Camera Lights

Writer note: This is my first story I have ever posted. Hope you enjoy it.

I am sitting in a dressing room, the air filled with the hum of the lighted mirror. The bulbs casting a harsh glare across my face. I used to at the top. At least in the Playboy and Hustler days. My hair, a deep, vibrant red that looks like molten copper. My eyes were the color of light bourbon, clear and sharp.

I spent an hour on my face, layering Desert Rose foundation until I looked the part. I felt like a refurbished paint job. Expensive, glossy, but overall just covering up. I knew I still had it. But I also knew the market. The bookings had slowed and then I got the call from Arthur. He was the man who built the stars of today. I just could not figure out why he wanted to work with me.

"Arthur is ready to start, Miss Clark."

The assistant was twenty-two year old thin girl with long jet-black hair. As I followed her into the hallway. I could not ignore the differences. She was the new girl next store. Her ass was tight and high, her breasts perky and youthful. At thirty-seven, my body was defiantly not what it used to be. My breasts were fuller, a firm C-cup and my hips were wider and flared.

We got to the door leading to the studio. I walked through and the door clicked shut behind me. Now, its just me and Arthur in this pressurized vacuum. In the center of all that white nothingness stood Arthur. He looked to be in his mid-twenties with a clinical focus.

"You're late, Miss Clark," he said, checking a meter.

"I was just looking at myself in the mirror," I said. "I think the mirror disagrees with you about me being here."

Arthur looked up. "The mirror tells you what you want to hear so you'll keep looking at it," he said. " We're going to start on the stool. Then I want to see you freestyle in that slip, and then we're going to do the rest nude."

I wore a skimpy black silk slip dress. It clung to my breasts and the curve of my ass. I felt every inch of my figure.

The lens was a hungry dark circle. "The light is finding the center now," Arthur muttered.

THUMP-CRACK.

The strobe detonated. I looked at him, his skin was smooth, his pulse steady. He was staring at me through the glass with a singular focus.

"We're done with the stool, get up and move around."

When I stood, the floor felt like it was tilting. I moved slowly. The silk of the slip sliding against my thighs. Every turn felt like I was trying to prove myself. Like a first audition.

Arthur stepped out from behind the camera. He didn't say a word as he reached out. His hand, steady and warm, landed on my hip. He moved like a man just doing a job. But then his rhythm broke. His fingers stayed there for a beat longer than necessary. A firm slow pressure that steered the weight of my ass into a new position. I felt the heat of his palm and the confusion started to turn into something sharper. It felt like it wasn't just an adjustment. He was touching me that felt intentional. Even if his face remained calm.

"Again," Arthur said, his voice dropping an octave. "Don't think. Just let the silk fall."

I reached for the thin straps. My fingers steady as I let the silk slide down. It pooled at my feet like a discarded skin, leaving me completely exposed in the studio.

I stood there. The sudden chill of the air-conditioning hitting my skin. My nipples hardening into dark, tight points. My stomach held a graceful tension with my pubic hair neatly trimmed. A sharp, dark contrast against the pale curves of my thighs.

Arthur stayed behind the lens, his eye pressed to the glass.

"Just move, Miss Clark," he said.

His voice dropping into a focused, clinical monotone. "Give me the movement you're famous for. Don't look at the lens. Just find the muse."

I began the freestyle. I felt like a woman trying to justify her presence in a room that felt too young for her. But as I started to move. Fifteen years of professional instinct took over. It was muscle memory. A slow, heavy rhythm that I couldn't switch off. My red hair spilled across my shoulders. I arched my back, the natural weight of my breasts and the flare of my hips finding the light with a precision I didn't even have to think about.

THUMP-CRACK.

The strobe detonated, freezing my body in a high-tension arch.

I shifted my weight, dragging my palms over the curve of my waist and down to my thighs. The friction of my own skin grounding me. I rolled my shoulders back, letting the light catch the fine lines of my collarbone and the deep bourbon in my eyes.

THUMP-CRACK.

He caught the moment my head tilted back with my throat exposed.

THUMP-CRACK.

The shutter was a heartbeat. I was moving for the camera now. I was finding the angles I'd repeated a thousand times in front of a thousand lenses. It was a language of intent that I spoke better than any new girl.

Arthur stepped out from behind the tripod his clinical mask finally beginning to crack. "Enough of the standing work," his voice barely above a whisper.

"On the floor, Miss Clark. On your knees. Enough of the standing work." he commanded. "On the floor, Miss Clark. On your knees. I want to see you exactly where you belong." I lowered myself onto the cold white plywood. The chill of the floor hit my knees and the tops of my feet. But the heat coming off Arthur felt like the sun as he knelt beside me.

"Legs apart." he said. "Further. I want the deep angles."

I obeyed. My thighs spreading across the white background, exposing my slick dark midsection. I was completely open now. My breathing shallow. My pulse thudding in the hollow of my throat. Arthur reached out with his palms. They were sliding along the inside of my thighs. My legs were spread with a firm pressure that felt like it was claiming every inch of my skin.

THUMP-CRACK.

"I haven't done that move in a long time," I whispered, the words catching in my throat. "Not in years."

Instead of a professional nod, Arthur looked directly at me. "Paris. October. Eleven years ago. The courtyard on Rue de Rivoli."

A physical shockwave hit me. My breath hitched. He wasn't just citing a date. He was reciting a prayer. The mask he'd worn since I walked into the studio didn't just crack. It evaporated, replaced by a raw jagged hunger that made the air in the room feel heavy.

"I had a secret stash" he admitted. His voice dropping into a low gravelly rasp. "I was fifteen when I stole that magazine from my father. It was you. I kept those pages hidden for years. I would just keep looking at them until the paper started to fray and the ink wore thin under my thumbs. I spent every night in the dark with those images. They would drive myself into a fever until my pulse was the only thing I could hear."

He looked at the camera, then back at me. His eyes dark with the weight of a decade of intent.

"I ruined those pages, Miss Clark. I looked at you until the paper was translucent and the staples were rusting. I didn't pick up a camera because I wanted to be an artist. I picked it up because I knew I had to become the kind of man who could finally get you in front of my lens. I spent ten years building a career just to earn the right to summon you to this room and see if the reality matched the obsession."

The realization hit me harder than the strobes ever could. The confusion that had been clawing at me since the dressing room finally vanished. He hadn't summoned me for a pity legacy project. He had summoned me because I was the only star that had ever mattered to him.

I reached out, guiding his hand down to my core. When his palm collided with the heat between my legs it was a total takeover. His fingers tangled in my pubic hair with a primal grip. He made a fist and I felt my clit being crushed as he pulled with a rhythmic driving pressure that sent a jolt straight to my spine.

He slid his index fingers into my pussy and gave into the surrender as he was mapping the internal walls. Then he arched his fingers up hitting my G-shot with a clinical accuracy that turned my pelvis to jelly.

He went lower and started pushing down on my pussy with a heavy force as he started eating me out. The sensation of having my clit devoured while being finger fucked sent my body into violent convolutions. I massaged his scalp reclaiming my own rhythm as I arched into the blinding light.

Arthur stood. His chest heaving. His stoic mask shattered and replaced by a raw jagged hunger. I stayed on my knees, staring at the hard-edged reality of his cock.

He was thick and heavy. A deep flushed red that throbbed with every jagged breath he took. The skin was pulled tight. Stretched over raised corded veins that branched like a map across the length of his coke. He was a solid unyielding weight. His head flared and blunt already weeping a clear slick bead of cum that caught the harsh studio light.

"My turn" I whispered.

I led him into my mouth. My tongue mapping the ridge of his head before the suction took over. I moved with a slow deliberate depth. My throat creating a heavy wave-like effect that forced a low broken sound from his chest.

I didn't hold back.

I pushed until I was gagging. The muscles of my throat constricting around him in a tight rhythmic vacuum. The studio was silent except for the wet rhythmic suction noise. The sound of a decade of his obsession finally meeting the reality of my mouth.

When I finally let go. A string of saliva clung to the flare of his head. Dripping slowly onto the white plywood floor. I didn't give him a second to breathe.

I grabbed him. My hand a tight rotating cylinder. I could feel the heat of those veins pulsing against my palm causing raw electricity from his adrenaline. I applied a professional crushing pressure. My wrist rotating in a sharp driving rhythm that I'd perfected over a thousand shoots. It was a mechanical relentless takeover. I went as hard as I could. As I was watching his eyes roll back as I drove him toward the edge. Wanting every fiber of his hard cock to feel like an atomic bomb was detonating in this white silent room.

Arthur's legs began to shake. A visible heavy tremor as I kept the rhythm of my palm tight and fast. My hand was slick and completely coated in my own saliva. The friction was driving him to a breaking point. He widened his stance on the plywood floor just to stay upright. Bracing his arms behind his back and leaning his head away as I worked him. I watched the head of his cock turn a deep pressurized red, the skin stretched so thin it looked like it was going to split.

Suddenly, the distance was gone. He reached out and buried his hand in my red hair with a forceful and possessive grip. He looked me straight in the eyes with a silent command that made me rise from my knees with a slow agonizing anticipation.

He grabbed my shoulders and spun me around. Using his right hand to shove my shoulders down while his left hand anchored my wide hips to his pelvis. He drove into me from behind. His entry was a total takeover. My pussy was already a geyser, dripping and slick. Swallowing the six inches of his hard throbbing cock in heavy driving motions.

He began to thrust with a powerful relentless force. His cock moved in and out with a hard serious rhythm that made my breath hitch. With every deep driving plunge. His balls slapped against my clit like a flesh-and-blood Newton's Cradle. A rhythmic clicking percussion of weight and momentum that sent a jolt straight to my spine. The heavy wet sound of the impact created an echo that filled the high ceilings of the studio. For those moments, the constant low humming of the stage lights was completely drowned out by the visceral rhythmic smacking of our bodies meeting in the center of the white void.

I couldn't stop moaning. It was aggressive. A loud vocal expression of exactly how much pleasure I was feeling. It was hot and I could feel my insides tingling with everything that was happening.

He reached around while he was still behind me. His fingers combing through my pubic hair as he started rubbing my clit. The feeling of being rubbed while getting fucked at the same time was too much. I was shaking hard and his grip on my pelvis was the only thing keeping me upright.

Then he stopped and pulled out. For a second, the cold air hit me and I just wanted that warm cylinder back inside me. I heard the hard heavy echo of the wooden stool hitting the plywood floor as he dragged it over.

"Sit on the stool" he said.

I sat on the wooden seat with my legs up and spread. My pussy wet and ready like a water slide for him to continue his business. My head fell back. My hair spilling down as I stared up at the white background of the studio. I tried to keep my eyes open to see him, but it was hard. I just wanted to close them and enjoy the feeling.

Before he got back inside me he leaned in. He buried his face between my thighs while I was on that stool. He started eating me out with a heavy relentless force. I could feel his tongue working against my clit. His face slick with my own juices as he drove me toward a breaking point.

Then he stood up. I heard his footsteps on the wood and then I felt his cock slide back into my pussy. He started fucking me again with tremendous thrusts. The head of his cock was hitting my G-spot consistently. Every time he pulled away for that micro-second, I needed him back instantly.

He stopped for a brief moment while he was still deep inside me. His cock felt like a warm worm trying to burrow into the ground pushing harder and harder. Writhing against my internal walls as if he could never get deep enough.

Then the rhythm broke into a frantic uncoordinated desperation. We were both moaning aggressively now. Our voices rising into a loud visceral chorus. The sound didn't just fill the room. It bounced off the massive white walls and the high ceilings creating a heavy distorted echo. The sixty hertz hum was long gone. Replaced by the primal acoustic roar of our own release. We weren't just two people in a studio anymore. We were the only sound left in that white void. Screaming into the silence until the system finally crashed. He didn't stop. He was moving with a relentless unyielding force. His body as firm and unmoving as stone while he drove into me. I was shaking violently. My frame vibrating against the wood of the stool with every heavy impact. I wanted him to see the effort. To feel the visceral reaction of my body as I struggled to match his rhythm.

My breasts, full and natural were jumping with every thrust. The weight of them swinging in a heavy rhythmic arc that made the air-conditioned skin of my chest flush a deep pink. My thighs were planted wide. The skin of my inner legs plumping and spreading against the wooden seat of the stool. With every deep driving plunge, I could hear the wet heavy slap of his pelvis hitting the flare of my hips. The sound echoing off the white walls. My love handles. Those soft substantial curves were trembling with the friction and vibrating as he anchored himself against me.

The sight of my own lack of control was clearly driving him harder. I could feel him thickening inside me. His breath hitching as he watched my entire body go visceral under his command.

Then he pulled out. The cold air hit me for a split second before he spoke. "On the floor" he commanded.

I scrambled down frantically. The plywood, cold against my knees as I looked up at his hard cock. He stood over me. His hand wrapped around his cock, jacking himself off with a fast desperate friction.

"I've wanted to do this for so long" he rasped. His voice dropping into that low jagged frequency. "Since those magazines. This is exactly what I dreamed of."

He looked me dead in the eyes. "Open up."

I obeyed instantly. My eyes locked on his as I waited. I was ready for it. Mentally screaming for him to finish what he'd started ten years ago. Then the rhythm broke. His body tensed. His corded veins jumping as the first heavy hot rope of cum hit the back of my throat. I gagged on the warmth of it, but I didn't look away.

Another pulse followed, thick and white, splashing across my tongue and painting my bottom lip. Then he angled it up. The next few ropes of cum hitting my cheeks and forehead. Mixing with the Desert Rose foundation and the sweat from the shoot. I felt the heat of his cum sliding down my face. He didn't stop until he was empty. His chest heaving. The last few solitary drops landing on my chin.

He stood there for a long moment, catching his breath before whispering a solitary. "Thank you."

I leaned in, catching the last of his cum in my mouth. Cleaning him off with a slow deliberate suction before he finally stepped back. He grabbed a white towel from the gear bag and handed it to me.

As I wiped my face. The towel took everything. The cum, the lipstick, the heavy foundation. I looked at the stained cloth and then at my reflection in the dark lens of the camera. I realized then that I didn't need the mask. I was still there, raw and real.

Arthur stepped back behind the tripod, his clinical mask firmly back in place. "I think we're done here" he said, his voice flat and professional again. "It was a pleasure, Miss Clark. Hopefully, we can work together again."

I pulled the silk dress back on. The fabric feeling different against my skin now. I walked to the heavy studio door and pushed it open. The assistant was standing in the hallway, looking as thin and waifish as a preliminary sketch.

"Did you have a good shoot?" she asked.

I looked at her because she hadn't yet felt the pull of the earth and I smiled. "Better than you could ever imagine" I said. "Better than anything you'll ever get."

I walked past her in my heels hitting the floor with a sharp, heavy confidence. She was just the void. I had the power.