Only a Photograph Remains
by Publandlady
Copyright© 2026 by Publandlady
Historical Sex Story: A seaside photographer and his mature wife grasp an opportunity. Saucy postcards lead to an Edwardian romp. Monkey business follows as the lady gets more involved than was planned.
Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Historical Wife Watching Exhibitionism Voyeurism .
1903
With the advent of widely available photography, the Edwardian era was when, for the first time, we could see the everyday clothing of ordinary women. Those floor length skirts that showed so little yet promised so much. Letters to newspapers and articles in various publications give us an insight to public morality. What we have absolutely no idea about is what the women in the photographs were actually thinking. I like to think that, secretly, beneath those beautiful clothes there lurked a repressed sexuality just longing to burst out.
What if, very briefly, their fantasies could be revealed by the pictures?
I’m sure that I don’t need to say that this is a work of Historical Fiction. It is not real!
He says it is going to be a serious branch of art one day, like painting or sculpture. Me, I’m not so sure. I’ve been to Art Galleries. Paintings have colour. Things look alive. Photographs are just shades of brown.
Weymouth is a lovely place to live. Well it is in the Summer. The Winters can be a little daunting. On sunny days holiday makers stroll along the seafront or promenade on the pier. Families play on the beach. Women wear their best and gayest clothes. Things used to be quite drab when the old queen was alive but since King Edward has been on the throne everything has been more colourful.
Being a photographer in a seasonal town can be a precarious way to make a living. It can be but my husband has found a way to make it pay.
His bread and butter work is portraits. A young lady needs a likeness to give to her sweetheart. A young man has to prove to a girl that he is doing well enough to be able to have his photograph done. And, above all, families who wish to show their relatives what a lovely time they had by the seaside.
Some years more money is made than is paid out. But in a bad Summer the opposite happens.
Clive works hard. There is no doubt about that. But it takes more than that to make business a success. Sometimes you just have to spot an opportunity when it arises and grab it with both hands.
The opportunity arose during a conversation with a sailor while taking artistic photographs of the harbour.
The old salt made a twice weekly trip taking goods to and fro across the channel. He asked Clive if he had much call for the dirty postcards. Clive told him that he had no idea what he was talking about.
So the sailor showed him.
When Clive told me about it I was shocked. I am forty-one years old and I thought that I knew what went on in the world but I never thought that women would allow themselves to be photographed doing lewd things. And the idea that men would want to buy the pictures certainly didn’t occur to me.
Obviously, I knew about nude paintings in the Art Gallery. But that’s what they were; Art.
Well, it turns out that the sailor had a box of these risqué images. He had purchased them from a photographer in Le Havre. He said that it was a well established sideline of the Frenchman’s.
The sailor thought that maybe Clive could sell them in his shop to discerning gentlemen. They would split whatever money they made. The old man said that he was giving up going to sea, so the money would be useful.
I doubted that he would sell any but as there was no monetary risk I agreed that Clive should try. It had been a slow season and our finances were dire.
It’s not the sort of thing that you can advertise in the Dorset County Herald, is it? Resourceful as ever, Clive knew the Concierge and Front Desk Clerk in every luxury hotel in Weymouth. They steered potential sitters his way. He asked them to keep an eye out for gentlemen who may have exotic tastes in art.
For a long time nothing happened.
One morning an elderly man came into the shop. He looked around until I left the room. He told Clive that Freddy, the Concierge at The Gloucester Hotel, had suggested that it may be worth popping in. He purchased half a dozen photos.
After that there was a steady stream of clientele. All paying good money. The timing was perfect as we had final demands for payment from some of our suppliers.
Clive and I were behind the counter when Freddy himself walked through the door. He was accompanied by an expensively dressed gentleman wearing an overcoat that had an Astrakhan collar. With a diamond tie pin in his silk cravat, he exuded wealth. He was in his late fifties, a little older than Clive, with slightly greying temples.
Freddy said to Clive, “Mr Fox, this is Sir Gordon. Sir Gordon, Mr Fox the photographer.”
“How do you do?” asked Clive.
“Pleased to meet you,” replied Sir Gordon.
I said, “I will leave you gentlemen alone.” I turned towards the back of the shop.
“No! Please stay, Mrs Fox,” commanded Sir Gordon. Not loud but with authority, like he was used to being obeyed.
He asked Clive to show him the postcards. He viewed each one closely. It was obvious that he was taking pleasure from my embarrassment.
Sir Gordon purchased all of the remaining stock.
“Thank you Mr Fox. And thank you Mrs Fox.” He said before he left the premises.
Freddy remained behind.
“Sir Gordon is a collector of original erotica and would like to buy more from you. He owns several factories up north. Him and his missus come down here every year for a couple of months so he’s loaded,” said Freddy.
“I’m afraid that he has bought everything that I have, and I don’t think that I can get any more from France,” mentioned Clive.
Freddy laughed slightly, “That is why he took all of them. They are a bit tame for his taste. He wondered if you could be persuaded to take on a commission to produce some photos that are more bespoke in nature.
“I will come back in a few days to see what you think.”
The next day we had two portrait sittings booked. An officer from Nothe Fort wanted his likeness done in full dress uniform.
A family from the Midlands required a group photograph.
In the evening Clive and I spoke about Sir Gordon.
“Do you think that you could produce what he wants?” I asked.
“I’m not entirely sure what he wants. But taking the pictures is not a problem. The trouble will be finding a model.” Clive replied.
“How would you feel about me doing that sort of thing?” he went on.
I had to be honest, “Anything that keeps the business afloat is alright with me. We’ve already sold plenty, so it’s a little late to be prudish now.”
About a week later Clive told me that Freddy had been to see him. He had brought a Barmaid from a local public house with him. Evidently, according to Freddy, Vera was a good sport.
Vera was quite proud of her attributes. Her party piece was to slowly change her clothes while the landlord charged his patrons a shilling to watch her through a spy hole. She would pretend that she didn’t know she was being observed.
Freddy said that she would be willing to have her photograph taken in any pose required.
Clive showed me some test pictures of Vera that he had taken. They ranged from fully dressed to completely naked. Most of them featured the stages in between.
I must admit that the young lady had a magnificent body. Those photos that showed her in her underwear but with her private part on show were closest to the french photographer’s work.
The first commission session had been arranged.
These should have simply involved Clive and Vera but, God forgive me, I couldn’t resist concealing myself behind some scenery at the back of the studio to watch.
Clive kept referring to a sort of prepared scene list that Sir Gordon had sent him.
‘Vera, you are required to undress down to your intimate attire while leaving your stays in place. Are you alright with that?” he asked.
Vera replied, “Very well, Mr Fox.” She took her time. It was almost as if she was accustomed to being watched while she disrobed.
“Now, you need to recline on the chaise longue. I’m not sure how to put this politely so I will just say it crudely. The instructions are for you to be photographed with various items protruding from your vagina.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. That is not anything that I haven’t been asked to do before. Although, I’ve never had my portrait taken while doing it before,” laughed Vera.
“Give me a few minutes to prepare myself. If past experience is anything to go by, it won’t be anything too small.” she added.
With that she licked all the fingers on her right hand and proceeded to work them around and into her vaginal area.
“I’m ready now Mr Fox. What’s first?”
“A very large carrot. Don’t worry, I’ve washed it thoroughly.”
Clive handed it to Vera.
“Fairly standard stuff so far,” said Vera as she pushed it into herself, leaving enough of the end with the green leaves protruding to make it obvious what was up there.
Clive positioned the tripod and camera to get the best shot. He had the Lionel Lamp to one side so as not to cast a shadow over the subject.
“Right, hold perfectly still. Three, two, one,” called Clive from under the black cloth.
The flash light flared momentarily before the shutter opened. All heat and white light at one time.
“Good girl. Well done,” said Clive, just as if he were capturing the image of some young lady in her Confirmation Dress.
“Can I whip this out now? What’s next?” asked Vera.
“Please do. A rather knobbly cucumber. It’s quite thick, I’m afraid.
“Will you be alright with that?” said Clive.
“Oh yes, I should think so. This is not my first charabanc trip.” chuckled Vera.
It took longer for Clive to prepare the camera and lamp than it did for Vera to position the vegetable. She just lay there patiently.
Once he was happy with the set up Clive said, “Right hold perfectly still. Three, two, one.”
“Excellent!”
Far more professional, I thought.
“And what’s next?” asked Vera.
“A rolling pin,” said Clive.
“Good grief! Men!” tutted Vera, “Is there no end to their imagination?
“You’d better give it here.
“I’m not sure who will be in position first, me or you, Mr Fox.” Vera said.
Vera won by a short margin. She refused Clive’s offer of some Petroleum Jelly as it would ruin the rolling pin.
The whole process involved a lot of wiggling about. It made my eyes water and I was simply watching.
When Clive had taken the photograph, I couldn’t help thinking that it was a lot of preparation for a very quick result.
But like Clive always says, “That is the nature of Art”.
After that, several photographs were taken of Vera’s parts in an empty state.
When Clive was packing away his equipment, Vera said, “Would you care to fuck me now, Mr Fox? I believe that it is the usual photographer’s perk.”
I nearly choked but managed to keep quiet. I’m not sure if I was most shocked by the casual proposal or the language.
Clive nearly choked but was less successful at being silent.
“That is very sweet of you, Vera, but I think that I would prefer to keep this professional,” said Clive.
Once Vera had dressed, Clive paid her the agreed fee and she left.
I stepped from behind the scenery and said, “I am very proud of you. Not all men would have refused an offer like that.”
Clive was startled. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Right from the start. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself.
“Would it be unprofessional of you to lock the shop door for half an hour, Mr Fox?” I asked.
“Not in the slightest, Mrs Fox.”
Later that evening, Clive and I were talking about the day’s events.
“It does seem rather strange to see sex distilled into frozen moments like that,” I said.
“That’s the point, I can’t speak for the collectors of pornographic art, but for the participants it is not sex. It is more like tableau or an artwork.
“I sincerely hope that I demonstrated earlier that sex involves some sort of movement.” Clive said.
“And very nice movement it was. I think that I understand what you are saying but I am yet to be totally convinced photography is art.” I laughed,
A wet summer’s day. Even the sea-front was deserted. I was helping Clive.
The shop door rather burst open and a gentleman backed in closing and shaking his gamp.
“Fox, a word if I may?” the man said.
Clive turned to me and asked politely, “If you wouldn’t mind, could you leave us?”
“Certainly,” I replied, leaving the shop. I made a pretence of climbing the stairs noisily but then quietly took up a position in the office where I could hear what was said. I know I should be ashamed of myself but I can’t help it.
“A chap at my hotel tells me that you can take dirty photographs.”
“I prefer to think of it as erotica art, but yes,” said Clive.
“Yes, yes. Would you take some photographs of my wife?”
“Is this something that your wife would consent to? It would not be possible to do this sort of thing candidly.” Clive added.
“Of course, the whole thing is her idea. She has some crazy notion to hold me to my word.”
“Could I be so bold as to ask the details?” said Clive.
The gentleman hesitated but then said, “Well, if you are to be involved, I don’t suppose that it would hurt. You obviously must be a man of the world.
“I am extremely rich. My wife on the other hand comes from a very aristocratic family who frankly don’t have two farthings to rub together.
“I thought that it would be easy to woo her. But I was wrong. She resisted me at every turn.
“Eventually, I managed to persuade her to tell me what her objections were.
“It turns out that as she is a lady, everybody treats her as a lady. She has no objection to this but her concern is that if she gets married her husband would extend this to the bedroom.
“I assured her that it was my intention to treat with respect on all occasions.
“She went into a rage and said that that is precisely what she doesn’t want.
“To cut a long story short. I had to swear that I would always treat her as a common slut in the bedroom.” he concluded.
Clive said, “Women can be strange, Sir. But I don’t quite understand the necessity for the photographs.”
“Ah, well we have been married for two years now. It is Lady Cynthia’s belief that I am not living up to my end of the agreement.
“She is threatening to leave me, with all the disgrace that that entails, unless I can provide some cast iron guarantee that I won’t renege in the future.
“Her proposal is that we have these photographs taken and copies made. If I should, at any point, fail to treat her like a common slut in the bedroom she will send the photographs to every member of my club.” he concluded.
Clive thought for a moment and then said, “And how do you feel about this, Sir?”
“To tell you the truth, it’s got me bloody excited. It has spiced up our love life so much,” he said.
“Would Wednesday afternoon be too soon for the both of you?” asked Clive.
For the first time since Clive opened his photographic studio our finances were looking good. Sir Gordon’s commission had paid really well. Now it looked as if this may be leading to more business.
Lady Cynthia strolled into the shop looking like the epitome of a Gibson Girl.
“Good afternoon Mr Fox”, she said.
Clive replied, “Good afternoon, your Ladyship. Is your husband not with you?”
“Following behind,” she said.
He did his usual door crashing entrance.
“Is everything ready, Fox?” he said loudly.
“It certainly is, Sir,” Clive said, “Mrs Fox will assist me, if that is alright?”
“By all means,” said Lady Cynthia, before her husband had a chance to have an opinion.
We went through to the studio after I had locked the shop door and turned the ‘Closed’ sign.
The camera and flash lamp were all set up in readiness.
Professional as ever, Clive said, “Would your ladyship prefer an indoor or outdoor backdrop?”
“Oh, outdoor please, Mr Fox.
“Claud, sit in that armchair and say nothing,” she said to her husband.
Clive rolled the appropriate scenery into position and then manoeuvred a park bench in front of it.
“If your Ladyship would care to step behind that screen and remove as much of your attire as you think necessary,” requested Clive.
“Mrs Fox will have photographic plates and fresh flashes to hand to minimise the time between shots,” he added.
When her ladyship emerged she was wearing only her corset, stockings and shoes. Oh, and she had kept on her large straw boater.
Her breasts were large and full and so was her pubic hair. Its luxuriance equaled that on her head.
She reclined gracefully on the bench. “Like this I think, don’t you Mrs Fox?” she asked me as if I were an expert.
“Very good, my Lady,” I said.
“Right hold perfectly still. Three, two, one,” called Clive from under the black cloth.
The flash light flared momentarily before the shutter opened. All heat and white light at one time.
He quickly removed the plate and replaced it with the one I handed him. He did the same with the flash tray.
“Please say when you are ready, my lady,” he said.
“This time a little more wanton, I think,” she said as she lay back and opened her legs.
Clive said, “Right hold perfectly still. Three, two, one.”
Once things were set up for the next shot, her ladyship asked me, “What would be a lewd position for the final picture, Mrs Fox?”
I replied,”I am no connoisseur of these things but perhaps from behind, my lady?”
“Excellent idea. But Mr Fox must ensure that I can still be recognised. That is the whole point of the exercise.”
She turned and put her hands on the bench. Twisting slightly, she gazed over her shoulder and straight at the camera.
Clive said, “Right hold perfectly still. Three, two, one.”
“Very good Lady Cynthia,” declared Clive.
She stayed exactly where she was while Clive removed the photographic plate.
“If you have finished, perhaps you could leave us alone. My husband and I need to have a conversation.”
“Twenty copies of each photograph should be sufficient,” she told Clive.
As soon as we were in the office, I leaned across the desk and opened the sliding hatch that overlooks the studio just a fraction and peered through.
“What are you doing?” Clive whispered.
“I am not going to miss this,” I said quietly.
Lady Cynthia had not moved but now her husband had his trousers around his ankles and was servicing her from behind.
“You dirty common slut. Slut! Slut! Slut!” he said.
Clive lifted my skirt and did the same to me. Minus the name calling, of course.
It was obvious that Clive was unhappy. He is not one to show his anger but I could tell it lurked just below the surface.
“Is there something amiss, my love?” I asked.
“Nothing major but I fear that we can take no more commissions from Sir Gordon,” he replied.
“Why ever not?”
“His latest instruction is unreasonable.”
“In what way?,” I enquired.
“He wants scenes of a Sapphic nature between Vera and an older woman,” Clive said.
“Oh! I see. Does Vera not know such a woman who may be interested? “ I said.
Clive hesitated for a moment before speaking, “That is the problem. Sir Gordon is adamant that the woman should be you.”
“Oh,” I said blushing.
“I told Freddy that it was out of the question. But he said that Sir Gordon has commanded him not to accept my decision until a week has passed,” added Clive.
“Oh. Is Vera aware of this? And if she is, does she agree to take part?”
“Vera has no objections. It is just work to her. Besides, Sir Gordon has offered a considerable amount of extra money,” Clive said.
“Well, as you say, it is only acting or a tableau. I don’t see why I shouldn’t take part,” I said.
“I’m not so sure,” said Clive.
I laughed a little, “What you are saying is that it’s not sex unless it’s your wife?”
“If you put it that way, it does make me sound hypocritical, doesn’t it?” he said.
I smiled but said nothing. He understood that we were going ahead with it.
One major benefit was that Clive gave me carte blanche to spend what I liked at the corsetiere. I took full advantage. The latest modes from Paris in the S-Bend style. If I was to play a mature lesbian, I wanted to play a sophisticated one.
Clive insisted that Vera and I took the whole business seriously. After all, he still considered it an art form. He reprimanded us every time we had a fit of the giggles.
He had the studio set up as a drawing room with a chaise longue.
Sir Gordon had sent him a list of scenarios.
Firstly we had to kiss while fully clothed. Then, as we divested ourselves of the same item of clothing, we would embrace and kiss fully and passionately each time.
I had never considered the thought before but I really didn’t dislike it. For a young woman, Vera was an excellent kisser.
Eventually, we were down to our drawers, chemise, corset, stockings and shoes.
I knew that Sir Gordon liked to think of himself as a collector of bespoke erotica but I feel that his chief pleasure comes from controlling people.
His instructions were for both of us to bare our left breasts. Then Vera had to lick my nipple. After Clive had captured that image, I had to return the favour to Vera.
Although I had felt my own nipples on many occasions, the touch of my tongue on another woman’s pert little bud was very strange. I really didn’t mind having mine licked at all.
This was followed by each of us sucking the other’s nipples.
Clive then needed to recharge his photographic plates and flashes.
While we waited, we had a cup of tea. Vera had such an easy and relaxed way about her. She didn’t consider that she needed to cover herself. I simply followed suit. The naughty girl insisted on winding up the gramophone and playing ‘You Can Do a Lot of Things at the Seaside’ by Sheridan Marks. She pulled me up and we danced around the studio half dressed.
When Clive was ready to resume, he announced, “Sir Gordon’s instructions are a little more demanding. You are required to kiss each other’s private parts. It will be sufficient to hold your positions for a few seconds after the flash subsides.
I giggled as I was on my knees in front of Vera. Clive had to be stern with me.
When it was Vera’s turn, she was very naughty and held the kiss far longer than was necessary.
Clive was ready for the next shot. He said, “The instructions are vague now. They just say ‘improvise vaginal stimulation’. You will have to work that out between you. But please remember that you have to keep perfectly still.”
Vera said to me, “That’s easy enough. Just lie back and imagine I’m a man.”
I did that. Vera only touched me very lightly. Possibly it was a little longer than was needed.
We simply changed places for the final image.
Once we dressed, Clive gave Vera her fee. She was very pleased.
When she left, I asked Clive, “What did you think of that?”
“It went well,” he said, “I managed to remain detached and professional throughout the whole process.”
I simply smiled and said, “If that is so, what is that bulge in your trousers?”
We were surprised to see Lady Cythia in the shop.
“Good day, Mr Fox, Mrs Fox.
“I just wanted to bring you these,” she said smiling. She handed me a basket of Belgian Chocolates. To Clive she gave a box of Cuban Cigars.
We both thanked her profusely. It wasn’t just the gifts so much as the fact that she’d delivered them herself.
“I wanted to extend my warmest thanks,” she said.
I knew it was a little forward of me but I asked, “I trust the ruse was successful?”
She smiled slightly before answering, “Oh yes, I think that you could say that. My husband now calls me the vilest sorts of harlot. But only when appropriate, you understand.”
We both agreed that we did understand.
It came as no great surprise to learn that Sir Gordon’s next assignment required Vera and a young man.
It really didn’t take much persuasion for Freddy to be cast as the young man.
Clive sat me down and explained, rather crudely I might add, in detail how taking photographs of two women was far simpler than doing the same for a couple.
I know that you are rather sensitive so I won’t repeat it other than to say that it mainly involves timing. If it takes too long between shots the young man may lose interest.
To this end I was drafted in officially as his assistant. Making sure that plates and flashes were to hand quickly, etc.
The backdrop was to be a woodland scene with a fake fallen tree acting as in place of the chaise longue.
The need for professionalism was emphasised by Clive. He made it clear to Vera and Freddy that we weren’t there for their pleasure. Once in position, however tempted, they were to remain perfectly still.
The instructions called for Freddy to be in just a ‘hunting pink’ tailcoat, top hat and riding boots. Vera was to wear nothing but her corset with a foxes tail attached to the back with the addition of red fur ears.
She needed to be on her knees for the first shot with the end of Freddy’s penis held in her mouth.
I must admit that Mother Nature had been extremely generous to him. Even Vera was impressed.
Once the flash had subsided, I acted quickly. Acting in a professional manner with shaking hands was difficult. I told myself that I was fearful of making a mistake and letting Clive down but there could have been more to it than that.
They quickly changed position so that Vera was laying back on the tree trunk. Freddy had to hold her legs in the air while he inserted just a little of his hard penis into her.
“Right hold perfectly still. Three, two, one,” called Clive from under the black cloth. Moments later the flash fizzed into life.
Quickly, we all worked our way through the scene list. The final shot required Vera to brace herself over the tree trunk while Freddy slipped just the tip of his penis into her while holding up her tail.
“Completely still now. Three, two, one,” shouted Clive.
As soon as he removed the plate from the camera he handed it to me and said, “Take this directly into the office, please.”
He followed me immediately. I thought this was to leave the young people alone to conclude in whatever way they liked.
As I put the plate down, he bent me over the desk and lifted my skirt. I already had the slide slightly open as Clive entered me from behind.
Clive tried to synchronise his thrust with Freddy’s as we watched him bump against Vera’s bum.
“Photographer’s perks,” he said as he ejaculated.
A Sunday afternoon in August. Clive and I were strolling arm in arm along the seafront. Nodding to people we know vaguely and exchanging a few words with those we are more familiar with.
Sir Gordon stood out as he approached. It is strange that a gentleman that dresses conservatively can still shine in a multitude simply by the quality of his clothing. His wife, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide her light under a bushel. Her dress was expensive and it looked expensive. She was probably about ten years older than me and about ten years younger than Sir Gordon.
As they drew close, Sir Gordon said, “Ah, my dear this is the photographer chap.”
“The talented Mr Fox. Gordon, introductions for goodness sake!” she said.
“Oh yes, forgive me. My wife Lady Tara. Tara, Mr Fox.”
“So lovely to meet you at last, Mr Fox,” said Lady Tara.
“May I present my wife, Mrs Fox,” Clive said.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Lady Tara sweetly.
“Likewise,” I said.
The lady looked me up and down and said, “Your hair is somewhat lighter than I envisaged it.”
The four of us exchanged pleasantries.
“I hope to see more of you soon, Mrs Fox,” said her ladyship with a twinkle in her eye.
They then went their way and we went ours.
For as long as I can remember Professor Murray has presented his Punch & Judy Show on the beach at Weymouth. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, whenever I pass by I have to stand on the esplanade and watch. I’m a grown woman yet I am still fascinated by it.
The format is traditional but every performance is different. Not the words, not the corny jokes, not even that Mr Punch always gets his comeuppance. What makes every performance different is the audience reaction.
After all, the characters are only puppets. Puppets making squeaky noises. But somehow they draw you in until you forget that they are made of wood. You believe their emotions, their fear, their joy.
Every type of entertainment does that. It draws you in.
Photography can do that too. You may know that the scene is probably staged but yet you believe that it’s real.
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