill the cow yourself. Are you going to rip my clothes off?”

“What? No. Of course not!”

“Then I’d say you’ve already gotten your money’s worth.”

He nodded dolefully. “Why don’t you stand over there by the dresser? I’ll get a few full-body shots.”

He snapped off three pictures of Emma, her full breasts pushing succulently against the tightness of her white corset. She was just standing there, but Emma imagined there was a tremble in the way he squeezed the button that immortalized her in film.

“Now, why don’t you pose a little?”

“Pose?” Emma asked innocently. “How do you want me to pose?”

“Maybe you could—put your legs far apart, squat down a little, and then with your hands on your knees?”

“Like this?” Emma asked with her back to him, her little miniskirt crawling over her ass, showing the tight white panties that flowed between her thighs. Her buttocks crested voluptuously, barely contained in the stretched elastic of her panties. Only with her cape as censor could she walk around in public so on display.

“Just like that,” he breathed, his camera clicking repeatedly as he committed as much of her to photograph as possible. “Now could you turn around and hold your skirt up?”

“Of course,” Emma said breezily. “It’s your dollar.”

She turned around and lifted the hem of her skirt daintily to her waist, letting him see her panties, so slick, so white, so tight at the tempting juncture of her thighs. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he gasped, sounding unaware that he had even spoken.

“Why, thank you,” Emma said, perfectly graceful as she showed him all but her cunt through the lily-white veil of her panties. “Maybe I could take my skirt off.”

“Your skirt… off?”

Emma undid the catch and held it away from her now bare hips. “Unless you don’t want to see…”

“I do,” he said, and she let the skirt hit the floor.

The flash unit strobed.

“Why don’t you roll your hips?” he asked. “Like you’re dancing.”

“That’s not how I dance,” Emma said tawdrily, like her dancing was far dirtier than anything so prosaic.

She did as he asked—rolling and cocking her hips like she was caressing an invisible lover with them, all while he took pictures. He was so absorbed in her little bump and grind that he didn’t realize he had an erection bulging in his slacks, a promisingly huge bulge, like a mountain of cocaine just waiting to go up Emma’s nose.

He trembled. “Take your panties off.”

Emma put her hands on her hips, regarding him as chidingly as a schoolteacher with an errant student. “That’s not what we agreed on.”

“Please, just pull them down a little.”

“Why? Is the rest of me not good enough?” Emma needled. “You can already see so much…”

“Look, I’ll give you more money—“

“How much more?”

“A thousand!” he said hotly.

Emma shook her head. “Men would pay me a thousand to spit on them.”

He rushed to the dresser and worked open a drawer. “I had another model I was going to pay—you can have some of her payment. Five thousand!”

Emma thumbed the elastic waistband of her panties, easing it back and forth a little ways off her skin. “Are these for the magazine or just for you?”

“No one else will see them, I promise!”

Emma eased the waistband down, showing the pale skin under her pelvis, the beginnings of her pubic hair, but nothing of her pussy. “Oh, what the hell—it’s worth bending over when there’s a quarter on the sidewalk.”

The panties hit the floor and she stepped out of them, so unconcerned with their absence it was like they’d never existed in the first place.

“Oh, Emma!” he gulped, looking at the sweet slice of pink between her legs, the carefully chiseled blonde pubic hair that was almost platinum as it formed the shape of a diamond above her pussy. The correlation was obvious. 

More than that, she was wet, and totally unabashed of it. She stood there icily, her hands on her hips, her pussy shown off to the flashing camera, taunting him with how aroused she was.

“Undo your corset,” he growled.

“What’s it worth to you?” Emma replied, swatting down the assertiveness in his words.

He collapsed like a house of cards. “Another five thousand. Please, that’s all I have…”

Emma sighed. “I suppose charity begins at home.”

She slowly undid the laces on her corset until she pulled it open to show him the bra underneath, a scant bit of lace filled with the juicy excess of her 32F breasts. Then she reached down and held open the folds of her pussy, standing there like a blonde goddess, her corset open, her breast full, her cunt exposed, and her creamy thighs flashing over white leather boots that ran down to stiletto heels.

His erection pounded in his boxers as rapidly as the flash of his camera hit her.

“It’s pretty naughty, isn’t it, me posing like this?” Emma teased.

He unloaded his film and stuck in a new roll with trembling hands. “Would you take them out?”

“Take what out?” 

“Your breasts.”

“But you don’t have any more money,” Emma pouted, now covering her groin with her hands, going from a warm oasis to cool and crisp once more.

“Just slip them over the top of your bra—please—I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?” Emma asked, eyebrow quirked.