It was a little bit late, toward noon. I stood in front of my big mirror in our bedroom, trying to decide what to wear for the occasion. And then it happened as it always happened for some time now when I saw myself naked in the mirror: The image did not match the image of myself that had in memory. I was getting older; there was no way out of it.

I was quite a sight to see, back then, men turning their heads when I passed, but now, being nearer to fifty than to forty - much nearer indeed - age was out to get me. My breasts had started to sag. Same with some additional flesh under the skin of my buttocks that sat a little lower on my frame; my skin in general was not as elastic as it once had been. Wrinkles started to appear in my face and on my neck and in other places of my body. Loose skin on the inside of my thighs. My lower belly bulging a little bit thanks to my pregnancies. But on the other hand, age was gracious to me as yet. I did not have any cellulite nor any varicose veins on my legs.

Doing exercises and yoga on a regular basis seemed to pay off now. Standing 5 feet 7 inches in my shoes and 130 pounds I did not in the least look fat. My tits were not too big, just full and round. My hair ash blonde with lighter natural strands in between, hanging down over my shoulders. If there was gray hair present, it did at least not show. I thought my legs were my best asset. Long and well toned. With my feet closed, the knees touching, there was still some room between my thighs, though some loose flesh showed there that had not been present a decade ago. But still my legs looked like those of a much younger woman, a runner or long jumper perhaps. My kneecaps were quite large, standing out when my legs were relaxed, no fold of fat or loose skin from my thighs falling over them. When I walked, the muscles of my legs created some skin grooves in my thigh and calf, dimples around my knee. Just to define my anatomy. I understood, my husband considered this to be ‘interesting’.

In the reflection of the mirror, I saw my skin, now, in late summer, tanned from spending time in the sun. No tattoo, no piercing. There were tan lines that outlined where my bikini had been most of the time, when I was in the sun. A little more pronounced at the bottom half, less at the top. Because he had some strong opinions about women shaving their pubes, I did not trim my bush very much. It was not that abundant anyway. The tan line of my bikini panties marked the area of decency, which should be kept covered in public. It clearly showed where my pubic hair was transgressing this border. He liked it, when some hair peeked out under the rubber bands and a few strands even growing right at the top of my thighs. Civilization fighting a losing battle against the power of nature, wild and untamed, as my man often said.

By the way: My husband always compliments me on my looks. And he is quite good and inventive at that. When it was on the news the other day, that the annual PEOPLE’s most beautiful list was published, he commented, that this was surely wrong as long as it did not include me. Or when we wanted to meet in town, he was sure to find me. He said, he would simply ask the people on the street if they had seen the most attractive woman on earth. They would surely lead him to me. Just cute.

But he just might feel obliged to flatter me, to make me happy. Happy wife - happy life; his judgment might be biased. On the other hand, if I compare myself with other women of my age - and even considerably younger ones, half my age - I do not have any reason to be ashamed of my body. It occurred only the other day, while walking through our downtown area, that a young man overtook me, apparently to have a closer look at the female in front of him. He really looked surprised, when he saw my face, most probably expecting much younger features. Without wrinkles around my eyes. Felt good, though.

But even as all this is fine - the tales are legion where a wife was discarded and replaced by a younger one, once age has set in.

All together: none of my features was top notch any more, but the overall spectacle was still quite attractive, I was trying to make myself believe. It was just that it had been more beautiful in the past - and I registered the changes growing stronger with time.

But I have to focus on what to wear and how to prepare for this event.

You see, this event, it just emerged. Somehow it was created without anybody actually planning something like this to happen.

My husband’s birthday was to take place in two weeks, and I did not have any idea on a present for him. Usually we do not do big presents, but most of the time elaborate ones. Some that you see the other one had taken pains to produce it, worked on it, made an effort. Even if the result may not have been perfect, it was not the material value that counted, but the heart that went into it. He once made a quite elaborate necklace for me out of paper clips. To serve as a token to lay on my breakfast table, because he wanted to present me one, but he wanted me to select the right one, according to my taste. I kept the paper clips.

This year I came up with the idea to have some photographs of me. He is a freelance photographer doing images for advertisements or catalogs most of the time. But with some beautiful pictures in his display, he might be able to expand his business to personal photography. And I would be willing to model for him.

So, when I happened to pass by his studio while doing some errands in town, I just took the elevator to the attic where his studio was and rang the bell. At first he looked quite surprised to see me at his door, but I addressed him as if I did not know him. This is a game we occasionally do. Like I ask him ‘When will you be here for dinner?’ and he answers me ‘Oh, shit, I guess that is not feasible. I promised my wife to be home at 7 pm.’ It might be childish, but it can be fun, especially when other people are around.

So I asked him that I had read this notice, he was a photographer for advertisements and catalogs, and wanted to know if he would do photos of people like wedding and passport photos.

Smiling at me he joined in with this little game and dealt with me like he would do with any customer, asked me what he could do for me. I asked him, if he did personal photos? Of me? And if he would be free on this day, specifying his birthday. He said he could free this date and would be happy to do the job.

“Do you need them for anything special, your website or travel documents or whatever?”

“No, they are for private purposes,” I said, giving him a small wink. “They are meant as a birthday present for my husband. To display on his desk, or have a neat little collection in one of his drawers there to refer to, whenever he wants to. So he will not forget me. Of course they should show me to my best advantage.”

My request was completely innocent, but, by the sparkle in his eyes, I got it that he completely misunderstood my intentions. At first I really did not understand his reaction, but then it dawned upon me that his idea of what “to the best of my advantage” and “a little collection in the drawer” might be was completely different from mine. Acting on an impulse, I added that I would need to have the memory cards directly from his camera, because I wanted to maintain control over the spread of this kind of images of me. And of course I would have to trust him that he would not take advantage of me when we would be alone in his studio, that he would not even touch me while I was there.

With that I left the studio, just like any ordinary customer would have done. Except for obvious reasons he did not ask my name and address to put in his notebook.

I know I left him confused. In the days to come, we did not talk about this appointment - inadvertently some kind of role play had started. Well, that was fine with me. I enjoyed his attention, his gaze that did not leave me whenever I was around, that followed all my movements. The growing hunger in his eyes, how he seemed to undress me in his mind. He clearly was thinking about other things than were my original intentions. But, why not? Why not play along? After 15 years of marriage - we both had been married before - our love life had lost a little of its spice but still was quite satisfying. But anything can be improved, can’t it?

So, back to the issue at hand. What to wear for this event? He was already out all morning to finish some commission that had to be finished. So he had told his wife. But the other woman, this new client of his, was standing in front of my mirror and thinking about what to wear. How to signal to him that she thinks she grabbed his idea, but on the other hand she was this new client, a decent and respectable woman that would need some coaxing to display her charms. And would leave disgusted, never to return, if he was too blunt and vulgar in his approach.

I would wear my wrapped skirt, which reached down to my ankles; that was clear. This is a more or less rectangular piece of cloth that is wrapped around my hips and legs with some overlap, fastened with two ribbons wound around the waist and secured by a knot. The cut was tight around the hips, but more loose around my legs. This would look decent, but once in a while one of my legs, at least my knee and calf, would show when walking. Especially when there was some wind.

But go naked underneath? I figured this would be too obvious. Even if my tan lines and my bush would not show through the thin fabric of my skirt, the lack of the shimmer of the panties’ color would indicate the lack of panties. So I will have to wear some. I selected a simple white pair, triangular in shape, high cut. I assumed he would love to take images of the hair that is not covered by them.

So this leaves only two things to set him on the track: Shoes and bra.

Skip the bra. I have a certain dark blue T-shirt made out of slightly elastic material. This clings to the body and gives just a little support for my tits, prevents them from swinging too much. With sleeves just below my elbow this seemed a perfect choice. The color would contrast favorably with my tanned skin.

Of course, the shoes. Those heels with the ankle strap? I am not so very fond of them, because it is not very comfortable to wear them during long walks. But I did not expect to have to walk too much. With their heels, about 2 inches, they would tone my legs really beautifully. The calf would acquire this peculiar shape that he really loves. Some red nail polish on my toenails? Good idea.

So that was said and done.

There is one thing left to consider: What about my ass? I have long since recognized his keen interest in my ass, especially this small opening between the cheeks. Whenever he eats my pussy, I cannot help but realize that his tongue would occasionally leave it and try to cross the dam to the back. I never gave any encouraging signs, in fact I move away from his tongue, the idea was not very appealing to me. So he refrained from pursuing this path with too much engagement. He is so cute to observe my reservations and wishes.

But today? This other woman may not share these inhibitions about her backdoor. What if the photo session goes in this direction? Better to be prepared and be very clean.

Okay, said and done. I guessed I will be at the studio in time. Just pinning up my hair in a casual way, letting some streaks escape the clip to avoid a too sincere teacher-like look, a string of pearls and ear studs to complete the picture. A simple bracelet from some tropical wood. Some deodorant, a little perfume. And here we go.

As I reached his attic studio I was a little nervous. I had no idea what was about to happen, if I judged the telltale signs correctly or not. I rang the bell and a few seconds later he opened the door, apparently happy to see me there. I quickly passed through the small hallway into this well lit studio and turned around to face him. His eyes scanned my appearance; I playfully extended my foot to show him my shoe, his gaze lingered on my breast, somewhat astonished when he realized I did not wear any bra.

Our eyes met and I recognized this sparkle. Apparently he was pleased with what he saw. Some stone rolled off from my mind that I had not recognized being there but made me feel insecure: He liked my looks. Very much so.

With this resonant voice of his he greeted me and asked me how I was, if I found my way easily, if I had parked my car in the nearby garage. Fine, he addressed me as the strange woman that had visited his studio a few weeks ago. So we were to continue this role play, the photographer and an unknown woman customer. I really appreciated this setting.

He was a tall man, about six feet three inches, somewhat on the heavy side, his belly could be smaller. He was in his fifties with more gray than dark hair and very friendly blue eyes. And a voice that could send chills along my spine.

I let my gaze wander around his studio, the tall windows letting in the warm late summer sunlight. As we were high up in the attic, there was no neighbor who could peek in, the skyline of the city well below us. He had put his desk in the middle of the room and had cleared it of all the mess he usually has there. Maybe his wife would notice, but I, the strange woman, would not know what it looked like normally. Just wondering a little what its intended use was.

He led me to the small sitting corner where he had arranged some cookies and some drinks. I noticed soft and unobtrusive relaxing music. I felt comfortable; we did some more small talk to ease the tension. I selected sparkling wine when he asked what I would want to drink.

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

Ahh, I see, he did expect some more revealing attire to start off. I made a show of checking my clothing for some dirt or dust - I knew there was none - my T-shirt, my skirt.

“Is there something amiss with my clothes?”

He shook his head and I returned, “No, I think, I am perfectly fine.” This left him a little confused, but he grabbed his camera and prepared to start the shooting.

He took a few pictures, apparently portraits or torso shots. I found the chair I sat in could be rotated so I turned to let him take images from all sides, looking back over my shoulder, hands in my hair, standard stuff. I turned the chair to face him, but then laid down my torso on the one armrest, picking up my feet to place them on the other. Turning on my back my breasts stood out, kept in a natural form by the elastic fabric of my T-shirt.