She’s standing there in that silk slip looking like a tactical error I’m about to make with my eyes wide open.
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[Voice Memo 001. Tuesday, 10:14 AM]
(Sound of a heavy camera bag zipper being pulled, the metallic click of a lens locking into place.)
Okay, note to self. The client is Elena Vance. No relation to the Vance family back in Abilene, thank Christ. She’s a corporate litigator, which means she spends her life looking for weaknesses in people’s armor. My job is to get her to take the armor off—at least for the lens.
I’ve got the Profoto lights set up at forty-five degrees. The studio feels like a goddamn oven because the AC in this building is about as reliable as a surplus jeep. I’m shooting with the 85mm prime. It’s honest. It doesn't hide anything.
She just walked in. She’s wearing a charcoal suit that looks like it was painted on by someone with a very steady hand. She’s taller than the file said. Or maybe it’s just the way she carries herself—like she owns the air in the room and she’s deciding whether or not to let me breathe it.
Banter check: She’s sharp. I told her the lighting was ‘forgiving’ and she told me she didn't come here for mercy. I like that. I like a woman who doesn't mind a bit of friction. It makes the final image look less like a headshot and more like a confession.
[Voice Memo 002. Tuesday, 11:30 AM]
(Sound of liquid pouring into a glass, followed by a long exhale.)
Change of plans. The suit is gone.
We went through the standard corporate shots in twenty minutes. She’s too good at it. It was like watching a soldier run a drill—efficient, perfect, and completely devoid of blood. I told her it was boring. I told her I could see the lawyer, but I couldn't see the woman who probably drinks her scotch neat and listens to records that would make her mother blush.
She dared me. That was the mistake. Or maybe that was her play. She said, 'Ben, if you want something less boring, you’re going to have to work for it.'
So I told her to go into the dressing room and find something that wasn't designed to win a deposition. She came out in this silk slip. It’s the color of a bruise—deep plum, almost black in the shadows. It’s got these thin straps that look like they’d snap if I even thought about them too hard.
We’re playing this game now. I’m behind the tripod, and she’s out there in the circle of light, and the air is getting thick. Every time I click the shutter, it sounds like a gunshot in here.
'Chin down,' I told her.
'Make me,' she said.
She’s got this way of looking at the lens like she’s looking right through the glass, through the sensor, and straight into my chest. My hands are sweating. I haven't felt this kind of tactical disadvantage since I was twenty-two and staring down a master sergeant with a bad attitude.
[Voice Memo 003. Tuesday, 12:45 PM]
(The sound of a chair dragging across a wooden floor. The background noise is quieter now, just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic.)
I’ve stopped taking photos. Well, I’ve stopped taking *those* photos.
The light shifted. The sun is hitting the bricks of the building across the street and bouncing back into the studio with this warm, orange glow that’s making the dust motes look like gold leaf.
She’s sitting on the edge of the velvet sofa now. One leg crossed over the other. That silk is hiked up, showing a stretch of thigh that is… Jesus. It’s smooth and pale and it looks like it’s never seen a day of sun. There’s a small birthmark just above her knee. I focused the lens on it for a full minute before I realized I wasn't even breathing.
'You're staring, Ben,' she said. Her voice has dropped an octave. It’s got that raspy quality, like she’s been shouting or whispering for hours.
'I'm composing,' I told her. Lie. A total tactical diversion.
'You're stalling,' she countered. She stood up. She didn't walk; she drifted. She came over to where I was standing by the monitor. I could smell her. Sandalwood and something sharp, like citrus. It’s a clean smell, not floral. It’s the smell of someone who knows exactly what they want.
She leaned over to look at the last frame on the screen. The silk shifted. I could see the curve of her breast, the way it wasn't constrained by anything. No bra. Just her and the fabric and the heat. I could see the way her nipple was a dark shadow against the plum silk, hardened by the AC or the attention. Probably both.
'I look like I'm waiting for something,' she whispered. She was so close I could feel the heat coming off her skin. It was like standing next to an idling engine.
'Are you?' I asked.
She didn't answer with words. She just reached out and put her hand over mine on the camera body. Her skin was cool, but the pressure was firm. She’s not shy. She’s a predator. And right now, I’m the one in the sights.
[Voice Memo 004. Tuesday, 1:15 PM]
(The recording starts with heavy, rhythmic breathing. There’s a soft thud, then the sound of fabric rasping against fabric.)
I’m… I’m keeping this on. I don't know why. Maybe because I want to remember exactly how the air broke.
We were standing by the monitor. I turned my head, and she was right there. Her mouth was slightly open. I didn't wait for a signal. I’m a man who spent half his life following a ROE, but out here, the rules are different. I grabbed her waist—my hands fit perfectly there, my fingers digging into that soft silk—and I pulled her into me.
She didn't gasp. She grunted, a low, satisfied sound that went straight to my gut. Her mouth hit mine like a collision. It wasn't a soft kiss. It was a claim. She tasted like the coffee we’d had earlier and something sweeter, something that was just her.
I backed her up against the equipment table. The metal rattled. My hands went from her waist to her thighs, bunching up that expensive silk until I felt the heat of her bare skin. She’s soft, but there’s muscle underneath. She’s solid.
'The light,' I muttered against her neck. 'It’s perfect right here.'
'Shut up about the light,' she said, and she nipped at my earlobe, her teeth sharp enough to make me hiss. She reached down and her fingers found the fly of my jeans. She didn't hesitate. She never hesitates. She unzipped me with a precision that was almost terrifying, her knuckles grazing the head of my cock as it jumped free.
I’m hard. I’m harder than I’ve been in a decade. It feels like my pulse is centered entirely between my legs.
[Voice Memo 005. Tuesday, 1:40 PM]
(The sound is muffled, as if the phone is on a table nearby. There are wet, sliding noises and the occasional sharp intake of breath.)
She’s on the table now. The mahogany is dark and cold, but she doesn't seem to care. She’s got her legs wrapped around my waist, her ankles locked behind my back, pulling me into the cradle of her hips.
I’ve got the slip pulled all the way up to her waist. Her skin is flushed, a deep rose color spreading from her chest up to her throat. I spent five minutes just working my mouth over her breasts, tasting the salt on her skin, feeling her nipples go pebble-hard against my tongue. She’s making these sounds—not screams, but these low, vibrating moans that I can feel in my own chest.
'Ben,' she says. 'Ben, now. I don't want to wait for the perfect shot.'
I reached down between us. She’s dripping. She’s so wet my fingers slide right over her clit, and she arches her back so hard I think the table might snap. I find her opening—she’s tight, so goddamn tight—and I guide myself in.
When I push, she doesn't flinch. She opens up. It feels like sliding into a warm, silk-lined glove. The friction is incredible. I’m buried deep, my pelvis grinding against hers, and the world has narrowed down to just this—the rhythm of my breath and the way she’s gripping my shoulders, her nails digging into the meat of my deltoids.
I start to move. It’s not a drill. It’s not a mission. It’s a slow, steady burn. I’m pulling nearly all the way out, feeling the way her internal muscles clench around me, trying to hold on, and then I’m driving back in, hitting that spot that makes her toes curl.
'Look at me,' I tell her.
She opens her eyes. They’re blown wide, the pupils swallowing the iris. She looks wrecked. She looks beautiful.
'I’m... I'm going to...' she starts, her voice breaking.
'Go on,' I tell her, and I speed up. I’m not being gentle anymore. I’m hitting her with everything I’ve got, my hands under her ass, lifting her off the table to meet every one of my thrusts.
(Sound of a loud, shuddering moan from a woman, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of the table against the wall.)
She’s coming. I can feel her walls pulsing around my cock, squeezing me in this rhythmic, frantic way that makes my vision go dark at the edges. She’s sobbing almost, her head buried in the crook of my neck, her breath hot and fast against my skin.
I’m right there with her. I can't hold it back. I give one last, deep shove, burying myself as far as I can go, and I let go. It feels like a dam breaking. I’m pouring into her, my whole body shaking with the effort of it, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
[Voice Memo 006. Tuesday, 2:15 PM]
(The sound of a match striking. A long, slow exhale of smoke.)
We’re still in the studio. She’s wearing my button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up, sitting on the floor with her back against the sofa. She looks like a different person. The lawyer is gone. There’s just this woman with messy hair and a bite mark on her shoulder that I’m pretty sure I put there.
I’m looking at the camera. The memory card is full. I don't think I’m going to give her these photos. Not the ones of her in the slip, anyway. Those are for me.
She just looked over at me and smiled. Not a corporate smile. Not a polite smile. It was the smile of someone who knows she just won the war.
'So,' she said, her voice still smoky. 'Did you get what you needed?'
I looked at her, at the way the light was hitting her now—soft, low, fading. The best kind of light.
'Yeah,' I said. 'I think I got the shot.'
Note to self: Cancel the rest of the week. I think we’re going to need a lot more film.
(Sound of the recording clicking off.)
