The Power of Photography

There are some things that go hand in hand with, but are not necessarily really part of sex. Showers and sunken baths, nurses and schoolgirl uniforms, stockings, the back seats of cars and, of course, posing for a camera.

That's what this all about.

How, what started as an innocent few shots ended up as being a major part of my sex-life for a time.

I urge my readers, male and female, to try it. For those of you that have and are into it, I would love to hear about your experiences.

*

"Bollocks," I heard myself saying, as the A4 sized folder slipped from my under my arm hand and fell to the floor in the middle of the Starbucks in Greenwich. As I bent down, I quickly looked around, hoping no one had heard me, maybe I had said it under my breath, I rather ambitiously thought.

I heard a nice, male voice say.

"Hey, let me help."

I didn't look at the owner of the voice.

"No, no it's ok," I said panicking a bit as I knelt down and tried picking everything up as quickly as I could.

"It's ok, maidens in distress are my specialty", the voice went on.

I felt, more than saw that someone was kneeling beside me. I glanced to one side and saw a man on one knee, almost as if he was about to propose. He was reaching under the table, helping to pick up the papers, folders, envelopes and other stuff.

"Oh fuck," I said to myself when I saw that several photos had come loose from the pack they had been in. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck and fuck again", I breathed as I watched him pick them up.

He couldn't possibly avoid seeing they were photos, he probably couldn't avoid seeing they were photos of a scantily clad woman and I didn't think he could avoid, either, seeing that she was wearing lacy topped, hold-up stockings and a black thong and bra; nothing else, apart from black, shiny, high heels and a sultry, but slightly embarrassed smile. I hoped like hell, though, that he did avoid seeing that I was that woman.

I looked at him and saw him staring at the woman in the photos, a wry, impish almost, grin on his face, the lechy bastard. He didn't say anything, but handed them to me.

"Yours, I believe."

"Yes thank you," I replied feeling flustered and embarrassed, as we remained crouched looking at each other.

"I'm so clumsy; I must have had a really blonde moment there."

"Unusual for a brunette", he said flashing me a warm smile.

I saw him looking at my mane of long, rather unkempt chestnut coloured hair that I paid a fortune to have look like a mess.

"Sexy though," my gay hairdresser always tells me, as he runs his hands seductively through it, making me somewhat regret his sexuality!

I suddenly realised the man couldn't avoid seeing that the jacket of my black, three button Donna Karan business suit was gaping. He also could not avoid noticing that the above the knee, tightish skirt had ridden up my legs. Moreover, to compound things, he could not avoid, even had he wanted to and why would he, looking down my jacket and up my skirt. That made me once more mutter under my breath. This time I tried both bollocks and fuck, fuck, fuck; that made me feel a little better, so I added another bollocks and two more fucks just for good measure. It didn't alter the fact, though, that unintentionally I was putting on a real display for him and then, I realised not just for him for I had a whole audience of the Starbuck customers and staff.

Still bent down, sort of sitting on the back of one foot with that knee almost touching the ground and with my other leg bent at ninety degrees or thereabouts, geometry was never my strong point, I glanced at this "helpful" stranger. He caught my eye and smiled.

"Hi" he said brightly as if meeting a woman bent over in Starbucks was the most natural thing in the world. It took me off guard.

"Oh hi," I said back, getting into the vernacular and almost putting my hand out to shake his.

Then it hit me, and with quite a jolt. It hit me that there were other things he and the audience most certainly could not have avoided seeing. It hit me that he would have seen my cleavage, for under the gaping jacket I was only wearing a bra; after all how often would I grovel on my knees in my best business suit?

It also hit me that he could not avoid noticing that I was wearing similar stockings to the girl in the photos, well apart from the lacy tops; for I didn't think he could quite see that far up my skirt. On top of all that, as I stopped flustering, a bit, it hit me that he, along with the rest of bloody Starbucks was also looking down my top and up my bottom.

"What a fucking shambles," I thought.

"We all do such things", he said a sparkle, or was it a twinkle, I never know the difference, in his eye as he got up and took my elbow helping me to stand. As I straightened up, he looked me up and down as I patted the expensive suit, pulling the jacket and smoothing the skirt back into place.

I stared at him as well. I have to admit that I was slightly impressed, not something that happens to me very often.

He was about six feet tall, I guessed, certainly some inches more than my five feet six plus high heels. Nicely slim, there was a pleasing, very relaxed way about him. He had short, grey-flecked hair, which was probably black a few years ago. It was neatly cut and looked modern, but thankfully wasn't a 'Phil Mitchell so was not overly trendy, just about right, I thought. He was wearing stylish, clean and not ripped or stained jeans, which thankfully had no crease, a dark tee shirt and a thin, somewhat rumpled jacket

'Mmmmm, quite a good package," I found myself thinking.

"Hey, let me buy you a coffee or something?" He asked in a nicely modulated voice with a touch of a 'Thames Estuary' accent.

"No, no thanks, I'd better be going", I mumbled.

"In a rush to get somewhere?"

"Well no. not really."

"So why not just sit down, relax and have a late or espresso, after all that is why you came in wasn't it?"

I realised that I had not got as far as ordering anything before making such an utter fool of myself.

"Er, I'd rather not, not in here," I stammered.

"Huh?" He said raising his eyebrows as our gazes met.

I smiled. "I think I've done enough damage here, I feel a little embarrassed." I said pulling my posh, power suit jacket more tightly round me, sitting up almost ramrod-like, straight and wishing I had worn a tee or blouse under it and wasn't flashing quite so much cleavage. I could feel and see come to that, your eyes drifting to my chest.

"Why?"

"Well you know."

"Oh that?"

"Yes that," I said looking around and realising that he was still holding my elbow.

"What all of us lucky guys you mean."

"Precisely, I'm not that used to flashing my bits to all and sundry."

"How about a drink then in the pub over the road?" He asked hesitantly, immediately making me think this was all a bit new for him. That made me feel more relaxed, for I hate being pulled by a real player.

What was that all about, where had that come from? What was I thinking about? Being pulled, real players. Fuck off; I don't get involved in such things or with such people, real players, my arse!

I was not in the habit of talking to strangers and I resisted advances at golf or other places where I met men. In the three ad agencies where I worked freelance as a copywriter, I was known by most of the men as, either 'ice maiden,' when they were being polite or, ' the les' when they tried and failed to get into my knickers.

So why the hell was I now saying. "Sure a quickie then, if that's ok?"

The man smiled broadly and replied cheekily, but not smuttilly, "Always a time for a quickie."

Unconsciously I laughed at that. "You know what I mean."

"Only too well," he replied rather seriously, making me wonder what was coming next. "But always before a quickie I insist on one thing."

"What? What's that?" I asked rather dumbly.

With a broad smile, knowing he had 'got' me, he said.

"I insist on being on first name terms. I'm Matt." He smiled extending his hand. I shook it replying.

"Hello Matt. I think that's a good idea too, I'm Amanda or Mandy if you prefer."

We shook hands. It was only then that I remembered all of bloody Starbucks was looking on at me being most comprehensively picked up. I was rather surprised not to hear a round of applause as you do when someone exhibitionisticly proposes in public.

We walked out; he was holding my elbow, me clutching my damaging folder very carefully.

"So, any suggestions for our quickie?" He asked jokingly, well presumably jokingly.

"I don't really know the area, I got dropped off here by my bastard of a boss, I live in Docklands so I'll get the DLR home."

"I know just the place, it's only just round the corner near the Cutty Sarke," he said adding. "It's a bit touristy, but just right for a quickie. I laughed.

"Oh shut up about those."

In the very 'olde worde' typically English pub that Americans so like, we discussed the usual "getting to know you" things. Where each other lived, hobbies and pastimes -- I was surprised to discover he was a fellow golfer -- relationships and the like. If I was surprised at him being a golfer, I was even more surprised when he said.

"Before you ask, let me make an admission right away Amanda."

I thought, rather unnecessarily and for no good reason, that he was going to go back on his earlier statement about being separated from his wife; men seem to do things like that.

"Sure," I said, rather more casually than I felt, for yet another no good reason.

"About my work," he said giving me an unexpected sense of relief.

"Yes go on," I said, now full of curiosity.

"I'm a police officer."

To say I was, as the modern saying goes, gobsmacked is a terrific understatement. Why I don't know? I tried a joke.

"Don't say you're going to arrest me for possessing smutty photos are you?"

He laughed. "No Amanda, I most certainly would not arrest you for that, I might thank you maybe."

We talked about it a bit and it turned out that he had been an engineer or something. For some reason I didn't understand, or the third glass of white wine in the afternoon, made me forget, he told me the reason for 'chucking it all in' and doing something useful. I seem to recall that the reason sounded good.

We had exchanged brief explanations, without going into much detail, about our marriage break ups and Matt had explained that he had a young daughter with whom, thankfully, he had got good visitation rights.

I explained that I had been born in Essex, where, incidentally, he had spent your early childhood, and that I now lived in Docklands, just across the river from where we were. Matt said that since his break up he had moved back to Dartford where he had a flat and travelled to Greenwich, where he was stationed each day.

"I've been spending today looking at flats round here, but they're so bloody expensive," he explained.

I told him about my job as a freelance copywriter and that I worked mainly from home, but had to visit agencies to get work and be briefed and occasionally I attended client meetings or helped out on new business presentations.

"That's where I have been today and why I'm wearing the posh suit."

"I was wondering. It's a great suit," Matt said, smiling as he pointedly looked down the front of the jacket. "I guess you don't wear them that often."

I smiled. "Is it that obvious?"

"Well you don't seem that comfortable in it, or that used to wearing it."

"No, I'm not, you tend to forget just how much you show off," I muttered, forgetting that I hardly knew Matt. I sat up straighter stopping his view of my cleavage.

"I'm sorry, but I feel I must confess that I did see the contents of your folder back there, but don't worry, your secret is safe with me, a gentleman never tells after all!" He said.

"Well, thank you very much," I laughed, "I'm glad that this damsel was assisted by a real knight in shining armour, but of course a real gentleman would never have looked in the first place"

He flushed red, "Oh, erm, er, yes, I, I'm sorry"

I took pity on him and smiled. I leaned forward and rested my fingertips on his forearm. "Matt, it's ok; I'm glad you were willing to help out, most people just walk on and laugh in London these days"

I saw him let out a deep breath, "That's ok; I'd do the same for anyone I guess, maybe that's why I'm a cop." We both smiled at that as I added. "Although the rewards are rarely so high."

I felt myself blushing. Was it hot in here? Had I had too much to drink, or what? I was thinking.

On a daft impulse, I pushed the folder across the table "If you want a real reward, go on, take a proper look, I'd like to know what you think"

Matt didn't do or say anything. We merely stared at each other, wondering. Wondering what this was all about?

Almost as soon as I pushed the folder across the small, glass topped, slightly beer stained, table, I thought.

'What the hell did I do that for?'

Was I fishing for compliments? Did I want to flaunt myself to this stranger? Was I that hard up for compliments and starved of men's attention? Or was a well-hidden and unknown exhibitionistic streak raising its ugly head? Alternatively, maybe, it was that I was with a stranger who I need never see again and my sense of bravado was telling me, what the hell?

"Actually Matt, on second thoughts maybe not? I said reaching out to grab the folder. As I did that, he was already reaching out to pick it up. It was like snap and I won. My hand was on the folder first, with my white tipped painted, square cut nails pointing at him. He was a close second, however and his hand slapped on top of mine.

"No?" Matt questioned looking at me and smiling.

My hand was trapped by. I was leaning forward at a degree that had I worn business suits more often, I would have known revealed too much of what was the nearly naked me inside the jacket.

"Shame, I thought that might be my reward for saving the chestnut haired, damsel in distress in the dragon's den of Starbucks."

I couldn't help smiling at Matt's quick wit. "I thought you had rather already had your reward in there," I quickly retorted.

"Well I was hoping more for a linger than just a quickie," he replied as he pointedly, but in no way pervy, obviously looked down my jacket.

'Hmmm, have to watch out for this one' I thought. 'He's smart and quick.' Then I saw where his eyes were focused, so I added a few more, bollocks and fuck its to the earlier litany of profanities. Hopefully, this time they were completely under my breath.

I really can be such a clumsy, cackhanded bitch at times. I am always mislaying items, forgetting to put arrangements or meetings in my diary or on my Microsoft Oulook thingy via my Blue or is it Blackberry, and I quite often bump into things or drop papers or books. So, what had happened in Starbucks didn't come as that big a surprise to me and didn't embarrass me perhaps as much as it should. Ok, him looking at the photos of me in the underwear was bit off-putting, but it was more what he was thinking about why I had such photos than the snaps themselves that was causing me a tad of concern. 'But then' I thought 'Why should I care, I'm only having a drink with a guy, his opinion of me has little weight and probably even less continuity,'

I looked up from where I had been staring at his hand on mine. I had to admit that it felt nice, but then skin on skin usually does, doesn't it? Our eyes caught, he was still smiling and he raised his eyebrows in a silent question, which was asking what? I had no idea, but I thought he looked quite good with his eyebrows raised, so I raised mine too. We both smiled.

It's funny isn't it how a couple sometimes just hit things off? How they very quickly, occasionally develop a part of their relationship that's so on the same wavelength that things can be said in jest or fun, which would be impossible in other relationships; things such as quips about 'quickies ', 'all us lucky fellas' and me flashing my bits. I felt that with us.

'Shit Mandy, get hold of yourself' I thought. 'Stop thinking 'us' and 'relationships' think quick drink in a pub, then bye. "I thought this is rather like a linger, isn't it?" I said glancing down at my chest.

'Gotcha,' I thought as I saw the look of embarrassment on his face.

"Oh sorry, I shouldn't do that," he muttered, looking and sounding as if he really meant it to the extent that I found myself replying.

"That's Ok Matt, I understand."

The volume of silent 'fuck its' and bollocks that exploded in my mind increased, probably exponentially.

"Really Mandy? You understand?"

"Well sort of yes," I replied, at last pulling my hand away and sitting up straight. That lost me the rather nice feel of the hand on mine and closed off the tit show for the time being. 'Time being? Come on you silly tart' I told myself.

Matt's hand was by itself on the folder. He looked at me for explanation, instructions or something. With me having said that I understood his lingering look down my jacket, it could well be that the something he was looking for might have been me standing up and undoing the bloody jacket. It struck me that I had flashed most pretty much everything else, so I might just as well. I didn't of course. Instead, I said.

"Go on then Matt, open the folder."

"No, no I shouldn't Amanda, it's private, and it's confidential."

Again, the easy way we had come to relate to each other.

"I thought you felt you deserved a reward."

"Well yes."

"And wanted a linger, whatever the hell that is?"

Matt smiled. "Let's say I had that shall we?"

"Ok fine, so you've had a linger, you've had a reward."

"Well not fully, I think St George slaying the Starbuck dragon for you deserves a little more."

"Do you now, and what little more would my knight demand from this damsel?"

"Your knight, mistress, would request, for he would never demand, that you sup with him this evening."

I wanted to keep up the mediaeval parlance, but felt moving it along might involve lances, helmets and the like, so I dropped it?"

"Is that an invitation to dinner?"

"Er yes Amanda, it is, would you like to have an early dinner?"

I rather pointedly looked at my watch. "Matt, it's only four thirty."

As quick as anything.

"A late lunch then?"

We both laughed.

"Actually I haven't eaten, so yes that would be lovely."

We went to a pub on the river opposite the palace. It was a nice dinner, we drank probably too much, we talked endlessly about many topics until about seven thirty when, out of the blue, we were both tipsy by now, Matt asked.

"So Mandy, I know what curiosity did to the cat, but as I am not a cat and a red-blooded male instead, tell me about the photographs?"

"What do you think they are?"

"Are you a model in your spare time?"

I laughed. "No of course not. Being a one parent mother with a fourteen old daughter, a freelance, copywriter job in advertising and a very heavy golf habit, doesn't leave time for moonlighting as a model."

Laughing, he said. "I'm beginning to know how that bloody cat felt, I am now so curious."

Giggling, I reached down into my ridiculously large WAGS handbag and pulled out the folder. I put it on the table and pushed it towards him.

"No, 'Hands, touching hands,' this time" I sang softly."

He sang back. "Or touching me touching you?"

Thoughtlessly, I muttered. "Oh I don't know."

In the way that tipsy people do, we found that amazingly funny.

"Well not in here," I said as I watched him open the folder.

"Be careful Matt, I know I flashed a lot in Starbucks, I don't want to do the same in here, I'll get such a reputation in this area."

He discretely looked at the dozen or so print offs from the digital images.