Free Bitten: Dark Erotic Stories by Susie Bright

even back then, when proper ladies didn’t do such things. Or didn’t tell. And I wanted it, too. I wanted it to be real.
    I pulled away and lay back on the pillow. “Take my picture.”
    Don looked at me blankly.
    “Take my picture. Down there. Will you do it?”
    In the dim light it was hard to read the play of expression on his face. But then he said: “Yes. I’d love to.”
    * * *
    The next morning we drove into town for the necessary supplies. The general store had only one roll of black-and-white film, verging on expiration. Don fretted that he needed an umbrella reflector to get the lighting right—impossible to find in that outpost of civilization— though we did score a remnant of black velvet, dusty, but on sale at half price.
    It seemed to take him forever to place the chaise lounge at the right angle to the window and drape the velvet properly, set up the tripod and take a light meter reading, while I waited in my beach robe rubbing my feet to keep them warm.
    When he was finally ready, he gestured for me to undress and lie down. I shifted around to show off my best angles until I remembered it didn’t matter where I placed my arms or if my breasts looked perky. I glanced down at my triangle of pubic hair, trimmed back for summer. Suddenly it embarrassed me, at once too lush and somehow inadequate. Through the light brown curls I could see the indentation, like a thumbprint, where the groove began.
    “Did they all have their legs open?” I asked.
    Don didn’t seem to understand.
    “The women in that book. I thought maybe some of them were shy and only let him get a glimpse.”
    We locked eyes for a moment. And then he did understand.
    “Yes, I think there was one picture like that.”
    Click.
    “Open your legs now, honey,” he said gently. “We only have twenty-four shots on the roll.”
    The words slid deep into my belly, insistent as any cock. But when I started to spread my legs, my hips resisted, like rusty hinges. Sit like a lady. Na, na, I can see your underwear. Every childhood lesson about my body was tossed away in that first cool rush of air.
    Click.
    “A little wider.”
    I inched my knees to the edges of the chair. As if in sympathy, my mouth opened in a sigh.
    Don fumbled with the tripod and moved in closer, crouching.
    “Tilt up a bit.”
    Click.
    A girlfriend in high school once told me to pretend the camera was my boyfriend. Look straight into the lens and whisper to yourself: I love you, Mr. Camera. Ashley was right, those pictures came out prettier. But what could a pussy do to be fetching? Pick up a dollar bill?
    “Were any of those ladies … ” I cleared my throat. “Were any of the ladies in the book touching themselves?”
    I knew the answer before he said it.
    “Yes, baby. Yes, they were.”
    I had to do it then, of course, had to slide my hand down and put a tentative finger on my clit, plump as a ripe berry. My thighs jerked open wider, quivering.
    Click.
    I began to strum.
    Click.
    Then do things I never did when I was alone. Rubbing my lips together, then pulling them wide. Nipping my clit between two fingers when I pushed them together again.
    Click.
    “You’re nice and swollen now. Try to push your lips out more. So I can see the hole.” Don’s voice sounded hazy, as if he were calling to me from behind his office door.
    I pushed.
    “More. That’s a good girl.”
    My flesh clicked, like the sound of a shutter closing.
    “Beautiful.”
    A gush of wetness trickled down my slit onto the velvet.
    “Oh,” I cried involuntarily. “I’ve made a mess.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” Don snapped. Then more kindly, “Show yourself to me. Show me how beautiful you are.”
    I pushed wider, my muscles aching sweetly with the strain. I wanted to show him. Not just him, but old Uncle Jacques, and a thousand unknown eyes. Then I felt it, down there between my legs, pulsing, as if the very air had taken on substance. It was so real I thought it was Don, but he was