Chapter 1

My name is Hank. Now I'm a balding seventy-year old man, barely able to get it up. But back in the sixties, I was a photographer who traveled all over the place, taking thousands of pictures of young ladies.

No, it's not what you think. I also took thousands of pictures of young men. And they were all dressed, more or less. You see, I had a contract with the companies that produced high school yearbooks. It was a big market, although the pay wasn't that great. The deal was that they'd send me to some high school or other in the Los Angeles area, and I'd set up this studio in a classroom that wasn't being used. The kids would line up, and I'd sit them down on a stool, take a picture, and then call the next one. Assembly line photography, that's what it was. No artistry involved. If you could read a light meter and could load film fast and competently and keep the rolls of film together with their sign-in sheets so all the names went with the right pictures, you had the job. A lot of the pictures had to be retouched to take out pimples and acne scars, but the company had other people to do that. They only did that with the upperclassmen, since all the other snaps were so tiny that the defects didn't show very much. Or that's what they told me; I never saw the pictures after I delivered the film to the lab.

The underclass boys and girls would usually be photographed wearing whatever they went to school in that day. Only the senior classes were treated differently. The senior boys were told to wear dark jackets, white shirts, and ties. The senior girls were told to get their hair done and their makeup applied beforehand. We also told the senior girls to wear button-down blouses that they could take off without having to pull them over their heads and muss up their hair. And they were told to wear brassieres that day, whether they usually did or not.

The reason was simple. When each girl's turn came to be photographed, they removed their blouses and put on a sort of gown-like thing that exposed their shoulders and a little cleavage. Then I'd pose them as best I could to conceal the bra, snap the picture, and tell them to get dressed. Easy as pie.

A lot of those senior girls were pretty well developed, I can tell you. They really filled out their bra cups. Others were still flat-chested, and usually wore soft bras that didn't support anything. Those are the ones I liked best, because I could sometimes see their nipples poking out from the fabric. I never got more than a glimpse of them, but that was enough to put a little lead in my pencil. Otherwise, I can't say that I got a kick out of seeing teenagers in their bras. It sounds good when you start, but after you see your two thousandth white padded bra, the excitement sort of wears off. And the girls, most of whom were flustered to begin with, were quick to note if I was staring, and sometimes they'd make a scene about it, which slowed things down. And time was money.

And I was always a big boob lover, at least up until the time I saw Cindy. My idea of the ideal woman was one with boobs that swung and jiggled as I fucked her. And frankly, most of those seniors really didn't have it upstairs, either in the boobs department or the brains department.

Which is what made Cindy so different. She was one of those seniors at Taft High School, class of '68. She came in a few minutes after the rest of her class had finished. Even in those days, I could spot a rebel, and she was one. Her hair was shorter than most girls' and she had a tattoo on her wrist. Not only was she late for the photo session, but she hadn't gotten the memo about what to wear. So after everybody had gone, she came waltzing in. Her skirt just barely passed the hemline test, and she was wearing a cashmere pullover sweater. I thought I could smell a trace of pot smoke on her.

"You're late," I said, "but I think I can squeeze you in. Didn't you know you were supposed to wear a blouse?"

"Yeah, but I don't have one I liked. Can't you take a picture of me this way?"

"Well, you're supposed to wear this," I said, holding up the half-gown." I showed her a picture of the garment being modeled by another student, showing the subject what she would look like being photographed.

"Okay," she said, and proceeded to pull off her top. She had a very nice pair of titties, which I could see quite clearly, for she hadn't worn a bra. She was clearly past the training bra stage, but those boobs would fill an A-cup only with a little help from the Kleenex company. Her nipples were dark, plump, and very erect.

She pulled a hairbrush out of her purse and brushed her hair back into shape, not bothering to hide her breasts from me. Then she reached for the gown. "Help me with this, will ya?" I draped it over her and sat her on the stool.

Arranging the gown to best advantage, I managed to sneak another glimpse of her nipples as I moved the fabric around. When it was positioned correctly, I went behind the camera and told her to smile.

That was my second shock. She had a dazzling smile, and the pupils of her eyes seemed to widen and darken. Now, I've taken thousands of pictures of women over the years, and not all of them high-school yearbook shots. I've done fashion, I've done celebrities. And I can tell you that some women have a way of making love to the camera. I can't explain it any other way. They simply can't take a bad picture, because they instinctively know what they have to do to look good. It's a rare talent, and this girl had it, in spades.

I took a picture, and then another "for insurance," I told her. She smiled again. "Are we done here?" she asked. I nodded, and she pulled the gown off and sat topless on the stool. I was tempted to take a few more pictures right then and there, but I could have lost my job for that. It might almost have been worth it.

But I had to say something, and what came out was this:

"You take a beautiful picture, Miss. Have you done any modeling?"

"My name is Cindy, not 'Miss, ' and no, I haven't. Do you mean fashion modeling?" She seemed in no hurry to put her sweater back on, but neither did she seem to flaunt her nudity. She was simply comfortable being half naked, another thing rare in women, particularly of her age.

"Well, that's part of it. But there's other kinds of modeling, too. Stock photos, like pictures of you walking in a park, for clients who are trying to illustrate an ad about, well, walking in the park."

She grinned. "What do I have to wear?"

"Whatever the client wants. Clothes designers provide the garments they want modeled."

"Underwear, too?"

"Sure. Where do you think those pictures in the catalogs come from? And, no, you don't get to keep the clothes afterwards."

"Not even the underwear?" She gave me a wicked grin that went right to my nuts.

I smiled back. "No. They just wash it and save it for the next time, I think."

"A guy took my picture last week when I was at the beach. He said he liked my bikini."

I'll bet he did, I thought. And he didn't get to see what I was seeing just now, those perfect young titties. I forced my eyes to stare at her face instead of her chest.

"Yes, I remember. That spell of warm weather we had for a couple of days. Really rare for March. Did he ask your parents to sign a release?"

"No. And I don't need my parents to sign, anyway. I'm eighteen, and I can sign for myself."

"If he didn't ask for a release, he's probably not a pro." He's probably at home right now, I thought, jacking off to that photo. Couldn't blame the guy.