The sexual side of Sophie’s relationship with Martin didn’t begin in the attic, but in the middle of another department store photo shoot. She was wearing pastel sweater sets, and plain wool skirts for a midwinter catalog, posing with three other models, dressed in similar clothes. That afternoon, every time Martin’s eyes met hers, he was remembering the extraordinary week before.
For three days in the attic room, she posed without clothes, lying on a chaise like a freshly cut flower. He remembered the line of her white shoulder, the hollow, and the rising collarbone, the swell of her breast that then drooped lazily against its twin—pressing against the satin beneath her. Sophie’s hip rose like an ocean swell, then curved downward as it became a thigh, disappearing into her bent knees, becoming her calves, her tiny ankles, and the daintily pointed feet stretching out like the line of a distant and endless horizon. She drifted on the green satin as though she were drifting on a calm sea. Her tan body—a fair and flawless tan—was graced by a single beauty mark just below her hipbone above her tangle of pale curls. Martin watched carefully, waiting for her to adjust the pose, squirm for a second, parting her thighs enough so he could peek at the pinkish wet between them. He saw only the very tip of inner labia extending beyond the two plump mounds of cleanly shaved velvet. He had seen enough of her naked to know that Sophie was hairless from just behind the tuft of pubic hair in front to somewhere in the—as yet unseen—depths near her anus.
While Martin’s eyes dined on this feast of flesh, her smile was as mysterious as the Mona Lisa’s, her lips pressed delightedly together. Though there’d been a draft in the attic, she was too hot inside herself to be chilled. A bead of sweat trickled from her neck in a languid rivulet as though unsure what path to take.
When Sophie’s eyes caught Martin’s in the downstairs studio, she remembered how he moved so adroitly, how his sandy blonde hair was captured by the mellow glow of the afternoon sun. He was studious, controlling, always having something in mind that he wanted her to understand as he shifted her pose from one to the next. As demanding as he was, he was never impatient, and often smiled, just as the camera clicked off another image of her radiance. She often believed she saw his pants pulse at the crotch, his cock all in a rage in the middle of work.
Neither model nor photographer could forget the passionate roar these sessions fueled each day. They worked until she was tired—or more appropriately her body lust was so potent that she could no longer sit still. The third day, she hopped to her feet without being excused and flew to her robe. “Time to go,” she declared.
“Aw, so soon?” he was both stunned and disappointed.
“I just remembered an appointment…”
He knew it was a lie—a very bad lie—but a harmless one.
That night, they both rethought the platonic arrangement that prevented their having sex. The biggest question they faced was, why? What was keeping them from making love? What kind of insidious reasoning was there to hold back from an act of love that was obviously mutually desired?
Two days later at the photo shoot, after several clothing changes, the day was about to wrap. The other models were in the dressing rooms and Sophie was alone with Martin.
Oddly, the same sort of potent attraction that seemed to loom so ominously over them in the attic was present now—there without any real instigation. He was at her side, his hand, quite suddenly, stroking her cheek.
“I’m not sure this is good for me anymore,” he said.
She thought he was shattering her world with that comment. “Why’s that?”
“I want you in the attic now, right now. I want you without a stitch, and not so I can take another picture of you,” he said as though he loathed his occupation. “I want you naked next to me.” He wasn’t sure what made him say these things, but they had to be said or he’d explode.
She stood looking at him in awe—afraid and in awe.
“Then I’ll be there for you, Martin,” she finally replied. She had his two cheeks held gently between her two palms. She might have kissed him but they were interrupted by the other models leaving the studio. “I’ll wait for you there,” she mouthed as she backed away and quickly disappeared into the back of the house, on her way to the attic staircase.