I’m here for him, the photographer. I’ve been circling him for a while now, watching, waiting. His work is fine, sure, but it’s not his pictures I want. I knew he’d book me eventually. He’d been commenting approvingly on my photos for a few months, complimenting me on my physique, my style, my boldness. When he finally asked, I doubled my usual rate. He agreed immediately.

We exchange pleasantries as I step into the apartment, and straightaway the game begins. I slip my coat from shoulders and step into the light, thus revealing how little I was wearing underneath. The camera wavers slightly in his hands. He’s already mine. I don’t need him to tell me what to do. I own this room now. The lights stroke my skin, catch in my hair, trace my shoulder and hip.

Heat builds in the air between us. His gaze clings to me, even when he hides behind the camera. I know his eyes are fixed on me even when mine barely meet his. Each flicker of a smile, each subtle shift of my body, pulls him closer, even as he tries to steady his hands. I can hear his breath falter. Perfect. I savour it.

I knew that the sight of me strutting from one mark to another without any panties on would be too much for him to resist.  He doesn’t stand a chance. A half-turn of my head, a flicker of a smile, the lift of one heel. My stride is slow, deliberate, claiming the space with every step.

I pause. I pose. My eyes lock on the lens, and the shutter snaps. Naturally he fiddles with the settings like he’s in control, but I can feel where his focus really is. The tension thickens, coils tighter emphatically. I know that the moment the session ends, the game will change entirely. And that’s exactly what I’ve come for.

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