Christine was one of my first models. I met her on a trip to Toronto, where I advertised for models on Craig’s List. Many responded to my call; I did sessions the whole week. Christine came in for a photo session, she said, because she wanted to document her breasts before they ‘fell’.
I hadn’t met her before the session; she was a stunning young woman, confident, with a rich voice and vibrant head of raven-colored hair. We talked for a few minutes and then she stepped into the bathroom, and emerged nude a few moments later.
I was honored to be in the presence of one so lovely and so open – a gesture of sincere trust. My heart was thumping as I looked at her. I thought it had to be obvious that I was responding to her; though if she noticed, she didn’t let on.
I wanted to cup one of her breasts, kiss her and gently suck her light, pinkish brown nipple. I did not dare express this. I wanted to so dearly, I could already feel her in my mouth. Her areola were magnificent and womanly, and so beautiful. I stunned myself for a moment when I found myself being turned on because they reminded me of my mother’s.
For the next 45 minutes or so we went through the session following the basic concept – that I would photograph her looking in mirrors. Mostly, we used a round facial mirror on a stand about 18 inches tall. Mostly, she sat with the thing beside her, and looked down into it.
Her self-presence was calming. She had the most gentle expression gazing into her own eyes, with slow breath and attentiveness to my presence. She was a delight to be around, and to look at, and as I noticed her with all my heart I wanted to get to know her. I could see that the photos were coming out beautifully. The sunlight was perfect, cool and northern at a low angle.
I kept a level head, helped in part because I was focused on my work, though that required that I notice her visually. I feasted my eyes on her, and each contour of her beauty, and the elegant sweetness of her face and eyes. My heart melted a little, when I looked into them.
Each time I observed her breasts, or focused my camera on her there, I wanted to sniff them. I could vividly imagine my hands cupping them, gently pressing them together, bringing my mouth and nose close-by and drinking in her subtle scent. Again, I did not dare, though I was concerned she could read my mind or feel my vibes, and that this would be considered crossing a line.
I knew there was no way I could stop my feelings, though I maintained a friendly, professional demeanor, as did she. I then asked her to sit down in a chair I had covered with a sheet, positioned toward the late afternoon Sun. She sat down, and relaxed, and smiled gently as I painted her. Then I knelt down to photograph her from floor level.
As I knelt down, she spread her legs and revealed her delightful, plump vulva. The way she sat displayed her labia beautifully. I continued to photograph her. The mirror was at her feet. She was gazing intently into it; though I did not know what she was seeing.
Then she opened her legs a bit wider, gently spread open her lips, and placed her finger on her clit. I could not believe she was doing this. Trusting me this way. I looked into her eyes and then avoided her gaze; had I kept looking at her face I would have moaned out loud.
I almost did anyway, so stunned was I. Her demeanor had been so dignified and her purpose for the photos so clearly stated. The sensation of her boundaries was impeccable, as was the respect they evoked. And now she was gently massaging her clit before me, for herself, for my camera…to see freely, forever. Her face tilted back and I could see the delicious pleasure she was giving herself.
I looked at her perfectly gorgeous vulva, met with her hand, fingers splitting open her snatch gloriously. Her inner lips were awesome and plump and looked gorgeous pinned apart. She glistened, and was exuding droplets of moisture, which I would have licked up, had I had the opportunity. Her fingers were wet and slippery with her delicate secretion. I so deeply, desperately wanted to taste her.
Accepting that would not happen, I let myself indulge in her scent as experienced from the edge of the garden. I wanted to come right up to the rose and sniff her intentionally. Heat flushed through me and I was obsessed with the desire to smell her up close and the idea of doing so.
I looked up at her and could not hold back my speech. “I want to smell you,” I said. Hearing my own words, my heart raced. First she demurred. Then she looked at me with what seemed to be the fleeting glance of dismay, and then slower, languid compassion.
“Sometimes all you need is a little sniff,” she said.
She gestured that I could lean in closer. I wanted to clasp her waist with my fingertips, though I kept my hands on my thighs, my camera now set aside. Had I done that I would want to spurt into her as I held her. I knew not to touch her.
I brought my nose about four inches from her, gazing into the red delight of her many delicate lips. I drew in her lavish cunty scent once, and then again, recognizing her and identifying her on some genetic level.
I could have stayed for an hour, smelling her in the thick of her arousal, and I crave her to this day. I didn’t want to seem greedy or like I would push for more. I leaned back, looked at her face, closed my eyes and bowed to her slightly.
