There I sat, waiting. Waiting in my small studio, excited like a teenager before his first date. I was waiting for this woman who hadn’t left my mind since she first showed up here a few weeks ago. Will she return? I did not even know her name, or what to call her. Or how to find her out. Will she adhere to our agreement, or has she lost her courage in the meantime? Abandoned her plan? Thought better of it?

She had told me a somewhat unusual story, that her husband barely paid attention to her anymore, preferring to occupy himself with pictures of younger women and girls from the internet, obviously finding more pleasure in them than in her. She rejected the idea of being overlooked, discarded, or not being pretty anymore. But how could she prove she was still attractive to men? Especially one certain individual.

Sure, she wasn’t exactly young anymore--I’d guess early to mid-forties. But what a woman! The guy must be either gay, blind, or an idiot. Well, if he drools over those girls and young women online, he surely wasn’t gay nor blind. That leaves idiot as the remaining option. But I surely wouldn’t say anything of this aloud.

She stood before me, maybe 5 feet 7 inches tall, but slim. Somewhere between 120 and 130 pounds. Full breasts, as far as I could tell from how they appeared under her dark blouse. Hair long, down to below her shoulders, ash blond with some strands of blond. Smooth skin on her face, lightly tanned now in late summer, with the first few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. But her walk, almost floating, the way she moved, her posture--it struck a chord in me. The sound of her voice. There stood a mature woman who knew what she wanted, who didn’t need to torment herself with any tricks to look younger than she was. And consequently refrained from doing so. Except maybe for the bangs, from under which her blue-gray eyes looked at me.

And this archetype of a woman stood before me and asked if I also did private photos. Really private ones. Of her. She wanted to do a present for her husband’s birthday.

I was almost speechless. Did this gorgeous embodiment of womanhood really declare she wanted to undress in front of my camera--in front of me? That’s how I understood her, at least. My voyeuristic streak kicked in immediately: I could look at her, even completely naked! I could even direct her on how to undress and how to pose! Of course, she would have to understand that I’d have to examine her closely, search for the optimal angle for each shot, where and how her charms would be best highlighted. Unfortunately, the images were intended for someone else, but I’d have the chance to feast my eyes on this beautiful woman to my fill. Though it is open to discussion whether that’s even possible. To get one’s fill, especially of her.

The voyeur in me was practically flipping out, turning into a beast. But outwardly, I had to stay calm, show her she could trust me, that I’d handle the whole thing professionally.

Yes, she wanted shots of her body, she would pose in front of the camera. She would want to have the memory cards directly from my camera to do the post processing herself. And of course, she trusted I would not take advantage of her, when we were alone in the building where my attic studio was. In my excitement I forgot to ask her name. Hopefully she did not sense what her request of taking images of her did to me. Any photographer, earning his living with images of dull products for advertising or catalogues, occasionally some passport photos would rejoice to work with a living person, especially a beautiful female.

Okay, all I’d get was the experience of her presenting herself naked in front of my camera. But I could savor that. So I thought.

Well, for obvious reasons I didn’t ask why she chose me for the shooting. Who talks himself out of a lucrative commission? A fee? No idea--I’d have given a whole week’s earnings to take such pictures of her. She could leave an envelope on my desk and put in whatever it was worth to her.

But I would see her naked! Of course, I’ve seen many a woman out of her clothes before, but in her case it wasn’t just the purely physical attractiveness that took my breath away. Her presence, her aura--if such a thing exists--floated through the room and captivated me.

That was about two weeks ago now; I hadn’t heard from her since. In my mind, all the whole time, my imagination was running wild with what might happen. True, nothing really serious was supposed to happen. Her devotion wasn’t for me; the camera would be the eye of someone else. But I’d have to do my job, and in doing just this, I could fully indulge my voyeuristic tendencies and enjoy the sights offered to me.

But as time went by, more and more doubts crept in. Had I really understood correctly? Or did I just understand what I wanted to understand? Would she even come? How far would she want to go? Where were her limits, when would her inhibitions kick in about exposing herself to my gaze? And to have it captured in pictures? Yes, she’d get the memory cards right out of the camera; I’d keep nothing but the memory. But still. What if she’d changed her mind? Or simply forgot about our appointment?

If she came, what did she really want done? What if I was fooled by my imagination, hearing things that were not said? Was I imagining too much? Did she really mention undressing or nudity? And if so, what was it she had in mind? Did she want erotic shots: You don’t really see anything, but that’s the appeal when it’s suggested to the viewer that there is something there he’d love to see, but it’s just barely hidden, perhaps about to be revealed, if the photographer had waited just a few more seconds? Or chose a slightly different angle? Or artistic nudes, where the beauty of her body’s forms and colors is highlighted in connection with the background, body posture, light and shadow, perhaps from an unusual perspective, each image an optical composition? Or really hot shots, where her pussy, her ass, her breasts take center stage, captured in all their splendor and beauty? The voyeur beast in me, which always wanted more the more it got, thirsted for the latter. But was that even conceivable? That she would trust me, a stranger after all, to offer her most intimate body parts to my vision? Intensely ogled for the best angle or lighting or such? After all, she wasn’t a professional model, used to presenting her naked body and intimate areas to be stared at by strangers.

These thoughts, images, fantasies raced in my head all the time. One chasing the other. I imagined many storyboards, sequences of how I’d conduct the shoot. Always with my imagination running wild. Make it exciting, slowly. Delay the moment when I’d first see her naked pussy, her bare ass. Or get to the point quickly and take my time to go through all possible poses? The ones that would expose her most intimate spots?

But would she even go along with it? A “decent and respectable woman” just doesn’t do that. Expose herself in front of a camera, in front of a stranger, present herself like a whore luring clients. What does her body even look like? Is she really as beautiful as I thought? Or does she have varicose veins on her legs, tattoos, blemished skin, discolorations, moles? Piercings? The rational part of me tried to talk sense into me, not to expect too much--the agreement was vague anyway. Calm down, old boy. It could all turn out completely different. But then the voyeur beast would start the mental cinema again, the liveliest images chasing each other. Spread thighs, spread buttocks. Her ass from above, below, behind. The legs. The pubic hair. Then everything switched off again. To the corner, beast! Be reasonable, boy, pull yourself together! Maybe none of that will happen at all.

The time was heaven and hell.

And now here I was. Sweaty hands, pounding pulse in my ears. I couldn’t sit still, had to move to somehow control the tension. Just a few minutes to go until the appointed time. Nothing left to do but let the thoughts race faster and faster around the same questions and uncertainties as before, vainly trying to gain control of myself and tame the beast. What needed preparing, I had prepared: camera, lighting, a supply of memory cards, spare batteries, some drinks, some cookies. Phone turned off, mobile on airplane mode and silent, lighting checked and in place. Some relaxing music turned on. I had placed my desk in the middle of the studio as a makeshift stage for her. A bed would have been too direct an allure. All done.

Just waiting.

Two more minutes until the appointed time. Then one. Now--and then nothing happened. The next few minutes were a ride on a roller coaster like no other, the cart running at insane speed, up and down again, around tight curves--but then the doorbell rang. Hopefully it was her and not someone erroneously thinking he could be of any importance to me now.

But no: There she stood in front of my door! Relief! It’s happening! Hopefully! The beast was jumping for joy.

I opened the door, and she glided past me, with her incomparable floating grace as she crossed the short, dimly lit hallway into my studio. Her heels clicking on the tiles. Dark blue, tight-fitting T-shirt with a neckline, made of elastic material that clung to and emphasized her figure. Sleeves pushed up to just below the elbows, her tanned skin forming a beautiful contrast to the color. But obviously no bra! Her nipples pressed clearly through the fabric, her breasts swayed as she walked. Hair simply pinned up, held with a clip. A few strands had escaped, framing her face, standing out on the neck, softening the strict look. A pearl necklace around her neck, pearl earrings, minimal makeup, maybe some eyeliners, some reddish lipstick. A simple wooden bracelet. A larger handbag over her shoulder.

I followed her, the delicate fragrance of her perfume in my nose.

Do not forget to turn off the doorbell!

She stepped into the studio, her steps dampened by the carpets there, and turned to me. She wore a long white skirt made of thin cotton fabric, reaching down to her ankles. Apparently a wrap skirt, like a sarong, a more or less rectangular piece of cotton wrapped around her hips and legs and tied at the top with ribbons. The ends of the fabric overlapping over her legs. This I could tell from the area where the fabric was double-layered, where the white was a bit stronger.

But the shoes! Delicate black sandals, heels not too high, maybe two or two and a half inches. A wide strap over the base of her toes, decorated with small rhinestones. At the back a piece of leather like a cap pulled up over the heel. And then the wide sexy-looking strap around her slim ankles, holding the whole thing in place. You couldn’t frame a woman’s leg any better, even if I couldn’t see much of it yet.

Now, in the early afternoon light, it became obvious how thin the fabric of her skirt was. The skin of her legs shimmered through. Especially when the light came from behind her, the outlines of her legs could clearly be seen. Her white panties were outlined faintly where her skirt was double, more clearly elsewhere. The beast in me took notice of what was happening here.

She looked at me with an appraising gaze, as if checking how her appearance affected me. A very attractive woman, dressed in summer clothes with chic appropriate for her age. That’s how a “decent woman” would go shopping with her friend or meet someone at a café. Only the missing bra was a bit out of line. But with those beautiful breasts, she didn’t really need one, even at her age. I probably didn’t need words; my face must have shown how impressed I was by her presence, because she now smiled at me warmly.

First we sat down in the seating area arranged in one corner of my attic studio, brightly lit by the early afternoon sun, that came from the big windows. First, a glass of sparkling wine to set the mood and ease the apprehension. How are you? Did you find your way easily? Did you park your car in the garage nearby?

“Do you need to change before we start our shooting?”

“Is anything amiss with my clothing?”

She checked her clothes for any dust or dirt.

“No, I think I am perfectly fine. Thank you.”

Suddenly all my doubts rushed back. Had I completely misunderstood her? I would have expected something more revealing as a starting point, something she would not really want to be seen wearing on the streets. Was she only interested in normal portrait shots after all? Or clothed full-body shots in various poses? Was the missing bra the only feature to render these pictures as “private”? That couldn’t be--every man she passed on her way here could have seen her like that, the swaying and bouncing of her breasts, the outlined nipples.

I picked up my camera from the table and took a few photos of her, portraits, her upper body, and her in total. The armchairs could be rotated, so I asked her to turn and show herself from different angles. I took shots of her looking over her shoulder into the camera. Hand in her hair, leaning back over the armrest, legs draped over the other, the skirt opening to display her shins, chest thrust upward. Again and again, she was patient and waited until I’d taken the shots.

She awaited, what I would do next.

I could easily feel the tension arising in me. How should I proceed? All my thought-out storyboards were suddenly gone. Not too fast or too blunt, so as not to shy her off. Not too slow or we might run out of time before we had focused her more womanly features. If she would have it anyway.

Now was the time; now I wanted to find out and proceed a little further.

“Would you show me your beautiful legs?”

I phrased it half as a suggestion, half as a question in as professional a tone as possible. My tension was almost unbearable. Hopefully she did not recognize the tremble in my voice. Would she indignantly stand up and leave--or...

“How do you know my legs are beautiful?”

“They must be, there is no other way. You are tall and can move like you are floating in the air. Your legs must be strong.”

She looked first into my eyes then into the camera. She crossed her knees--and let the top layer of fabric slide to the side. A certain relief on my part; my tension visibly eased. The leg lying on the top came into view: shoe, foot, calf, knee, thigh, the whole breathtaking length up to where the other piece of fabric blocked the view. Beauty all over. The strap of her panties peeked out, just a small piece on her hip. On the tanned, firm skin, a few small moles. The calf, the knee, the leg muscles outlined under the skin. Occasionally, a bluish vein shimmered through.

Click, click went the camera.

“I was right; this one here is a wonderful example of a female leg. But what about the other one? Would you show both your legs to me?”