The Boudoir Shoot He Never Finished

A redheaded wife books her photographer husband for a private boudoir shoot in their own bedroom, and every slow, teasing frame pushes him closer to dropping the camera and fucking her senseless.

The light in the bedroom was perfect at four o’clock on a Sunday. It came in low and gold through the sash window, and it turned everything it touched the colour of honey.

$name1 had been planning this for three weeks.

Her husband, Tom, photographed weddings for a living. He spent every Saturday shooting other people’s happiest day, and every Sunday editing it. He had a good eye and steady hands, and he had not pointed his camera at her in nearly a year.

So she had booked him. She had sent an email to his business address under a fake name, asking for a “private boudoir session, at home, two hours, very discreet.” He had replied with his rates and his usual polite questions. She had replied with one line.

“The client is your wife. Bring the good lens.”

Now he was standing in the doorway with his camera bag over his shoulder, looking at the bed.

She had stripped it back to white sheets. She had hung a sheer curtain to soften the window. She was sitting on the edge of the mattress in his old navy dress shirt, buttoned twice in the middle, and nothing else.

Her copper hair was loose and heavy, falling past her shoulders in thick waves. Her freckles ran down her throat and across her chest and disappeared under the shirt. Her legs were bare and crossed, and one foot swung slowly.

“You’re late,” she said. “I’m paying for two hours.”

Tom swallowed. “You’re not paying for anything.”

“Then you’d better make it worth it.”

He laughed, a little shakily, and knelt to open the bag. She watched him fit the lens, check the settings, fiddle with a light meter he did not need. He was stalling. She could see the colour coming up his neck.

“Where do you want me?” she asked.

“Just like that,” he said. “Don’t move.”

The shutter clicked. Then again. He moved around her in a slow half circle, crouching, rising, adjusting. He talked the way he talked to brides, soft and easy. Chin down a little. Look at the window. Good. Now look at me.

She looked at him.

Click.

“Lovely,” he said, and his voice had dropped.

“Lovely?” She uncrossed her legs, slowly, and crossed them the other way. The shirt rode up her thighs. “Is that what you tell all your clients?”

“I don’t have clients like you.”

“Show me.”

He turned the camera round and showed her the screen. She leaned in to look, close enough that her breast pressed against his arm through the thin cotton. In the photo she looked soft and warm and a little dangerous. She liked it.

“More,” she said.

She lay back on the bed and let her hair fan out across the white sheet like spilled wine. She lifted one knee. The shirt fell open between the two buttons, showing a pale strip of her stomach and the curve under one breast.

He stood over her and shot straight down. Click. Click. Click.

“Undo one,” he said quietly.

“Is that a professional direction?”

“Yes.”

She undid the top one of the two. The shirt slid apart. Her breasts were full and freckled, and her nipples were already pink and hard in the cool air. She did not cover them. She let him look.

The shutter kept going, faster now. She could hear his breathing changing.

“Turn over,” he said.

She rolled onto her front and pushed the shirt up her back, slowly, until it bunched under her shoulder blades. Her arse was bare to him, round and pale and dusted with the same faint freckles. She arched her spine and lifted her hips a little, and looked back at him over her shoulder through a curtain of red hair.

“Fuck,” Tom said, very quietly.

“Language. You’re working.”

“I’m trying to work.”

“Try harder.”

She spread her knees an inch on the sheet. Then another inch. She knew exactly what he could see from where he stood, and she knew he could see that she was already wet. She had been wet since she sent that email.

He took the picture. His hands were not quite steady any more.

“Your camera’s shaking,” she said.

“It’s the light.”

“It’s not the light.”

She reached back between her own legs and touched herself, slow, two fingers sliding along her pussy and spreading herself open for the lens. She made a small sound in her throat. The shutter fired in a long burst, and then it stopped.

She looked back.

Tom had lowered the camera. He was just looking at her, and the front of his jeans was straining.

“Keep shooting,” she said. “I’ve got an hour and a half left.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to fuck you more than I want the picture.”

She smiled into the pillow. Three weeks of planning, and that was the line she had been waiting for.

“Then put it down,” she said. “Carefully. It’s expensive.”

He set the camera on the dresser like it was made of glass. Then he pulled his T-shirt over his head and came to the bed, and he did not do anything carefully after that.

He knelt behind her and grabbed her hips in both hands and pulled her back against him. She felt the rough denim against her bare arse and the hard thick shape of his cock behind it. He leaned over her and bit the back of her neck, under the hair, and she gasped and pushed back into him.

“You planned this,” he said in her ear.

“For three weeks.”

“You little slut.”

“Your little slut,” she said. “Say it again.”

He said it again, and slid his hand down between her thighs from behind. His fingers found her soaked and swollen, and he groaned out loud. He pushed two fingers into her without warning, deep, and curled them. She cried out into the sheets.

“Look at you,” he said. “Dripping all over my hand. Were you like this the whole time I was shooting?”

“The whole time.”

“Every frame?”

“Every fucking frame,” she panted. “I wanted you to see it.”

He fucked her with his fingers, slow and deep, and rubbed her clit with his thumb in small hard circles. Her hips rocked back to meet him. She clawed at the sheet. The pressure built fast, much faster than she expected, three weeks of thinking about this all coming due at once.

“Don’t stop,” she begged. “Tom. Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn’t. He pressed down harder and she came with her face buried in the mattress, shaking and clenching around his fingers, her whole body jerking. He held her through it, his other arm locked around her waist, and kept stroking her until she was twitching and pushing his hand away.

She rolled over, flushed red from her cheeks to her chest, and grabbed for his belt.

“Off,” she said. “Now.”

He stood and shoved his jeans and boxers down together. His cock sprang up, thick and dark and already wet at the tip. She sat up on the edge of the bed and took it in her hand and looked up at him.

“You want a picture of this?” she asked.

He actually glanced at the dresser. She laughed and wrapped her lips round the head of his cock before he could decide.

She sucked him slowly at first, the way she knew he liked, her tongue swirling under the ridge, her hand pumping the base. Then deeper. She took him to the back of her throat and held him there, her eyes watering, her nose almost touching his stomach. He swore and wound his hand into her red hair and held it like a rope.

“Christ, that mouth,” he breathed. “Look at me while you do it.”

She looked up at him with his cock stretching her lips, mascara starting to run, and he made a sound like he had been punched. She pulled off with a wet pop and a string of spit between her lips and his tip.

“Fuck me,” she said. “Properly. Like you mean it.”

He pushed her back onto the bed. She lay spread on the white sheets in the gold light with her hair everywhere and his shirt still hanging off one shoulder, and she opened her legs wide for him.

He knelt between them and rubbed the head of his cock up and down her slit, slow, teasing, nudging her clit until she lifted her hips and whined.

“Who’s in charge of this shoot now?” he asked.

“You are,” she gasped. “Please.”

He pushed into her in one long, heavy stroke.

She arched right off the bed. He filled her completely, thick and hot, stretching her open, and he stayed there buried to the root and let her feel every inch of it. Then he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in.

“Yes,” she cried. “Fuck, yes, like that.”

He fucked her hard and deep, his hands pinning her wrists above her head, his hips driving into her. The headboard knocked against the wall. Her breasts bounced with every thrust. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, and she did not care who in the street could hear it.

“You feel incredible,” he groaned. “So tight. So fucking wet for me.”

“Harder.”

He let go of her wrists and hooked his arms under her knees and pushed them back towards her shoulders, folding her open. The new angle drove him deeper, hitting something inside her that made her eyes roll back. She grabbed his arse with both hands and pulled him into her even harder.

“Right there,” she sobbed. “Don’t move from there. Fuck me right there.”

He pounded into that spot over and over. She came again, louder this time, her pussy squeezing him so hard he had to stop and grit his teeth to hold on. She bucked and shook under him, swearing, half laughing, her nails dug into his skin.

When she could breathe again, she pushed at his chest.

“On your back,” she said. “My turn to direct.”

He rolled over. She climbed on top and straddled him and sank slowly down onto his cock, both of them groaning as she took him all the way. She sat there for a moment, full of him, and shook the shirt off her shoulders at last, so she was completely naked above him in the gold light.

“Now that’s the shot,” Tom said hoarsely.

“Too late. You put the camera down.”

She rode him slowly at first, rolling her hips, grinding her clit against him on every downstroke. Then faster. She put her hands flat on his chest and bounced on his cock, her breasts swinging, her red hair falling over both of them like a curtain. He grabbed her hips and slammed her down onto him, meeting every movement.

“Tell me what you want,” she panted.

“I want to come inside you.”

“Then do it. Fill me up. I want to feel it.”

He sat up suddenly and wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her freckled chest, sucking hard on one nipple while she rode him. She held his head against her and moved faster and faster, chasing it, and she felt him swell and stiffen inside her.

“I’m going to come,” he groaned against her skin.

“Come in me. Come in your dirty little client.”

He pulled her down hard and held her there and came, pulsing deep inside her, his whole body shuddering. The feel of it pushed her over a third time, and she clung to him and ground down on him through it, gasping his name, until they both went still.

They fell back together onto the sheets, sweaty and tangled and breathing hard. The light had moved. It lay across the foot of the bed now, warm and gold on their legs.

After a while, Tom laughed quietly at the ceiling.

“What?” she asked.

“I’ve got about four hundred photos of you on that card.”

“Are they any good?”

“The first hundred are very professional.” He turned his head to look at her. “The last three hundred are mostly your arse.”

She grinned and stretched, lazy and satisfied, his come still warm between her thighs.

“Well,” she said. “I’ve still got forty minutes left on my booking.”

He looked at the clock. He looked at the camera on the dresser. Then he looked back at her, at the freckles and the red hair and the wicked little smile.

“Turn over,” he said. “Don’t move.”

This time he picked up the camera.