Chapter 1

I had a deep craving for pizza when I got back from Nebraska. As a resident of the Chicago area, I should have been loyal to deep-dish style. But over time, I've found that the extra bread fills me, and I'd prefer more cheese and sausage toppings than sweet cornmeal crust. A glossy flyer in the stack of mail on the kitchen table introduced me to a new pizza joint, A Hot Piece, just a few blocks away. It occupied a narrow storefront, with kitchen in the rear and a thin counter along one side in front. With no stools, the place was not designed for eat-in. If the store was going to survive, it would have to depend on carryout and delivery.

Some of the up-tight residents of my community had circulated a petition asking them to change their name, claiming A Hot Piece was provocative and fostered lewd thoughts. The freedom of speech-ers supported by the ACLU won, of course, when they used another local eatery, Snappy's Taco, as a precedent. Funny, I'd never thought of Snappy's Taco as suggestive, but after I read about the lawsuit, the image of Juli the flight attendant's pussy decorated with lettuce jumped into my brain.

After deciding I would treat myself to delivery, I called the number. "This is Louie, you want a hot piece?" The owner wasn't the most suave businessman I'd ever spoken to on the phone. Not even close. After I ordered a medium cheese, sausage and mushroom, thin crust, I provided my name, address and phone without being prompted. However, when I offered him my credit card number, he barked, "Pay the driver" and hung up.

I put my feet up to relax and consider what beverage should accompany my feast. A beer? Maybe a cold cream soda, but the local generic in the fridge would pale compared to the fancy stuff on Webb's private plane. Maybe an original Coke, but all we had in the house was Diet Coke with Vanilla.

The ash-colored wall phone rang. Even though the bundle of calling features on my landline phone included caller ID, all of the instruments in the house were old style Western Electric models designed to last over one hundred years in normal use. Since ours were only about forty years old, it was way too soon to replace them. So every phone call coming into the Marcus residence was an anonymous gift until I lifted the receiver and spoke that one provocative question. "Hello?"

"Oh, thank goodness, I've been trying to reach you for days!"

The voice was familiar, but my brain was too tired to make the connection. "Who is this?"

"Vonna. You remember taking pictures of me, don't you? Annie and I went to school together."

Ah yes, Annie's friend who wanted photos for her boyfriend. They'd shared a common birthday, he dumped her over the phone in the middle of the shoot, and she subsequently shared her body with me. That Vonna. "Who could forget?" The sex had been ball-draining spectacular. [AUTHOR: See story DOUBLE BIRTHDAY]

"I haven't forgotten either." Her breathing was heavy. Was this her version of phone sex? "I've been leaving you messages."

Sure enough, the red light blinked on the answering machine, the kind that used two cassette tapes. I explained that I'd been out of town. "What can I do for you?" Or to you?

"I've got a chance to submit my portfolio of photos for a spokes-model position. They liked the pictures you did, but now they want specific outfits and poses. This could be my big break, and I'll only trust you to do the layout. But we have to meet a deadline."

So Vonna had used my pictures to get a shot at a real modeling gig? Maybe I was better behind the lens than I thought. "Of course, I'd be happy to. But wouldn't you'd be better off with a professional photographer who knows lighting and such? I'm still quite an amateur."

"Don't be silly. You know plenty. Your photos got me through the preliminary round. And I trust you. Isn't that important, the relationship between the photographer and the subject?"

Ours was more sexual relations than a relationship. "If you insist. How soon are these pictures due?"

"By the end of this week, at the latest."

"I'll need to check my calendar at work, since I just got back in town." I took her number on a scrap of paper and told her I'd call her back.

If I was going to take photos of Vonna for a professional gig, then I needed lessons to shoot more like a pro. I couldn't live with myself if my lack of skills screwed things up. I checked the local adult education catalog but there were no photography classes offered. I didn't know any professional portrait photographers who could give me a quick lesson.

Vonna's comment about leaving messages prompted a quick review of the phone messages before the pizza arrived. Just like Vonna had said said, she'd had called twice, more anxious with each call. The next message was from Smith, one of my bowling buddies, wanting to know if I was available. [AUTHOR: See story DITZ THE BABYSITTER] I called his number from memory.

"Hey, Marcus, welcome back. We miss you, man. Bowling with just Jone-sie was boring so we stopped."

Boring, like no one to tease. Jones doesn't react to Smith's barbs, but I do. "You must miss the competition." I wasn't that much better than him.

"You really go to Goat's funeral?"

I told him bits and pieces of the trip, the private jet, the funeral service, and the Webb family, leaving out the sex parts. It was bad enough he knew I'd fucked Ditz, the babysitter he'd recommended. "Say, do you know any professional photographers?"

"Why? You got some event coming up?"

"No, I just want a few tips."

"I didn't know you'd become some kind of shutterfly." Smith hummed a moment. "Hey, I know someone who knows a great camera jockey." He chuckled his sex-joke laugh. "I've got this friend whose wife gave him a bound portfolio of pix. Really nice. It was private, but he showed it to me anyway. She looked kind of plain in person, but a real doll face in those outfits. Whoowee."

"What kind of outfits?"

"You know, nightgowns. Sexy ones that showed everything. Boy, she'd kill him if she knew I'd seen her undressed like that."

"That might work." Perfect!

"I'll send him an email and get the photographer's name. And you, Mister Picture, keep next Saturday free for me and Jones. My ball is getting cobwebs, for cripe's sake."

My balls weren't dusty at all after lots of exercise with the Webb women. "You're on."

I wondered how much the racy photographer would charge for lessons, or if he'd be willing at all. He might view me as competition.

There were more messages but the doorbell rang, just about thirty minutes after my call for food. Standing at the door was a young woman in a puffed up bright yellow nylon jacket and jeans. Her dark hair, except for one dyed blonde streak, curved to cover one side of her face. "A Hot Piece," she said. The dialect was Russian or Romanian, somewhere in that neighborhood. Fully clothed, I couldn't tell if she was announcing her employer or bragging. She read my order balance from a slip of paper with grease marks, probably Louie's fingerprints. "Twelve six five, with tax."

"Any delivery charge?"

"No. You within half a mile. Free."

"Great." I reached in my wallet. Only twenties. I decided to be a big tipper and handed her one. "Keep the change."

She stood there, looking at the bill. Was she in shock? I was suddenly embarrassed that I'd tipped so large. It should have been a buck or two. I was prepared to close the door, but she still hadn't moved an inch. "Are you okay?"

"You want?" She took a tiny step forward.

Did I want what? Change? I'd already told her to keep the balance.

Still she stood there. "You want I come in?"

Having the company of a pretty young woman was always better than being alone, but there probably were pizzas in the trunk of her car. "Don't you have other deliveries?"

She nodded. "Sorry. I go." She retreated, losing her balance by missing the concrete step behind her. She flailed her arms and recovered, then ran to her subcompact as if she'd robbed a bank. She almost jumped into her coupe, which was decorated with a flashing neon-lit sign attached to the roof with straps. It blinked "A HOT PIECE."

God, what was that all about? While I chewed on a slice of pizza and sipped the cola and vanilla mixture from a can, I played the remaining recorded messages.

The next one was a generic "call me back" message from Clara across the street. I appreciated her discretion, since something more explicit like "One of my nieces is visiting and she needs to be fucked" would have been a disaster if Harriett had heard it. I'd procrastinated long enough and dialed her number.

"Harvey, are you avoiding me? After all I've done for you?"

By making her female family members available to me? "No, I've just been very busy. Traveling and working-"

"Your way between the thighs of young women?"

Yes, out in Nebraska, and not that young. "No. And now I'm looking for how to get some training as a photographer." It was none of her business, but it was on my mind, and I was too tired to apply a filter to my speech.

"Really? Then let me help you. In return for your future assistance, naturally. Uncle Viktor opened a photography studio in town. He'd be glad to give you some pointers. After I call him."

"You will? Thanks."

"If. If you promise to give my visiting niece some attention next weekend. Agreed?"

Before or after bowling with Smith and Jones? "Sure. Fine."

"Marvelous! I'll call Viktor and tell him you need some training. The studio is on Second Street, in the old yellow brick building."

I thanked her and hung up. It no longer mattered if Smith came through - I had a teacher.

Before I could listen to the next message, the phone rang. "Hello?"

"Hi, honey." It was Harriett. She was chipper. "How was the funeral? How is Leonard's family holding up?"

I swallowed hard. "I think I brought them some comfort." At a minimum, all the females had orgasms. "How's Boston?"

"Terrific! Besides the business meetings, we had guest speakers from Halstrom Higgins."

"Who are they?"

Harriett used her indignant voice. "Just the biggest multinational consulting company in the world."

Harriett's employer, Chattanooga Consulting, was a bit player in comparison. Why would a big outfit provide guest speakers? Odd. "Did you get time for playing tourist?" Maybe she'd come back more pleasant.

"Oh yes, there was plenty of time for sightseeing. The museums and historical sites are fascinating. Such history! You should have come with me."

"You know I don't like traveling." Except when the flight attendant sits naked on my lap. I was wary of chatty Harriett. She didn't act this nice without a hidden agenda.

"Harvey, I have great news. They assigned me a larger territory and an assistant."

First it was the leased Lexus. Now a helper. Harriett was moving up in the world. Her salary approached mine and her bonuses took it over. With a solid financial footing she might not take it too hard when I left her sorry ass. Hell, she might not even notice. But not before I had my own financial house in order. "Congratulations. A new hire or an existing employee?"

"She's a new hire. Just graduated from college here in town. This is her first job."

My dick twinged at the mention of 'she' and 'her.' A college grad no less. My recent experience with undergrads promised great potential. Oops, almost forgot my "don't fuck with coworkers" rule. That applied to Harriet's coworkers as well. Although, as a result of my recent exploits, that "rule" had degenerated to a "guideline." [AUTHOR: See stories SERVICE WITH A SMILE CH. 7 AND 8]

Harriett prattled on. "She has a dual major of business administration and information technology. You two have so much in common."

Yeah, you'll boss us both around. "I look forward to meeting her some time."

There was a long pause before Harriett responded. "That's terrific to hear, because I'm bringing her home with me."

That was a surprise. "Really? Not on my account, I hope."

Harriett paused again, way too long. There was something going on and I wasn't going to like it. "Winifred will be staying with us. For a while."

What? "Like for a weekend while her apartment gets painted? Or like a week while she looks for a place to stay?"

"Did I tell you she's some kind of princess? Her parents are royalty in England. They came in for her graduation. 'Crossing the pond' is what they called it. Isn't that funny?"

"Yeah, a side-splitter." Harriett only rattled on like that when she was nervous.

"I met them last night. Real blue bloods, can you believe it? They told me she's the family breadwinner."

I wondered what they did for income before their daughter got gainful employment. It's probably expensive to be royalty.

Harriett kept talking while my mind wandered. "So it's going to be a while before she can pay off her family debts. Like the back taxes on their castle. She's invited us to visit, at a discounted rate of course. We'll have dinner in their formal dining room, with servants, just like in the movies."

I pictured the Disney cartoon of Beauty and the Beast. Was Winifred a beauty? I'm so easily distracted. Harriett's answer of indefinite duration morphed my daydreams into total shock. "So this is long term? You've taken on a boarder without my permission? And a non-paying boarder at that. Don't I have a say in anything anymore?"

Harriett's tone turned from sweet and chipper to normal, strident. "Listen, you have no idea the responsibilities they're putting on me. Winifred and I have worked together for just one week and I can see the difference she's made. She's totally efficient. Not only has she optimized my time, I'm sure I could handle additional accounts if they dumped them on me. And given recent history that's very likely. Without her I'll fall flat on my face."

Harriett's job took her away from home often enough that I could indulge my sexual samplings. A significant side benefit. "Doesn't she have anyone else to stay with? Former classmates, maybe? Or other employees?" Maybe one of the random women I'd fucked needed a roommate.

"She went to school in Boston and doesn't know anyone in our area. Her only family is her aunt and uncle, and they'll be returning to England in a couple of days. She'll be sending the bulk of her check overseas. All she has is one trunk of clothes and a few personal possessions. The Boston branch interviewed her and sent her here straight from campus. Lord knows, she's so broke she can't afford a hotel room. Besides, she can be the big sister that Anna never had. You wanted two children, right?"

Yeah, one boy and one girl. Back then. Not now. "Anna is off at school with lots of friends." Who were great at sexual games. "At this point in our lives, we should be converting to empty nesters, not adding needy young-adults to our household."

"She'll be no trouble. She'll travel with me. Please don't make me beg. And for God's sake don't scare her away. I'll never find anyone as efficient. Make friends with her like you did with Anna's high school buddies."

Harriet didn't know what she was suggesting. I was a bosom- and cunt-buddy with most of Annie's friends. "So I have no choice?"

"I guess not. We'll see you in two days."

Saturday. Of course.

Clara must have called Viktor immediately after we spoke, because he called back that very evening. "I'd be happy, you sit in, get some pointers. No cost to you, Mr. Marcus, a favor to Bella Clara."

I was surprised Viktor was so willing to give away his trade secrets. "You're okay with this?"

"I don't view you as competition. Maybe you can help advance the art of personal portfolios. There are plenty of customers to go around. Is tomorrow convenient?"

I told him it was.

"Good. Come by the studio and we'll let you observe." I didn't ask who "we" was. A partner? It didn't matter. I was getting free lessons.

The next morning I wolfed down a bowl of cereal, not Groatz, which would have taken an hour just to chew, and drove to Viktor's studio. There were empty spaces in a free lot one half block from the three-story brick warehouse that had been converted to commercial use. When I got to the main entrance, a Lincoln Town Car was waiting at the curb, engine running.

The foyer was wide, with offices on both sides of the main floor sporting signs for Underwuud Photography. The door on the right also had a sign "Office." On the other side of that door, a young man sat at a desk, the official greeter. Behind him was a photo of an older man and a younger woman. Before I could get my full name spoken to the greeter, Viktor himself, the man in the photo, came out to greet me. "Mr. Marcus? Clara said to take good care of you. So, how long have you been taking photos? What kind of a camera do you use? What do you shoot? Portraits? Events?"

I gave him an out-of-sequence answer. "I have a nice digital camera that's served me well so far. I don't do weddings or bar mitzvahs or that kind of thing. Portraits, usually private." I hoped that euphemism would be meaningful.

His eyebrows went up. "Perfect! You will accompany me on a shoot this morning for basic skills. Then you'll assist my daughter Angelina for a private shoot across the hall."

With Viktor's comment, it was an easy assumption that the younger female in the portrait was his daughter, not a trophy wife. I followed Viktor deeper into his domain, past several shooting areas with professional lighting, multiple colored backgrounds that rolled down from the ceiling, and cameras on tripods. "This is so professional."

Viktor shot me a "no duh" look. Of course it was professional. He made his living doing this.

The official greeter came back and told us Viktor's next customer was here. A mother and her son came into our shooting area, which was carpeted in a neutral beige with a carpeted cube in the center.

Viktor led the boy to the carpeted pedestal, but he bolted for his mother as soon as Viktor removed a gentle touch from his shoulder. After pleas from his mother and a lollypop from Viktor, the boy remained seated, but fidgeting. In the meantime, I stood behind Viktor's camera. Never one to keep my hands to myself, I fiddled with the controls. Viktor joined me behind the tripod. "Leave the equipment alone."

He set up another tripod with what looked to be the same style of camera and zoom lens. "I still shoot film. This one is digital." It had lots more buttons than my simpler digital camera. I squinted at the labels, wondering how many alternative terms there were for "menu." "Play all you want, or listen to me and learn." So I listened. I adjusted the lights and straightened the background curtains and fetched a replacement lollipop when the kid dropped his on the carpet.

I learned how to give direction as the photographer and convince the subject to cooperate. Sometimes Viktor and I were bad cop and good cop. Sometimes it required a distraction. When the kid got bored with sitting, Viktor flipped a switch at a console next to him. Brightly colored balloons appeared over our heads, just out of camera view. The boy startled at their arrival, as if by magic. Viktor snapped a few more shots of the boy, eyes wide open, his expression one of blended awe and delight. Viktor had no problem using various tactics, some subtle, some devious, to get the end result. With little Johnny, he captured a set of angelic poses despite the boy's devilish nature.

The thirty-minute sitting seemed like three hours as Viktor posed the uncooperative child, all the time explaining to his mother and me what he was doing with lights and positions and props. When the shoot was finished, the mother smiled at us as she dragged her son from the raised platform. "He really enjoyed it."

Viktor escorted the mother and son out. I examined the control panel. Balloons from the ceiling were just one of Viktor's weapons. From the labels, Viktor could have produced a complete circus with animals and clowns from his magical ceiling.

The mom was entirely pleased with Viktor's efforts and signed up for an expensive package of wallets, multiple five by sevens and as many eight by tens. Oh yes, and a two foot by three foot poster. Where would she hang that?

After they departed, Viktor asked, "Did you learn anything?"

"Lots." Mostly about how to manage the object of the shoot. If you lose control, the session fails.

"I hope so. There's a client on Angelina's list for this afternoon. A bigger challenge than little Johnny."

Viktor walked me to the door. I pushed it open and bumped into something or someone. Whoever it was pulled the door fully open. It was that same pizza girl from A Hot Piece. We both startled. Viktor handed her some money he'd had stowed in his pocket, evidently prepared for the transaction. He had to physically put the bills in her hand and fold her fingers around them because her eyes were on me, just as mine were on her. Only when he said, "Thank you very much. See you next week" did she change her focus. She walked backwards a few steps, still looking at me, then ran the length of the foyer and through the door.

"Who was that?" I asked.

"Her? That's Nashta. We order in once a week, as a treat for the staff."

I imagined my staff being treated by Nashta's pussy. What fairy tales I come up with!

"Beautiful bone structure, hmm?" Viktor handed the flat box to the greeter, who took it back for employee consumption. "I've offered to shoot her, at no charge. She could be a model - I have contacts - but she refuses. Young women today! Ha!"

I'd offer to shoot in her, if she'd pose with her legs apart. Sheesh, why was I so taken by this waifish foreign beauty? I thought about Vonna. "Yeah, no telling what they'll do." Especially if their boyfriend dumps them while they're posing.

"My daughter Angelina will be handling the next customer for an intimate portfolio, like you'll be doing. Listen to her, too. She's a pro. I've convinced her to let you observe. Just keep your mouth shut. Okay? Okay!"

I left Viktor's side after a vigorous handshake and a slap on the back. As I approached the door on the other side of the foyer, two women walked through, arms around each others' waists. One was Angelina, Viktor's daughter. The other woman was breathtaking. Literally. Not cute. Not sexy, like a Playboy playmate. Soul-grabbing beautiful, and she looked familiar somehow. I resumed breathing with a gasp as they kissed, mouths open, tongues visibly probing. They gradually pulled away from each other, both dreamy eyed.

"I don't know what to say," said the beauty.

"I have another client scheduled," said Angelina. "I'll send your proofs in twenty-four hours."

Although Angelina had her own earthy charm, I couldn't take my eyes off her client. I was not merely seeing her physically; I was witnessing her humanity, her soul. Was this what love at first sight meant? The customer's expression went from relaxed grin to a piercing stare when our eyes met, and then immediately back to euphoria as she turned away. Swinging her shoulder bag, she strutted to the front door. The town car driver held it open and then scrambled to get the rear door for her as well.

"You must be Mr. Marcus. Call me Angie."

Her voice startled me back to the task at hand. "Yes, call me Harvey. Can I ask, was she a friend of yours?" It sure seemed that way, from the kiss and all.

"No, just a client. A wealthy client, for sure. She just required some hands on." Angie smiled. "And a bit of gentle persuasion. Daddy told me you'd be assisting me. Have you done intimate portraits?"

I nodded. "A few times, and I have a big shoot coming up."

Angie jammed her hands in the front pockets of her jeans. "Then the next client will be a perfect learning opportunity. You saw daddy at work, right?"

"Yes, with a young boy. Your father charmed both Johnny and his mother. Made the little tyke look like a saint."

"Our challenge in this case will be to charm the inner woman out of the client. Follow me." I glanced over my shoulder. The black town car had left.

In jeans and a short sleeve polo that matched her father's with their company logo on the breast, Angie walked like a guy. Her brown hair was close cropped, a masculine style. There was no sway of hips. Given her public display of affection with her last client, I was tempted to conclude that Angie liked girls, not guys. But that was a hasty conclusion based on scant evidence. With a client in the studio, there'd be no opportunity for me to test Angie's sexuality. And to be honest, no need. I was there for knowledge, and not the carnal type.

Angie's studio was bigger than the shooting area Viktor had used with Johnny and open, with no dividing partitions. On my left, a raised platform, carpeted in black with matching backdrop, with dozens of lights overhead. One lone black stool occupied the flat space. On the right, another raised platform, this one for Angie and her camera equipment. The aisle in between led to a curtained area at the far end of the room.

Angie took her position on a matching stool behind the camera on a tripod. "Ms. Prim called Daddy last week. She claimed her husband ignores her. Sexually, that is. A friend of the studio told her how successful an intimate portfolio we shot worked with her hubby. Ms. Prim requested a sitting for some pictures to rejuvenate her relationship. But she demanded a female photographer." Angie curtsied. "So I canceled another client and quoted a premium price for my services."

Photos of Harriett in sexual poses wouldn't do a thing for me. "So she believes that-"

Angie cut me off. "You saw my father use surprise and distraction to get subjects to give natural expressions?"

I thought about Viktor's techniques. "Yeah, he used balloons from the ceiling-"

Again she interrupted. "And a bunch of other tricks. Good for children, but not for adults. I have my own ways of relaxing the subject and making them comply with my directions."

'Comply' sounded harsh. Angie bosses the clients around? "Sounds intriguing. So, what precisely do you do?"

"Watch how I work and learn. Just don't interfere." She directed me to hide behind the changing screen at the far end of the room. "After our preliminary conversation, I'll bring you out as my assistant. Eliminates the up front reluctance against a male helper in a situation like this."

I wondered how uncooperative a grown woman could be. After all, these photos were voluntary. No one was holding a gun to her head. On the other hand, if the client wanted intimate portraits and had a female photographer, it was obvious why my presence might be objectionable. Angie's more than friendly demeanor with her last client still bugged me. Would Angie attempt woman on woman sex with me in the room? That might be an extra lesson I hadn't planned on.

As I walked to the far end of the room to hide, I passed a card table holding a crystal punch bowl and some matching cups. The bowl was filled with a pinkish beverage. "Leave it alone. That's for the clients." Angie adjusted her camera from behind the tripod. She was a lot bossier than her father.

The changing area was filled with clothing items I expected Angie's clients wore while being photographed. Playing out fantasies in front of a camera might loosen some clients' inhibitions. Long formal dresses, negligees and costumes of all varieties. A bunny suit, not the Playboy kind. Oh, and a Playboy bunny costume complete with fuzzy tail. Cop uniform. Nurse whites. A few super hero outfits, in colorful spandex. Damn, a Wonder Woman costume. Plastic bracelets and tiara in place of forged metal. Gold drapery cord for the lasso of truth. Subtle discrepancies in the chest logo that only a devoted follower would notice. And I did. But the outfit was close enough. Oh boy, the opportunity to see someone in that costume would be a dream cum true, given how many times I'd masturbated to Lynda Carter on TV. How the network censors let her expose herself, breasts and crotch, in that skimpy costume had always been a mystery to me.

Castanet heels clicked on the wood floor. I stayed hidden as directed. The flapping of Angie's sandals told me she was on the move.

The client's voice was quite formal and proper, with the touch of a British accent. I've always found British birds to be quite exciting. "Thank you for seeing me on relatively short notice. And for accommodating my request. Your father has a marvelous reputation. However I knew I'd feel more comfortable with a female photographer. How convenient that you had a cancellation."

"Perhaps just the beginning of your newfound luck." Was Angie planning on getting lucky with Prim? If she didn't want a male photographer, how would Prim react to Angie's attention? "Please, step up on the platform and have a seat on the stool. Now, if you'd briefly recap what you'd like to get out of your session."

The click of heels dulled on the carpeted platform. Without peeking, I knew exactly where Prim was. "It's quite embarrassing, actually. My husband has become quite distant over the last few months. Perhaps our intimacy has gotten too predictable." Prim rambled on about no hugs or kisses, and no interest from her husband in bed. Oh, and that she'd found adult picture magazines under their mattress. Stupid guy, that's the first place a wife will look. And it makes the bed lumpy. I contemplated her husband's taste in porn. Mayfair perhaps? A British publication with well built ladies. I was anxious to see how Prim the client stacked up. "After speaking with a satisfied client, I thought that a set of slightly revealing photographs might spark his interest and allow him to look at me in a different way."