“Why the hell would I let you take photos of me?” I gasp.
“Because…apparently you didn’t care about the last one I took. If it’s true, you won’t mind me taking some now. You can keep every single one of them when they’re developed. You can have the negatives, too.” He bites at my lip again, hard enough that I cry out. The sound of my pleasure mixed in with pain seems to drive him crazy. His hands are everywhere, pulling at my clothes; they find their way underneath my shirt again so he can pinch and roll my nipples through my bra. My body responds in kind, my back arching up off the table, my feet flexing, my thigh muscles contracting. Callan shifts himself so that he’s standing in between my legs. He takes hold of me by the hips and jerks me toward him, so that my pussy is pressed hard up against his erection. “What do you say, bluebird? Willing to pose for me?”
Should I let him do what he’s suggesting? Should I allow myself to be vulnerable for him again? Giving him my body is one thing, but letting him take pictures of it is another thing entirely. I wasn’t lying just now. I really wasn’t bothered by the photo. Sure, it would have been much better for me if thousands of people hadn’t seen me battered and bruised, but it wasn’t the end of the world. I would have forgiven him easily enough. My injuries are all internalized now; they shouldn’t show up on a photo, but I get the feeling that Callan will somehow manage to manifest them in print. His art always has that quality to it. The people in his portraits seem broken, elated, delirious or downcast. Whoever the subject, the photo always conveys their inner most hurts or joys almost perfectly, no matter if they’re expressing themselves in the image or not.
He leans back a little, shifting my loose shirt up to expose my bra. He pulls the right cup down and begins to circle his tongue around my peaked nipple, his eyes fixed on me the whole time. Slowly he bares his teeth and bites down on the small, pink bud of flesh. The pain that follows is exquisitely unbearable, yet I accept it, riding the high of the contact as the sensation rises and rises through me.
“Okay,” I say, closing my eyes. “Okay, you can use the camera. But I keep everything.”
Callan’s eyes are filled with fire as he steps back to grab the camera. “Take off your shirt,” he commands. It’s almost already off anyway, hitched up high, exposing my breasts. I carefully sit up, eyes on him as I slip the cotton material over my head. My bra is plain and black, but Callan’s greedily staring at my chest like my tits are encased in Victoria’s most expensive, most sexual secret. “Tip your head back,” he says.
I comply, angling my head back so that my chin is lifted high. The position makes me feel confident, filled with desire. Callan holds the Leica up to his face and quickly snaps off a shot, making a deep rumbling sound in the base of his throat. He seems to like what he sees. “Slowly slide your bra straps down your shoulders, bluebird.”
I do.
“Good. There.” Callan quickly takes another picture, nodding. “You’re amazing,” he tells me. “The most perfect creature I’ve ever seen.” I’m so used to feeling nothing when I have sex. So used to feeling comfortably numb whenever Ben touches me. This blazing furnace that’s been sparked into life as Callan points the lens of his camera at me is a shock to the system. “Now your skirt, Coralie,” he says. “Slide it up. Let me see how perfect you are there. Show me.”
Taking the hem of my skirt into my hands, I slowly adjust it, pulling the light fabric up my thighs, exposing inch after inch of flesh as he watches with a look of pure lust mastering his features. His eyes are dark, tense, filled with want. His hands remain steady as he lifts the camera up one more time, but I can tell this affects him. “Your panties, Coralie. Take them off. I need to see.”