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In the 1970s I was freelancing as a photo-journalist. I took photos at concerts and interviewed the bands, selling my articles to rock magazines.
My parents owned a busy restaurant in London and lived on the two floors above. Everything was going well until my father suffered a mild heart attack. Not so serious, but his doctors told him that he had to take it easy. Instead of hiring a manager, my parents insisted that I move in with them and help run the family business.
I did whatever was necessary. Cleaning toilets, repairing appliances, purchasing supplies, brewing coffee, and a dozen other chores. I refused to give up my freelance work and set up a makeshift darkroom so that I could develop and print my own photos.
Her name was Katia. She had come to London to study English and earn some hard currency. She was Polish.
When word got around that our restaurant welcomed reliable short-term staff, a steady stream of Polish students came to us, all highly recommended by their predecessors. The arrangement worked well, to everyone’s satisfaction.
So it was that Katia started working for us as a kitchen hand, occasionally helping out as a waitress. She worked hard and quickly ingratiated herself with my mother. So much so that my mother suggested Katia move into our spare bedroom, thereby saving herself two long bus rides every day.
She became part of the family, always helping with the cooking and cleaning, and feigning interest in my mother’s interminable stories.
She began to flirt with me, blatantly and brazenly. I was under no illusion that she found me attractive. Any interest she had was in acquiring, through a quick marriage, permanent residence in England.
When I didn’t respond to her flirtation, she went a step further. One day, as I was passing the bathroom, she came out wearing a look of great surprise and a cotton gown she had forgotten to tie at the front. She took her time apologising. She then made a half-hearted and not very successful attempt to cover herself. The front of her gown fell open again, and once again she took her time drawing it together.
I enjoyed the display. Katia was on the slender side but had nicely shaped breasts, a slim waist, and an intriguingly dense bush between her legs.
She didn’t seem in the least disappointed when I didn’t immediately throw myself at her. She smiled, and apologised, and smiled again. She was playing the long game and had begun by showing what was on offer.
Her next step was carefully planned. She began to take a great interest in my photography and asked me about my cameras, the lenses I used, the film stock, the dark room equipment, and the techniques for enhancing the enlargements. She was convincing.
After that initial burst of enthusiasm, she avoided the subject for a few days, then asked me, almost as an afterthought, if I would take some portraits of her. To take home and show her family, she said.
I could see where this was leading and tried to avoid the trap. I told her that I didn’t do portraits, that I didn’t have the right lenses, or the necessary lighting, or a suitable backdrop.
She persisted. She could see from my photographs, she said, that I would do her justice, whatever the equipment I used. I ran out of excuses.
To my surprise and relief the photo session went smoothly and without incident. Katia behaved herself impeccably. I wondered if I’d misjudged her. She was delighted with the photos and thanked me profusely. She didn’t insult me by offering to pay for the film, the chemicals, the paper, and the frames.
A couple of weeks passed. Katia told me that she’d written to her best friend back home and told her about the photos I’d taken. Her friend had written back saying that if I could be trusted, Katia should seize the opportunity to have me take some tasteful figure studies, the kind that any respectable girl wouldn’t dream of commissioning from a photo studio. The kind that a girl might want to keep hidden away as an intimate record of her youthful figure in full bloom.
Once again I ran through a long list of reasons why it wasn’t such a good idea, and once again she brushed them aside. There was only one card left to play, that of impropriety.
Katia apologised profusely for her lack of consideration. What must I think of her? The last thing she wanted was to endanger our precious friendship. She begged me to forget her silly request, to put the idea out of my mind.
It was a skilful turnaround. Now she she was begging me not to take photos of her.
Out-manoeuvred and on the defensive, I capitulated and mumbled some inanity about doing my best to help her, even though the results were sure to be disappointing. She squealed with delight and gave me a sisterly hug.
Having no studio, I had to make do with the living room, on a day when there was no one around. The floor-length velvet curtains would serve as a backdrop and I could soften the strobes by bouncing them off the walls and ceiling.
While I moved the furniture around and set up my tripod, Katia went off to change. Ten minutes later she returned wearing the cotton gown I’d seen before.
She told me she’d never posed in the nude before and asked me to tell her if she did something wrong. She slipped off the gown and laid it over the back of a chair. And then she announced that she’d trimmed her bush for the occasion. What did I think of it? I don’t remember what I said. I was too busy fiddling with the settings on my camera.
I was nervous and flustered, shooting off far too many frames, constantly finding something that wasn’t quite right. A shadow here, a highlight there. A fold in the curtain spoiling the balance of a pose.
Katia was in an excellent mood and very cooperative — at first. By the second roll of film she was making her own suggestions. Perhaps her right profile would be better, or a hand on her hip would accent her waist? Or maybe she should sweep her hair to the left, or tuck a strand behind her ear?
Once or twice, as she was posing on the sofa, her legs would fall apart. She was testing me. When I made no comment she would suddenly become aware of the problem and would apologise profusely, saying that she trusted me to dispose of any inappropriate frames.
We took a break and she went to the kitchen to make some tea. She put on her gown but didn’t bother tying it at the front.
Back on the sofa, her legs folded beneath her, she sipped her tea and told me she couldn’t wait to see the photos I’d taken. When would they be ready? Would I let her pick out the best ones? Would I promise to destroy the ‘bad’ ones?
She kept my attention focused by occasionally touching her bush, as if to make sure everything was neat and tidy.
She was manipulating me. I knew what she was doing but I couldn’t bring myself to call a halt. I could have made up any number of excuses, such as no more film or no more charge in the battery packs. I didn’t.
When I put down my cup of tea on the small table by my armchair, she came over to pour me a refill. She came so close that I caught the unmistakeable scent of feminine musk.
And then — another change of tactics.
Back on the sofa, absent-mindedly touching her breasts, she sighed deeply, as if in resignation.
“You know, John, I haven’t been completely honest with you. I appreciate your photographing me, and I’ll treasure the photos forever, but there’s another reason I asked you to take them.”
I held my breath.
“Actually, my girlfriend, the one in Poland, the one who suggested I ask you to photograph me — well, I didn’t tell you the whole story.”
She paused.
“You know that students come over here to earn hard currency and then exchange it on the black market at home?”
I nodded.
“It’s very lucrative but there are even better ways of making money. Like buying something that’s unavailable in Poland and selling it at a huge markup.”
I nodded again. A year earlier two of the students working in our restaurant had pooled their earnings and bought a rust-bucket Volkswagen Beetle. Not having a valid driving licence, they asked me to drive it to the ferry terminal, from where they shipped it back home. They got a mechanic to fix it up and then they sold it for a small fortune.
“Well, we have very tight censorship back home. No porn, no glamour magazines, nothing. Can you see what I’m getting at?”
I could.
“So, if I could smuggle back some adult stuff, I could make several times the amount I’d get from a black market currency deal.”
Hurriedly I said, “Oh, so you want me to buy some porn for you? Movies, magazines, that kind of thing?”
She shook her head. “I’d prefer something more personal. Could I ask you a big favour? Could you take a few very explicit photos of me? I could make so much money from them.”
“Don’t you have a boyfriend who could do that for you?”
“Lord, no! I broke up with him before coming to England. Besides, he doesn’t know one end of a camera from the other. He’s the kind of jerk who would keep the negatives and sell the prints for himself.”
“So how do you plan to sell the photos?”
“Through the ‘private’ black market. In a communist economy everyone knows someone, who knows someone, who can get you anything you want — for a price. Far safer. The friend I wrote to — she has plenty of contacts.”
“Porn?”
“Not just porn. Swiss watches, French cosmetics, Scotch whisky — everything.”
I told Katia I’d think about it. She smiled and blew me a kiss.
Our home-made porn session took place a few days later, on a day when my father was in hospital for a check-up and my mother was busy in the restaurant. There was no hesitation. Katia slipped off her gown and began posing like a professional. Kneeling with her arse in the air, pulling apart the cheeks to reveal her cunt and anus; lying on her back and spreading her legs; standing over me and letting me photograph her crotch from below.
There was no way she could have missed the bulge in my jeans, but she refrained from making comments. We paused for coffee. She seemed a little distracted, as if turning something over in her mind. Then she let it slip out.
“You know, John, I could make an even bigger profit if we went just a little further, but only if you’re comfortable with it. If you have some kind of timer or cable release, maybe you could join me in some of the shots. Of course you’d have to hide your face, or crop it out afterwards, but couples always fetch premium prices. As does fetish stuff.”
She kept me so focused that I pushed aside my worries about a possible trap. After all, she was doing this for money. To help her look after her ailing mother, she told me. To buy expensive textbooks for her studies. To hire a tutor for her k** brother.
She knew exactly what kinds of photos were in demand back home. She told me what she wanted me to do and I mumbled, “Okay.”
I averted my gaze as I unbuttoned my jeans and tugged them off. Next came my T-shirt and my socks, leaving me naked except for my white underpants. My heart was pounding and I could feel myself blushing. I hitched my thumbs under the waistband and shoved my pants down. My erection bobbed up and twitched. Short of turning my back on her, there was no way I could hide my boner.
I picked up my clothes and tossed them into a corner. I glanced at Katia. She was staring at my cock. She didn’t spoil everything by saying something stupid like, “Oh, my! What a huge dick you have.” Instead she said, “Thank you, John.”
For the first few shots she suggested we stand together facing the camera. I adjusted the position and height of the tripod, then peered through the viewfinder to make sure everything was in focus. The next part was tricky. I had to picture myself standing next to her, guessing how far I needed to tilt the camera to make sure my face wouldn’t be in the shot. I set the timer to ten seconds and joined Katia. She smiled at me and slipped her arm around my waist, pulling me closer until our hips were touching. As the shutter fired I glanced down. My cock was drooping.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“You’re worrying too much about getting everything right, John. Why not just shoot lots and lots of photos and then pick out the good ones? Here, let me help.” She ran her forefinger down the length of my cock, once, twice, three times. It responded immediately. When it was fully erect she grasped it lightly, giving it the softest of squeezes.
“See, not a problem.”
She was still holding my cock as I asked her, “What are the chances of someone recognizing me?”
“You mean, in Poland? Absolutely zero.”
“What about you? Aren’t you worried?”
“No one’s going to know it’s me. Besides, they’d never admit to buying erotic photos on the black market.”
“Maybe I could relax a bit more if I didn’t have to worry about getting my face in the frame.”
“Either way is fine, John. I leave it up to you.”
“Okay, give me a minute and I’ll get my motor drive.”
Five minutes later my camera was whirring away, advancing the film after every shot, and my cock was doing me proud. I had to move the camera and adjust the focus every time we switched poses, but by now I was so aroused that my cock was bouncing cheerfully up and down, and from side to side, as I made the changes.
I began to get really turned on during close-ups of Katia sucking my cock. It wasn’t my first blowjob, but it was absolutely the best. When she pulled back my foreskin and closed her mouth over the sensitive tip, I thought I was going to explode. Katia slipped one hand between my legs and pressed the soft skin between my balls and my bum-hole. With her other hand she gripped the base of my shaft. That way she could sense when I was getting too excited, and would slow down a little. In no time at all the camera ran out of film.
Katia looked up at me and said, “Can you hold on a little longer, or would you like me to finish you off?”
“I think I can manage.”
She smiled and said, “Thank you.”
I changed the film and we took photos of us doing it on the carpet, on the sofa, and even in the kitchen. Katia made everything so easy. All I had to do was follow her lead.
I removed the camera from its tripod and took photos of my cock entering her from the front, from behind, and from below. When I warned her that I couldn’t hold back any longer, she deftly pulled me out and pumped my cock until it spurted over her breasts.
We took a break and Katia went to the bathroom to clean herself up. She came back and we sat on the sofa, talking about what we could do with the remaining three rolls of film.
“Would you let me take some photos of you, John?” she asked. “Just set the aperture and speed. I’ll do the rest.”
She took photos of me flashing my cock in front of a mirror, and photos of me on all fours, my balls dangling between my legs.
It was an amazing hour. A technicolor erotic dream come true. I came twice and lost count of her orgasms.
Worried that my father might be coming home soon, we untangled ourselves, cleaned up, ventilated the room, and agreed to do it again the following week.
The photos from that first session were better than I’d expected. Katia was delighted and began to calculate how much money she would make.
That made me stop and think. She seemed serious about selling the photos in Poland. Which meant that the whole photography thing hadn’t been a way to compromise me. Or had it?
The second session was even wilder than the first. After running through the standard positions we switched to fetish and I photographed her pissing into various receptacles: bowls, vases, even wine glasses. Using a tripod and a timer, we photographed ourselves pissing on one another in the bath.
We even did anal, something I thought physically impossible, at least for me. Fortunately she had incredible control over her sphincter and with a dab of vaseline and much encouragement, I slid my cock into her as if I’d been doing it forever.
The proverbial other shoe dropped as we were examining the contact sheets for that second session. I told her it had been an amazing experience for me, and confessed that I had my doubts about her motivation. She wasn’t in the least offended. She laughed, she teased me, and she told me the whole story.
She wasn’t a student at all, having graduated four years ago. What’s more, she was happily married with a three-year-old son. Her mother was in the best of health and was looking after her grandson while his mother was away in England earning money for the family.
Katia told me that the flirtation had been real. She’d taken an instant liking to me, but was aware, with the sixth sense of a highly sexed women, that I was inexperienced. Hence the slow seduction. The idea of the photographs was not a ruse. Once she discovered I took photographs and developed them myself, she pounced on the opportunity to make the greatest amount of money possible — while having a lot of fun doing it.
We were looking through the photos from the second session, laughing at some of the golden shower shots.
“We had a great time, didn’t we?” Katia said. “It would be nice to do it again.”
“You mean take more photos?”
“No, I mean having more fun without worrying about the camera.”
“But what about your husband? You’re married and —”
“And you’re not. I know. I’ve already told Marek about you, and he can’t wait to see the photos.”
“Oh, okay.”
“How about now?” she said with a laugh.
“Here in the living room?”
“Anywhere.”
“Maybe we should go up to my bedroom.”
She grabbed my hand and we rushed upstairs to my room. We couldn’t wait to get naked. In a few seconds I was down to my underpants. Katia jerked them down and slapped my semi-erect cock from side to side. Smiling, she grasped it and pulled me close to her, kissing me so hard that I winced. A moment later her tongue was pushing between my lips and she was moaning softly to herself as she worked my cock up and down. The kisses took things to a new level. The sex during our photo sessions had been wild, but this was different — passionate and totally uninhibited.
Still kissing, I slipped my right hand down her stomach and into her panties. My middle finger found its way into her warm, wet cunt. She gasped.
“Fuck me, John. I need you inside me right now.” She stepped out of her panties and we tottered onto my bed. She spread her legs and raised her knees, pulling them back until they were almost touching her chest. I couldn’t help staring at her cunt.
“Stop looking and just fuck me!”
I penetrated her and began thrusting. She climaxed almost immediately, taking me by surprise.
“Don’t stop, keep going!”
I have no idea how many times she climaxed. I lost count after three. The orgasms kept coming and coming. It was nothing short of awesome. I felt myself coming dangerously close to my own climax. I pulled out of her and immediately inserted two fingers in her cunt, slipping them in and out, and jerking them up and down, hitting what I hoped was her G-spot.
She shrieked and squirted over my hand. She reached down, grasped my wrist, and began giggling.
“That was incredible, John. Thank you! And sorry about the sheets.”
“I’ll toss them in the washing machine.”
“Later. I haven’t done with you yet. I want to milk you from behind while I rim your gorgeous bum. I’m dirty that way. And then we can fuck some more.”
Before returning to Poland Katia bought some cheap photo albums, filling them with typical tourist snaps. Those albums were a distraction. Any border guard seeing those photographs would assume there were no others.
The negatives of the photos I’d taken were sewn into a corset-like money belt that she fastened under her dress.
Two weeks after her arrival in Poland she sent me a greetings card with an illustration of garden flowers: our pre-arranged signal that all had gone well. As I opened the card something fell out. A tiny piece of folded tissue paper containing three short hairs. I knew exactly where those hairs had come from.
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