This story first appeared at Ruthie’s Club, the net’s largest illustrated erotic stories site.
It had been a long day, and I was glad it was over. Since seven in the morning, I’d had a studio full of people for a photo shoot. It was for a popular and irreverent men’s magazine, and all the models had been scantily clad. I suppose the readership of the magazine liked their women beautiful and dumb, because that’s certainly what I’d dealt with all day. Working with fashion models may sound glamorous, but it’s usually not. Most of them are either vapid or vacuously chatty.
My assistants Theresa and Steve were shutting down the studio lights and moving props out of the way while I hustled the last of the models and various other people out of the building. I couldn’t wait to pour myself a cold drink and relax, although I knew I wouldn’t have long before the magazine’s art director called. We’d talk about the shoot, when he could see the proofs, and a host of other details.
I had just shut the outer door on the last of the crowd when the office phone rang. With a sigh, I resigned myself to dealing with the call.
“Mike Logan,” I said, catching the phone on the fourth ring.
“Mike, old buddy, old pal. How the hell are ya?”
I furrowed my brow in concentration, trying to place the voice. It sure wasn’t the men’s magazine art director.
“You don’t know who this is, do you?” the caller asked when my brain refused to cooperate.
“No,” I said, rubbing my weary eyes. “Enlighten me.”
Terry. I searched my memory, but drew a blank.
“I’m sorry, Terry. It’s been a long day.”
“Terry Duggins, from NYU.”
Finally, recognition blossomed in my overworked brain. “Terry! Of course. Sorry, man. It’s been one of those days. Besides,” I said, shaking my head, “it’s been what… eight years?”
“Yeah, at least.”
Terry was my roommate the first year I was at NYU. I was studying photography at the Tisch School of the Arts, and he wanted to be the next Stanley Kubrick. Terry’s father was some big-shot financial type and had finally convinced him to transfer to Columbia to “pursue a real career.” We’d kept in touch after Terry changed schools, but drifted apart a year or two after graduation.
I sat down in the office chair and swiveled to put my feet on the desk. “How ya been, man?”
We chatted for a few minutes, catching up. He was married and still living in the City. I was surprised to hear that he hadn’t joined his father’s firm after graduation. My respect for his old man grew when Terry told me his dad wouldn’t give him a job until he’d proven himself at another firm. The Duggins name carried enough weight that he had no trouble finding a position. In the eight years since I’d talked to him, he’d swiftly moved up the corporate ladder, and had just accepted a position—based solely on his own accomplishments, he said proudly—with his father’s firm.
I told him about my life during the intervening years. I was still single and doing what I enjoyed most, taking pictures of beautiful women. Terry told me he’d even seen my photos in last year’s Swimsuit Issue. Yes, the models really were that beautiful. No, I didn’t date the models. Yes, I did get to travel a lot. I didn’t mention that most of the models were not the type of women I’d consider dating. Nor did I mention the hundreds of pounds of cameras and equipment I usually schlepped around on those “glamorous” trips. He had his little fantasy of what a fashion photographer’s life was like, and I didn’t want to break the spell with a cold dose of reality.
“Listen, buddy,” he said. “Let me cut to the chase. I was having lunch with Dad and one of his clients yesterday, and the subject of this guy’s youngest daughter came up. She’s getting married in June, and the photographer got deported. I told them I was old college buds with you, and that you shot weddings all the time. So, I told ’em…”
“Terry,” I said, interrupting him. “I haven’t shot weddings in a long time.” I didn’t like shooting weddings, and I’d done it early in my career simply to pay the bills.
“It’s like riding a bike, though. Right?”
No, I thought to myself, it’s not. Working with fashion models may be trying at times, but if I didn’t like the lighting or the angle was bad, I simply stopped for a moment and fixed things. Brides walking down the aisle were like silk-clad juggernauts. They didn’t care if the lighting was bad or the angle was wrong.
“Terry, I’d love to help, but… I don’t do weddings anymore.”
“C’mon, buddy. Help me out here. How much would you charge this guy to shoot his daughter’s wedding.”
“Terry, I’m telling you, I don’t do weddings.”
“When I mentioned you, Reuben said he knew your name, and he wanted the best for his little girl. So… how much?”
I quickly realized I wasn’t going to beg off, so I decided to try another tack. Back when I was shooting weddings, I usually charged a thousand dollars for a complete package. But that was when I was new to the business and hadn’t established a name for myself. These days, the going rate for a good wedding photographer was probably somewhere between three and five thousand. I added a little to the top-end fee and then doubled it, hoping to put Terry’s friend off with the price alone.
“Look, Terry, my time’s really booked. But if you’ve got to tell this guy something, tell him I’ll do it for fifteen grand.” I expected Terry to sputter, maybe even gasp. I was hoping he’d simply tell me I was crazy and gracefully, or not so gracefully—I didn’t care which—drop the idea.
“Did you hear what I said, Terry?”
“Sure. Fifteen thousand. No problem. I’ll tell Reuben.”
“Terry, I don’t even know when the wedding is. If I’m booked that week, then there’s nothing I can do. Like I said, I don’t do weddings.”
“I dunno when it is, exactly. Sometime in early June. I’ll tell ya what, let me give you Reuben’s daughter’s number. You got a pen?”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. The last thing I wanted to do was to shoot a wedding. He gave me the number and I reluctantly wrote it on a Post-it note.
“Her name’s Lara. Lara Talbot.”
“Right,” I said, writing her name under the number. Something about the girl’s name tickled the back of my brain, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I drew two lines under her last name and then it hit me. “What did you say her father’s name was?”
“Reuben Talbot?!” I asked.
“The Reuben Talbot? The guy who owns more of Manhattan than Donald Trump?”
“Well,” Terry said. “The Donald doesn’t own that much anymore.”
“Yeah, he’s that Reuben Talbot.”
“Christ, Terry! Why didn’t you tell me it was Reuben Talbot’s daughter?!”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“Hell yes, it would have.”
“Why?” he asked.
I couldn’t begin to explain to him the problems involved. Weddings are bad enough—if you screw up even the smallest thing, families get really bent out of shape. You usually only get one chance to get a shot, maybe two or three for the posed shots of the wedding party. But during my thankfully short career as a wedding photographer, I’d learned that rich weddings were the worst. Demanding parents, haughty participants, and spoiled children could quickly turn things into a fiasco.
“Trust me, Terry,” I said. “It would’ve made a difference.”
“Oh, well,” he said, sounding indifferent. “I know you’ll enjoy it. And it’ll certainly be good for your business.”
“I’m not in the business of shooting weddings, Terry.”
“You’ll have a blast, buddy. I think you’ll like Lara. She’s a real firecracker. Hey, buddy, I gotta go.” I could hear another phone ringing in the background. “I’ll tell Reuben to tell Lara to expect your call. It was great catching up with you. I’ll see ya at the wedding.”
Without even waiting for me to say goodbye, he hung up.
Super, I thought. Even fifteen thousand dollars couldn’t make me enjoy the hell I was going to endure to shoot Lara Talbot’s wedding. Of that, I was positive.
For three days, I debated whether or not to call her. Unfortunately, I’d told Terry I would, and my professional ethics wouldn’t let me avoid it. Finally, I sat down in my office and dialed her number. After the fourth ring, the answering machine picked up. I listened to the greeting—she actually had a pleasant voice—and was preparing to leave a noncommittal message when I heard a click.
“Hello? I’m here! Don’t hang up.”
I heard a beep as she turned off the machine. “I’d like to speak to Lara Talbot, please.”
“This is Lara,” she said, panting slightly.
“Ms. Talbot, this is Mike Logan. I’m a…”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “The photographer. Daddy said you’d call. I thought it was pretty cool when he told me he’d hired you. I mean, I didn’t know you did weddings.”
“I don’t,” I said simply. “And I don’t even know if I can do yours. I’ve got a shoot scheduled in St. Maarten for the last week in June.”
“Oh, that’s no problem. The wedding’s the 8th of June.”
My heart sank. I still had one chance to get out of it. “Well, you see, I haven’t shot a wedding in a long time. I only agreed, tentatively, as a favor for a friend.” Some friend, I thought ruefully. “I’m a fashion photographer. Wouldn’t a professional wedding photographer be more suited to your needs?” I fervently hoped she’d see the wisdom of getting someone else, and let me off the hook.
“This close to the wedding, all the best wedding photographers are already booked,” she said.
Reluctantly, I had to agree with her.
“Besides,” she said cheerfully, “My friend Ginny is a photography nut. She says you’d be perfect, that your composition and framing, whatever that means, are fantastic.” Warming up to her flattery, she continued. “And she said your lighting and texture are exquisite.”
“You’ll have to thank your friend for me,” I said, feeling my stomach knot up as I realized I wasn’t going to get out of shooting the wedding.
“So, where do I send the check?”
“Hold on a second,” I said. “We need to meet first and get some details ironed out. And you need to sign a contract.”
“Sure. No problem. When?”
With a sigh, I flipped open my PDA and brought up my schedule.
Theresa and Steve were on a local shoot, doing some background work for a layout, and I had the studio to myself. When we were doing a shoot, the place was always bustling with people and activity. On days when things were quiet, they were really quiet. My studio was one big converted warehouse, with ceilings high enough to hang lights and backdrops from, and enough space for three separate galleries. It wasn’t as posh as some of the big studios in Midtown, but it was mine and mine alone.
Lara Talbot and her wedding planner were supposed to be in my office at three o’clock, and I was dreading the appointment.
Since I last talked to her, I’d had a chance to call one of my college classmates—one I kept up with better than Terry and I had—and asked her for some advice. She shot weddings professionally, and I wanted to ask her about the language for my contract, package and album prices, and a laundry list of other things.
Grace laughed richly when I told her about my predicament, but quickly sobered when she found out it was the Talbot-Rosenbaum wedding. She was both amazed and amused when she learned how much I was getting paid. It seems I might have overdone it a bit when I tried to shock Terry with the cost. She e-mailed me a copy of her contract, which I quickly modified to suit my own needs. She also sent me her current price list, but suggested I include a hefty number of things for free, since I was getting paid so handsomely.
When I asked Grace if she’d like to simply do the wedding in my stead, and pocket the entire fee, she told me she was booked that entire weekend with two weddings. She actually managed to sound sad about it. She did offer to do the albums for me at her wholesale cost, which would be a lifesaver. I took her out for dinner and drinks a few days later to show my appreciation. After meeting with her, I went home armed with a good overview of the current wedding photography business.
I’d even done some digging on Reuben Talbot, hoping to find out more about him, and anything about his daughter. Because of who he was, a quick search of the periodicals archive at the public library yielded a slew of information, most of it financial or business-related. I also managed to find photos of his first two daughters’ weddings. They were published in, of course, The Post. They were mostly what I expected, lavish affairs attended by the City’s upper crust. Not for the first time, I wondered what I’d gotten myself into.
Theresa and Steve had both snickered at all of my due diligence, but once again, my professional ethics wouldn’t let me do a half-assed job. I might not want to shoot the wedding, but I was going to do a good job.
My reverie was interrupted when the door buzzer sounded. Ms. Talbot and her planner were right on time, and I went to admit them. When I opened the door, I was confronted by a completely unexpected sight: a popinjay. That’s the only word that described the man standing in my studio doorway. He couldn’t have been an inch taller than five and a half feet, with a dark complexion, bleached hair with orange tips, and a million-dollar smile. I don’t shoot men’s fashion, but I recognized one of this year’s Jean-Paul Gaultier prêt à porter outfits. The problem I have with Gaultier as a designer is that he doesn’t just break the rules, he smashes them to pieces and then grinds them underfoot until they’re powder. I haven’t met anyone who looks good in a Gaultier outfit, and I work with a lot of good-looking people.
I quickly recovered my wits and stepped aside, motioning for the popinjay to enter. He was followed by a slightly pudgy young woman whom I assumed to be Lara Talbot. The resemblance to her father was clear, if unflattering. I was just shutting the heavy security door when the two of them… squeaked… and the door stopped moving.
“Hey! Back that thing up.”
The voice came from around the door. I jerked it open and a figure darted around it. At first, I thought it was some street person and started to tell them to get out. When she pulled off her hat and sunglasses, then stared at me defiantly, I had to suppress the urge to laugh.
“Were you trying to kill me with that thing?” she asked petulantly. “It must weigh a ton!” She put her hands on her hips and scowled at me. She looked like a little girl trying to convince me she was angry.
“Can I help you?” I asked, working to regain my composure.
“We have an appointment,” said the popinjay.
I turned to look at him, and then regarded the Talbot woman. “I know you two do.” Still smirking, I gazed coolly at the new girl. “But who are you?”
Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared.
“She’s Ms. Talbot,” the popinjay said, sounding scandalized.
I turned to regard the pudgy woman, confusion slowly replacing my amusement. “Then who are you?”
“My sister,” the slim brunette said acerbically.
Finally, my self-control failed and I laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“You’re Lara Talbot?” I asked, still chuckling.
She huffed and nodded.
“I thought she,” I said, pointing to the other woman, “was you. And I thought you were a street person.”
“A street person?!”
“We’re here to see Mr. Logan, the photographer,” the popinjay said, trying to salvage the situation.
“Right this way,” I said, leading them toward my office and trying to rein in my chuckling. Unfortunately, I was having too much fun and decided to throw decorum to the wind. What could they do, fire me? “You should have made your appointment for noon. Mr. Logan’s hardly ever drunk by noon.” I snickered silently at their scandalized whispers. “But you’re in luck.”
“And why is that?” the popinjay asked sardonically.
“Because he actually took a bath two…” I ticked off numbers on my fingers. “No, three days ago.”
I was still laughing when I led them into my office.
The popinjay, as it turned out, was the very flustered Silvio DePasquale, professional wedding planner. Aside from being badly but expensively dressed, he was gay. And I mean over-the-top gay. I work with a lot of gay guys, and they’ve never bothered me. I was sure Silvio was harmless as well, but I was having fun tweaking him.
The other woman was only a little overweight, but probably headed for another twenty pounds in the next few years. She was Mrs. Cohen, née Judy Talbot, and she strongly resembled her father, including his dour expression.
The grouchy brunette was, of course, Lara Talbot. She was an attractive young woman with long brunette hair and a slim, athletic build. It took an effort of will to keep my eyes away from her high, firm breasts. But her most striking features were captivating ice-blue eyes, and she speared me with a penetrating gaze.
I tore my eyes away from her, and when I seated them in my office, they seemed to calm down a little.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked, trying to smooth some of the ruffled feathers. “We have bottled water, still or sparkling, and soft drinks. Or, if you prefer, I can get you something with a bit more kick.”
They all asked for water. When I returned, they were whispering among themselves. I passed around the bottles and took a seat behind my desk.
“We’re here to see Mike Logan,” Silvio said.
I’d fully intended to become serious at this point, but at his effete arrogance, something inside me snapped. “You don’t wanna see him,” I said. “He’s a drunk.”
“He’s a very talented photographer,” Judy Cohen said testily.
I shook my head. “He’s overrated. Most days, he can’t tell one end of the camera from the other.”
“Please tell your boss we’re here to see him,” Silvio demanded.
“You guys would be better off just dealing with me. I’m the only one around here who knows what’s going on.” I leaned back and put my feet on the desk.
Lara Talbot regarded me shrewdly and the beginning of a grin flashed across her face. She quickly suppressed it.
“Where is Mr. Logan?” Silvio asked forcefully.
“I really have no idea.” I shrugged indifferently. “He likes to hang out at a massage parlor a couple of blocks from here. You should just deal with me.” I held Lara’s gaze and her expression softened a little as she realized how flustered I’d made Silvio and her sister.
“We’re here to see Mr. Logan,” Judy said.
I grinned at Lara and she finally smiled in reply.
“You’re looking at him, Judy,” Lara said calmly. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Logan.”
“Call me Mike,” I said.
While Silvio and Judy grumbled about my little ruse, Lara’s grin actually widened.
One of the reasons I’ve always been a good photographer is that I set people at ease and make them feel comfortable. It’s a talent I inherited from my grandfather, who never met a stranger.
I turned on the charm once everyone seemed to accept that I was indeed Mike Logan. Lara took no convincing at all. She quickly warmed to me, in spite of the misunderstanding at the door. I think she was enjoying watching me pique Silvio and her sister.
Eventually, Silvio became very friendly as well—once he finally decided I was who I said I was, that is. I could tell he was attracted to me, and I knew he must have been wondering if I were gay. A lot of guys in my line of work are gay. Not all of them, to be sure, but enough to make him wonder about me. I guess I’m an attractive guy, in my own way, to both men and women.
Judy Cohen was as dour as ever. Nothing I said or did seemed to satisfy her. I didn’t worry about it much, since Lara seemed to be calling the shots.
I had put together a portfolio that included the best of the pictures from my early wedding photographer days, as well as some of the more artistic fashion photos I’d taken. I’d also typed up a basic “package” for the wedding, which included a number of albums and additional prints.
I showed them my portfolio, and while Lara and Judy looked through it, Silvio read over the contract. Grace had explained to me that it was fairly standard, but Silvio read through it with an attention to detail that made me rethink his level of experience. He was all business as he asked a few pointed questions, but seemed satisfied with my answers.
When Silvio wasn’t asking me questions, I studied Lara Talbot. Unlike her sister, I couldn’t see a trace of her father in her features. She looked like an everyday twenty-something from a wealthy family: very pretty, tanned, stylish make-up and hair, and a well-toned body.
During my early days in the fashion industry, I’d done “glamour” shots of a lot of young women like her. Not quite attractive enough, tall enough, thin enough, or whatever enough to be models, but they wanted to feel like one for the day. At the time, I hadn’t enjoyed it all that much, but it paid the bills. And it got me out of shooting weddings full-time.
Finally, a fashion director at a major women’s magazine saw my work and hired me to do a shoot for a Vivienne Tam layout. Both the director and the designer were happy with the results and I started getting regular jobs with the magazine. As my reputation grew, design houses and other magazines wanted me to shoot layouts for them as well, so I stopped doing weddings and glamour shoots altogether.
Unlike the women I’d done glamour shots for, Lara Talbot was attractive enough to be a model. Unfortunately, at 5’6”, she wasn’t tall enough. With her striking eyes she could have easily done head shots or cosmetic work. And her body… well, her body was superb.
As I was gazing at her, she looked up suddenly and made eye contact with me. With a smile, I tried to downplay the fact that I was staring at her. But she was a smart girl and realized I’d been admiring her. She surprised me by sitting up a bit straighter, taking a deep breath, and then holding it. Doing so pushed her shapely breasts up and out. I arched an inquisitive eyebrow at her, but she merely smiled and returned her eyes to my portfolio.
Silvio looked up a few moments later and we made eye contact. I smiled in what I hoped was a friendly but non-inviting manner. He gave me an interested look, but I shook my head minutely. With his expression, he asked, “Are you sure?” I nodded firmly and he sighed theatrically, then rolled his eyes and grinned at me. I merely tilted my head to the side and shrugged by way of apologizing.
After they looked at the portfolio and Silvio pronounced the contract satisfactory, we started talking about schedules. From her purse, Lara withdrew a PDA and Silvio produced one from somewhere within the Gaultier travesty he wore. I took out the stylus for my own PDA, and we discussed the details for dates, times, and locations: formal bride’s photos (at my studio), informal couple photos (outdoors, at the Talbot’s lake house in Cold Spring Harbor), wedding party photos (at the wedding site, Huntington Country Club), the reception (also at the Country Club), and then dates for viewing the proofs. It took us more than thirty minutes just to work everything out, but by the time we’d finished, we were all satisfied. Except for Judy Cohen, that is, and I don’t think anything was going to satisfy her.
All we had left was for them to sign the contract and write me a check for the deposit. My friend Grace had suggested I ask for five thousand up front and bill them for the rest once they’d viewed the proofs. I was just about to have Lara sign the contract when she suggested I give them a tour of the studio. I could hardly say no, so we stood and walked out of my office.
I gave them the nickel tour, showing them all three galleries, both darkrooms, the dressing rooms, the whole nine yards. Finally, I showed them the “I love me” room, which had blow-ups of cover shots I’d done, photographs of me with famous designers and models, and some of the best examples of my work. I also had a big light table in there, as well as a couple of comfortable couches. I’d found it was a good place to highlight my work for prospective clients.
As soon as we walked into the room, I could tell they were impressed, even Judy. They all looked at the photos of me with famous people and I stepped forward to point out my favorites. I was standing between Silvio and Lara, just a little behind them, pointing to a photo of me and Stefano Gabbana, when I felt a hand on my crotch. The hand cupped my dick and squeezed gently. Silvio turned to me and smiled, and I diplomatically took a step back.
Once we’d looked at most of the pictures, I steered the three of them back to my office. Silvio hung back with me. I discreetly leaned down and politely but firmly told him I was straight. He looked confused for a moment.
“I got the message in your office,” he said, sotto voce.
“Just making sure,” I said quietly.
After that, Lara signed the contract and wrote me a check. We went over our list of dates and locations one final time, and they left. I still wasn’t looking forward to shooting the wedding, but at least Silvio and Lara had their act together.
With a few exceptions, wedding photography uses the same cameras that fashion photography does. I’m mostly a traditionalist, and use a variety of medium-format cameras. They’re all manual focus, so they’re mostly for posed shots. In addition to them, I use several professional 35mm auto-focus cameras for “quick work.”
I had been looking at a new Canon SLR digital camera, and decided that now was the time to buy. Since it was an 11-megapixel professional-grade camera, it cost considerably more than I’d gotten from Lara Talbot for her deposit, but it was something I needed to buy anyway. I picked up several extra CompactFlash cards for the Canon, and ordered all the film I’d need for the wedding.
The first photo session with Lara was in two weeks, and then the countdown to the wedding began. Theresa and Steve teased me for being so serious about the wedding shoot, but it was my professional reputation on the line, so I treated it like I’d treat any other shoot. You don’t get to be a sought-after photographer by doing sloppy work, I reminded them.
I was going over the final details for Lara Talbot’s bridal gown shoot when the door buzzer sounded. Since I’d only be dealing with one “model,” I let Steve have the day off. Theresa finished setting the light diffusers while I went to answer the door.
When I opened the security door, Silvio fairly rushed through, holding a cup carrier full of coffee and leading two other people. Without pausing, he handed me a cup—it smelled like cappuccino—and stood aside to allow the others inside. I showed the make-up artist and hair stylist to the larger of the two dressing rooms.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I said to Silvio as we watched the two women open their cases and set up.
“No problem, sweetie,” he said. He looked at his watch and then took the lid off his coffee. “The dress should be here in about fifteen minutes.” He took a sip and licked the foam from his upper lip. “And Lara is coming from the hair salon in about half an hour.”
The dress arrived a little late, but close enough to Silvio’s prediction that I was impressed by his organizational skills. Not surprisingly, the gown was a Vera Wang. I was a little surprised that not one, but three assistants came with it. When I saw the dress itself, I understood why. When you buy a one-of-a-kind $80,000 handmade Vera Wang wedding dress, they send a small army of people to make sure it fits perfectly.
Silvio explained that today’s shoot was essentially a dry run for the actual wedding day. The florist was even sending over a duplicate of the bridal bouquet. If anything was unsatisfactory—hair, make-up, dress, or flowers—Silvio would have two weeks to remedy the problem.
Lara herself arrived a few minutes earlier than predicted, carrying a small overnight bag. I was duly impressed by her hair. It was done up in an elegant style that accentuated her face and graceful neck.
She came through the door followed by her mother, and I quickly realized where Lara got her good looks. After being introduced to Mrs. Miriam Talbot, I also realized where Judy had gotten her personality—Mrs. Talbot was the stereotypical discontented Jewish mother. Fortunately for me, she immediately headed for Silvio and the dressmakers.
Lara smiled at me warmly as I showed her to the dressing room. The assistant from the hair salon was simply there to fix any last minute problems, so she sat quietly on the couch on the other side of the room. Lara settled into one of the chairs and let the make-up artist get to work. I chatted with Lara for a few minutes, giving her a quick overview of how the session would go. Mrs. Talbot came into the dressing room a few minutes later and practically glared me out of the room. Good riddance, I thought to myself as I closed the door on the way out.
In the smaller dressing room, Silvio and the three dressmakers were fussing over the dress. I took a good look at it, thought about Lara’s complexion and hair color, and went to choose a backdrop for the shoot. Theresa and I agreed that a mottled dark blue-grey would work best. The blue in the backdrop would make the white dress “pop,” but it was muted enough by the grey that it wouldn’t make Lara’s skin look jaundiced.
When Mrs. Talbot emerged from the dressing room, she immediately came over to me and objected to the backdrop. Silvio joined in and took my side. She didn’t like the dull color, she said. I patiently explained that the blue would make Lara’s dress whiter. She wanted something more “alive,” like a green backdrop. Green would make Lara’s skin look red and blotchy, I explained. How about a nice dark red, she countered. Theresa tittered quietly behind me, and Mrs. Talbot silenced her with an icy stare. While I had several red backgrounds, I didn’t recommend them. Red would give Lara’s skin a greenish cast.
I tried to explain colors and color opposites to Mrs. Talbot, but I think she would have found fault with any of my backdrops. The matter was finally settled by Lara, who came out of the dressing room when she heard us arguing. She told her mother that I was the skilled and highly paid professional and that she liked the blue-grey. Mrs. Talbot closed her mouth abruptly and I tried to hide my astonishment. It would seem that Lara had inherited her father’s personality, as well as his way of dealing with her mother. I was impressed.
After the row over the backdrop, the rest of the shoot went well. Once Lara had intervened, Mrs. Talbot seemed content to let me do my job. Silvio muttered about the “queen bitch” but was otherwise extremely helpful. He organized things with Lara, but let me run the shoot my way. To my surprise, I found that I liked working with him, and I once again revised my opinion of him up a few notches.
When we neared the end of the shoot, Silvio’s cell phone started ringing. Before he had a chance to answer it, Lara’s began to ring as well. Once she and Silvio were on the phone, Mrs. Talbot’s phone rang, too. Theresa and I looked at each other helplessly as they all pressed cell phones to their ears.
After they all hung up, they had a hurried discussion. There was a problem with the caterers, and Silvio needed to take care of it. Mrs. Talbot wanted to go with him, and I could tell he wasn’t very happy about it, but couldn’t really tell her no. With Silvio and Mrs. Talbot gone, the shoot wrapped up quickly.
I wanted to give the new digital camera a try, so I asked Lara if she minded a few more shots. She didn’t, so while Theresa was packaging the exposed film to send to the processing lab, I took out the Canon and hooked it up to my slaved flash system. I wanted to get some informal shots of Lara, so I had the dressmakers come in and adjust her bridal gown. While they did, I filled up two CompactFlash cards with pictures.
I told the make-up and hair people they could go, then the assistants from Vera Wang took Lara into the dressing room to remove the dress. Theresa wanted to leave early to pick up her kids from school, so I asked her to take the film to the lab on her way. As she was leaving, the dressmakers emerged with the bagged gown, and I showed them out.
When I returned to the dressing room, I found a weary but happy Lara Talbot. She was dressed in a silk robe that showed off her lithe figure, and I had a hard time keeping my eyes off her.
“So… did everyone else leave?” she asked.
I nodded and took the seat to her left. “That went surprisingly well,” I said.
“Yeah. Sorry about Mom,” she said. She turned toward me and crossed her legs. As she did, the hem of her robe rode up, showing me a healthy expanse of tanned thighs.
“It’s no problem,” I said.
“You handled her well,” she said. “Most people would’ve backed down.”
“I deal with a lot of people like her in the fashion world.”
Lara arched an eyebrow.
“People who are used to being in control, and don’t like it when someone doesn’t immediately do their bidding.”
“That’s Mom all right,” Lara said, and then laughed. When she did, her breasts brushed against the thin fabric of her robe, and my eyes were drawn to her stiff nipples.
It was hard to drag my thoughts back to the topic at hand, but I reluctantly did. “I like Silvio,” I said. “Although I didn’t at first.”
She cocked her head to the side.
“When I first met him, he came across as a lightweight,” I explained.
Lara grinned at me.
“Yeah, he is light in the loafers,” I said with an answering grin. “But he really knows his business.”
“I wouldn’t be able to do all this without him,” she said sincerely. She regarded me shrewdly and then her eyes flicked to my unadorned left ring finger. “You’re not gay, are you?”
I shook my head firmly. “Not in the least bit.”
“Does it bother you that Silvio is?”
“Not really. He got a little frisky at first, but once I set him straight, he’s been all business.”
I nodded, somewhat embarrassed that I’d mentioned it. “He was a little touchy-feely when we first met.”
She looked at me curiously.
“He grabbed my crotch,” I explained.
Lara laughed musically and leaned forward. “That wasn’t him,” she said. Then she gave me a hungry look. “That was me.”
She nodded. “I wanted to check out your package.”
“And?” I shifted slightly as my dick began to swell.
“Very nice.” She licked her lips, her eyes shining with lust.
“But what about your fiancé?”
“What about him?” she asked indifferently. “He’s got this stupid idea in his head that he’s not going to have sex with me until we’re married.”
“You mean you haven’t…?”
“Of course I have. Just not since he proposed.”
“Besides,” she said, “Howie’s not all that interested in sex. Not like I am.” She practically purred.
“Then why’re you marrying him?”
“Because he’s a doctor, he’s from the right family, and he’s Jewish.” She stood up and walked toward me, the robe parting as her legs moved, giving me delightful glimpses of her upper thighs. “But let’s not talk about him.”
“So… What would you like to talk about?” Like I didn’t know.
She was standing close enough that I could smell her perfume and feel her body heat. I didn’t know if this was a weird game or not, so I let her make the first move. She had no reservations about doing so, and put her hands on my thighs. When she started running them toward my crotch, I pulled her closer. As her hands closed over the growing bulge in my lap, I reached for the belt holding her robe closed.
“Oh, my,” she said, pursing her lips. “What have we here?”
“Would you like to see?”
She gave me a sultry nod.
“Me first,” I said.
I pulled the silk belt and the robe fell open, revealing her perfect body. Her stomach was flat from hours in the gym, and her breasts were soft, round swells—about a B-cup, I decided. Her long nipples were so hard that the reddish areolas had completely puckered, and I reached up to tweak them. She shimmied, and the robe slipped from her shoulders, leaving her clad only in white lace panties.
“My turn,” she said, her hands returning to knead my growing erection.
I stood up, pushing the chair back as I did. Lara reached for my belt, and I let her open it for me. After she unfastened it, she quickly lowered my zipper. I was only semi-erect, but she gasped when she reached inside my shorts.
“Oh, my God. How big is this thing?” Far from being scared, she looked even more turned on.
“Why don’t you take it out and see?”
She dropped to her knees and dragged my jeans and shorts down over my ass. When my cock bounced free, she actually gasped. She gripped me softly, lovingly, and began to stroke.
“How big does it get?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I’ve never measured it.” In truth, I hadn’t. But virtually every woman I’d been with since the tenth grade had. I began to get harder as Lara continued to stroke me. She seemed mesmerized by the sight of my growing cock.
“It’s got to be nine inches,” she said reverently.
“A little less,” I admitted.
“Not much less.”
I began to unbutton my shirt as she closed her lips around my glans. Then she opened wide and swallowed about half my length, caressing the underside with her tongue. When I reached full erection, she had to pull back a little because her mouth was too small. That didn’t stop her from lavishing attention on me.
She wrapped her left hand around the base of my shaft and started pumping me as she sucked the first few inches. I pushed my pants down as far as I could, and then reached for her nipples. She moaned when I began tugging on them.
I straightened and removed my shirt, tossing it behind me blindly. When I pulled her off my dick, she actually groaned. I smiled to myself and helped her to her feet. I kicked off my shoes and then pushed my jeans and shorts the rest of the way down. Her hands automatically went to my dick as I stood back up, and I chuckled softly.
I pushed her toward the couch and quickly stripped off my socks as I followed behind her. I sat down and pulled her to me, putting my hands on her hips. I gently kissed the junction of her thighs and inhaled the scent of her arousal. When I leaned forward and softly kissed her lace-covered crotch, I discovered that her panties were practically drenched.
She moaned softly as I pulled the elastic of her waistband out and slowly lowered her panties. I kissed her again when I revealed her smooth-shaven pussy. Her labia were already puffy and turning pink, and I smiled to myself when she shuddered as the cool air bathed her sex.
I wanted to bury my face in her moist pussy, but she had other ideas. She pushed my head back and sank to her knees between my legs. I leaned back, scooted my hips forward, and simply enjoyed her rapt expression. A lot of women have been a little intimidated by my size, but Lara seemed to be excited by it. With wide, lust-glazed eyes, she hungrily studied my cock.
At last, she leaned forward, wrapped both hands around my girth, and kissed the tip. She could only take about half my length in her mouth, but she sucked and licked what she could get her lips around. Her fist pumped up and down, and she soon had me on the brink of orgasm.
I warned her that I was close to coming and she redoubled her pace. She locked her lips around the glans as the first spurt coated her tongue. She kept pumping me and swallowing, moaning as she did.
She caressed the head with soft licks and then began kissing down my shaft. For a few minutes, I let her smother my cock with kisses and soft nips. Finally, I pulled her up and had her lie on the couch.
I spread her legs and lowered my lips to her smooth pussy, licking and sucking her inner labia. She bucked her hips against me, and my cheeks were soon covered with her juices. I wrapped my lips around her clit and flicked it with my tongue, making her shudder.
“Oh, God,” she gasped. “Fuck me.”
I grinned and sucked gently on the little bundle of nerves under my tongue.
She quivered and put her hands on my head. “I want to come with your cock inside me.”
I looked up her smooth stomach and teased her with my lower lip.
“Please fuck me,” she begged. “Please.”
I kissed her clit one final time and began to stand up. “Let me get a condom. I’ve got some in my office.”
She quickly shook her head and looked at me with a wild expression. “I’m on the pill. Just fuck me.” Her eyes dropped to my resurgent cock and she licked her lips.
I knelt between her spread legs and grasped my shaft, aiming it at her opening. She groaned when I moved the head over her slippery lips, teasing her. She humped her hips against me, trying to force my cock into her pussy. As I slid forward, she gasped and shut her eyes tightly. Her pussy was incredibly tight, so I started to pull back.
“Keep going,” she said urgently. “I want to feel you inside me.”
Her nostrils flared as I pushed forward again. I worked my cock back and forth in her channel, and soon had almost half my length inside her. She started pinching and rolling her nipples, and urged me on by bucking her hips against me. I pressed forward and sank another inch into her steamy depths.
It took a while, but I finally buried my entire cock in her pussy. I started thrusting slowly, my glans bumping against her cervix each time I bottomed out. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and her skin was flushed, but she begged me to fuck her faster. I put my hands on her thighs and obliged her.
When I ground my hips against her pubic bone, she started coming. Her belly heaved and her pussy gripped me almost painfully. I pulled out once, then buried my cock to the root and stopped moving.
“Keep fucking me!” she screamed, raking her nails along my forearms. “Fuck me hard.”
I pulled my hips back and slammed into her. She writhed against me as I pounded into her, her stomach rippling and quivering as she came. I felt my own orgasm building, and quickened my pace. Her smooth pussy lips pulled at me each time I withdrew, and then gripped me snugly as I thrust back into her. With a final grunt, I drove into her one last time and my cock swelled further. When she felt my come bathing her insides, Lara screamed and thrashed her head. She came again, wildly, and locked her legs around my back, holding me close.
“Oh, my God,” she hoarsely whispered over and over, her eyes clamped shut.
I swallowed hard and licked my lips, enjoying the aftershocks as her pussy spasmed around my cock. We were panting from our exertions and covered with a sheen of sweat, but she smiled languidly as I idly rubbed her thighs.
Afterward, we showered together in the dressing room bathroom. Her phone was ringing as we got out of the stall, and she rushed to answer it. It was Silvio, reporting on the catering problem. While she talked, I slowly stroked my cock, teasing her with it. She dropped to her knees, held the phone away from her mouth, and began licking and sucking the head.
She talked on the phone for about five minutes, taking her lips off my cock only long enough to answer Silvio’s questions. When she was done, she flipped the phone closed and took as much of me in her mouth as she could. She bobbed her head back and forth for a few minutes and then pulled off me.
“I don’t want to get all sweaty again,” she said. “Just jerk off and I’ll swallow when you come.”
Despite what she said, she started playing with herself a few minutes later. While I stroked myself, she jammed her fingers in her pussy and frantically rubbed her clit. When I told her my climax was approaching, she locked her lips around the head of my cock. She came almost as soon as the first spurts of my semen washed over her tongue.
After we both recovered a little, I helped her to her feet and she grinned at me tiredly. I keep a small toiletries kit in my office and went to get it. When I returned, I was still tumescent, and Lara looked at my dick with undisguised lust.
“Can you get hard again?” she asked incredulously.
“Probably,” I said, stroking myself with my free hand. “But I don’t think I’ll come again very quickly.”
She whimpered softly and reached for me. She started stroking me, but as soon as I reached complete hardness, her phone rang. As she talked—to Judy—she leaned against the counter and pulled me between her legs. She rubbed the tip of my cock against her slit, spreading her moisture.
Lara kept right on talking as she hooked one leg around my ass and pulled me against her. I slid into her pussy a little easier, but she was still fairly tight. Her voice faltered when I sank into her, but she quickly made an excuse and kept talking. I started slowly thrusting into her, careful not to jar her lest she cry out.
“Oh, God,” she said, after she hung up the phone. “You’re so fucking big.”
I grinned salaciously and nodded.
She merely closed her eyes and concentrated on the feeling of fullness in her pussy. I lifted her onto the counter and began thrusting a little quicker. When her phone rang again, she rolled her eyes, but I merely grinned and slowed my pace.
She flipped open her phone and put it to her ear. It was her fiancé. I sank into her completely and stopped moving, but she hastily gestured for me to continue. A flush spread over her chest and neck, and I could tell by the way her pussy gripped me that she was close to her release. But she patiently explained to “Howard” that she was still at the photographer’s, and that “something had come up.” She grinned at me and then explained to him that we were going over some last-minute details for the informal photo session.
When she got off the phone with him, she pulled me close and told me to fuck her hard and fast. She climaxed quickly and clutched at me as her orgasm washed over her. I was pumping away when her phone rang again. It was her mother, and I felt myself soften a little when I thought about the perpetually dissatisfied Mrs. Talbot. Instead of letting myself go soft, I concentrated on gently teasing Lara’s pointed nipples.
The phone conversation was thankfully short. Lara spent most of it telling her mother that Silvio knew what he was doing, and she should let him do his job. She had barely closed the phone when she locked her ankles around my hips and started humping against me. I resumed thrusting, and felt my own orgasm welling up. Finally, I buried myself in her pussy and felt the first spurts of semen coursing up my shaft. I closed my eyes, gripped her hips, and held my cock inside her until my orgasm subsided.
“Howie probably won’t even notice,” Lara said, still panting, “when I don’t try to get him to fuck me tonight.”
I made a noncommittal noise and clenched my buttocks, enjoying the feel of her tight channel.
“I need to rinse off,” she said. “I’ve got to meet Howie for dinner.”
I pulled back and grinned at her.
She slapped my chest playfully. “I’m going to walk funny all day tomorrow,” she said. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “But it was worth it.”
She looked completely sated, and I nodded happily.
We stepped into the shower to rinse off, and while Lara dried her hair and applied fresh make-up, I picked up our clothes from the dressing room. We dressed quickly and I escorted her to the door. Her phone was ringing again as she got in her car. I turned off the last of the studio lights and tidied up the dressing room and my office. Afterward, I picked up Chinese takeout on the way to my apartment.
The informal couple’s photo session was scheduled for five days later. Howard had to be at the hospital by nine in the morning, and Lara wanted the photos taken right after sunrise, so I had a very early morning ahead of me.
I didn’t know what to expect from Lara, and I really didn’t know what I hoped for. She seemed to enjoy my dick, and I certainly enjoyed her tight and well-toned body, but she was practically a married woman. Also, it’s hard to respect a guy when his fiancée is fucking you. It was a dangerous attitude for me to have, so I tightly controlled it.
Instead of worrying about what might happen with Lara, I concentrated on doing my job. I was still getting paid a lot of money to take pictures, and I wanted to do my best. I wasn’t very enthusiastic about shooting the wedding itself, but I was gradually warming to the idea.
Silvio called the night before the early morning shoot. He wanted to make sure I had directions to the Talbot house. I finished packing my gear and loaded the Tahoe before I went home for the night. Since it would be a simple shoot, I hadn’t asked either of my assistants to accompany me. I wouldn’t really need them, because I planned to use 35mm and the Canon digital. With both types of camera, I could rapidly load new film myself.
By five in the morning, I was driving up the LIE toward Cold Spring Harbor. The drive took about an hour, since most of the traffic was headed into the City. The “lake house” was actually a three-thousand square-foot guest house, set about a half-mile from the main Talbot house. The lake was more of a large duck pond, but I could see why Lara wanted the pictures taken here—it was very picturesque.
When I pulled up to the house, I parked next to a black Mercedes with MD plates. Lara and Howie—Howard, I mentally admonished myself—came out of the house. He was my age, and dressed in a stylish shirt and jeans. Lara wore an attractive sleeveless dress and looked fantastic. She introduced me to Howard and I shook his hand, mentally sizing him up. He seemed like a nice enough guy, basically an average Jewish urologist from a wealthy Long Island family.
While we were talking about places to shoot, I opened the back of the Tahoe and took out one of my cameras. I wanted to take a look around the property before we got started, and it helped if I had a viewfinder to frame things. I knew I’d have good natural lighting, but I wanted to scout locations before the sun got too high. Lara offered to show me around while Howard waited for Silvio to arrive.
She was perfectly proper as she gave me a tour of the house and verdant grounds, and I suspected that the encounter at my studio was a one-shot deal. I was fine with that. After all, I had a job to do. Once I’d gotten a good look at the lake and surrounding area, Lara and I walked back toward the driveway.
When we returned, Silvio was just driving up. He got out of his car holding a cup carrier full of what I suspected were cappuccinos. He was also dressed in what I jokingly refer to as the Gay Man’s Dating Uniform: black leather pants and a tight black short-sleeved shirt. He passed around coffee and then rolled his eyes at me tiredly.
We started shooting about fifteen minutes later, and things went smoothly. I had Lara and Howard pose together at five or six different spots around the lake. In an hour, I took sixty color and another forty-eight black and white photos.
By seven thirty, Howard was looking at his watch. I finished the last roll of color and he announced he had to leave. We walked back around to the driveway, where I shook his hand and Lara kissed him goodbye. Silvio was parked behind the Mercedes, and hastily said his goodbyes before getting into his car. He yawned, waved, and then headed back toward the main road. Howard didn’t even wave as he backed out and followed Silvio’s Acura.
Lara and I were left standing there, so I took out the Canon. “You want to get some digital shots of just you?” I asked her.
She shook her head and her eyes dropped to my crotch.
I arched an eyebrow at her.
When she licked her lips and started walking toward me, I put the cameras back in their travel bag and closed the back of the Tahoe. I turned around and Lara pressed herself against me, her hand automatically going to my crotch.
I quickly grew hard and she practically dragged me into the house. Once inside, we immediately headed for her bedroom, shedding clothes as we went. In the landing at the bottom of the stairs, she put her arms around my neck, held herself up, and wrapped her legs around my waist. She ground her pussy against my stomach, and I simply carried her the rest of the way up the stairs.
In her bedroom, I set her on the bed and spread her legs. I took a moment to admire her baby-smooth pussy, but she squirmed impatiently, so I lowered my mouth to her sex. Her labia were already plump and moist with lubrication, but I took my time, teasing her with my lips and tongue. She ran her fingers through my hair and impatiently pulled me against her. I smiled to myself and started licking the folds between her inner and outer lips.
She bucked her hips against my face when I circled her clit with my tongue, but I didn’t touch it directly. I teased up under the hood for a moment, and she writhed beneath me. When I finally put my lips around the pearl of nerves, she hissed and clutched my head, firmly holding me in place.
I continued to tease and lick her clit, never touching it directly. She whimpered and began to tremble when I thrust two fingers into her pussy. When I started sucking her clit, she had a gasping, shuddering orgasm and then begged me to fuck her.
I knelt between her hips and slowly lubricated the head of my dick with her juices. She closed her eyes when I pushed forward and spread her open with my glans. I eased forward some more, and she moaned softly, arching her back in pleasure. As with the first time, it took some work to get my cock all the way inside her, but she finally took every last inch. When my pubic hair was pressed against her smooth pussy, she wrapped her legs around me and started rocking her hips.
I moved slowly at first, but as she grew accustomed to my girth, she urged me to fuck her harder and faster. She pulled her knees back and spread herself wide open for me. I eagerly obliged her, pounding into her smooth channel. Her flush deepened and I could tell she was close to her release. When she climaxed, I buried my cock inside her and felt my own floodgates burst.
Afterward, I was still very hard inside her, so I rolled onto my back, pulling her on top of me. She collapsed against my chest, and I ran my fingers along her spine. When she recovered enough to sit up, she was amazed that I was still hard. She took advantage of my erection and started slowly grinding her hips against my cock.
I knew I wasn’t going to come again soon, so I played with her nipples, gently twisting and pulling them. I ran my hands down her flanks and felt her belly flutter with the first spasms of her climax. She arched her back and cried out as orgasmic pleasure suffused her senses. Her pussy gripped me firmly, and I felt a rush of moisture at the base of my cock.
She looked at me with hooded eyes and smiled drunkenly. I put my hands on her hips and started gently thrusting inside her, but she quickly put her hand on my stomach and stopped me.
“I can’t,” she said, panting. “I’m too sensitive down there.”
I nodded and helped ease her off my erection. She closed her eyes and shuddered as my length slowly emerged from within her. Instead of lying down next to me, she curled up between my legs and reverently grasped my rigid manhood. She wrapped one hand around my shaft, and gently kneaded my balls with the other.
As Lara slowly cleaned our combined juices from my cock, she pumped her fist up and down, bringing me closer to orgasm. When she took the crown into her mouth, I felt the impending rush of my release. My muscles tensed, and then the first blast of semen shot from my cock. She sucked and swallowed as my seed gushed over her tongue. When my orgasm finally subsided, she crawled up my body and collapsed next to me.
I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes, Lara was gone. I looked at the unfamiliar surroundings, and realized I hadn’t been dreaming. When I sat up, I looked into beautiful ice-blue eyes as she walked into the room. She sat on the edge of the bed and then scooted toward me. From within a white paper deli bag, she pulled two cream cheese and lox bagels. When I saw them, I realized how famished I was.
Lara grinned at my hungry expression and handed me one of the bagels.
“Howie brought these,” she said. “But we didn’t get a chance to eat before you got here.”
I stretched out on her rumpled bed and took a bite. She stretched out as well, and I took the opportunity to once again admire her graceful lines.
“So this is where you live?” I asked, looking at the nicely furnished room for the first time. Through a set of large French doors, I had a great view of the lake, but my eyes were drawn back to Lara’s nude figure.
She nodded. “Yeah. Daddy didn’t want me to get an apartment in the City, so I’m living here until after the wedding. Then I’m going to move into Howie’s apartment.”
“In the City. His family owns an apartment on the Upper East Side.”
“Very posh,” I said.
“You mind if I ask what’s going on between us?”
She cocked her head to the side.
“I mean, I enjoy this, don’t get me wrong,” I said, gesturing at her body. “But what’s going on?”
She shrugged. “Howie doesn’t really like sex. Even before he proposed to me, I was lucky to get it once every couple of weeks.”
I sensed there was something else. “And?”
She actually blushed. “Well… Howie’s just average.”
She looked pointedly at my dick.
“He’s a nice enough guy in most other ways. Like, he’s rich, and pretty good looking, and he’s a doctor. But he just doesn’t get me hot. Not like you do, at least.”
“Then why marry him?”
She looked a little shocked.
“I mean, I’m not asking you to run away with me or anything,” I said hastily.
“I didn’t think you were,” she said. “‘Why marry him?’ Because he’s rich, and pretty good looking, and he’s a doctor.”
It seemed obvious enough to her, but I wasn’t convinced.
“I guess he’ll make a good father too,” she said.
“He will,” she said with certainty.
“So what happens with me?”
“I was hoping you’d fuck me again, before I have to meet the florist. Maybe a couple of times.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. I’m not just gonna settle down with Howie, if that’s what you’re asking. I mean, I’m not marrying him because I love him.”
“So you want to marry him and keep fucking me? Is that it?”
She reached for my flaccid penis and stroked it suggestively. “Something like that.”
“I’m not looking to be a kept man.”
“Who wants to keep you?” she said quickly. “I just want to fuck you.”
“So I’m a boy toy?”
She squeezed my growing erection. “Hardly a boy.”
“You know what I mean. I’m just gonna be a booty call?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, if that’s okay with you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said with a smile.
“Let me give you a little incentive,” she said, sliding down the bed and capturing the tip of my dick with her tongue.
We spent the rest of the morning licking, fucking, and sucking ourselves silly. We showered together, but had to rush because Lara had an appointment with the florist. I spent most of the drive back to the City trying to decide if I wanted to play fuck-toy for a poor little rich girl (who just happened to like big dicks, and could take all of mine).
Due in large part to Silvio’s organizational genius, the wedding went off without a hitch. Steve was with me for the wedding party shots, loading the camera and handling the off-camera flash, while Theresa circulated and captured more candid scenes with a 35mm camera. For the reception itself, we all used 35mm cameras and circulated among the guests. In all, we shot more than three thousand pictures during the wedding and reception.
The day after the wedding, Dr. and Mrs. Howard Rosenbaum went on a three-week honeymoon to Tahiti and Bora Bora. I went on my fashion shoot to St. Maarten and returned a week later, tanned but exhausted. When I got back to the studio, I learned that the Talbot and Rosenbaum families had ordered more than ten thousand dollars in additional picture packages and albums.
I also had three messages from Silvio, each one a request to shoot a different wedding. When I talked to him, he told me no one balked at my fifteen-thousand-dollar price-tag. I wanted to keep up my fashion work, but at nearly twenty-five thousand dollars per wedding, the temptation was tremendous. Even with the costs of my time, my assistants, film, processing, and everything else, the profit would be substantial.
I might have to hire another assistant to handle the workload, but I figured I could easily do eight to ten weddings a year and still do layouts for the magazines and design houses.
After a quick check of my schedule, I called Silvio and agreed to do the three weddings. He said that if I wanted the work, he knew of at least two more he could book for me. With Silvio’s organizational skills, I didn’t anticipate any problems.
A few days later, I received a nice handwritten card from Howard and Lara Rosenbaum, thanking me for helping make their wedding special. In addition to the card, there was a personal note from Lara with her cell phone number.
I decided to give her a call.