Play Nice

A word about the original writing found on this site

Unless otherwise noted, these are my words, ideas, thoughts and feelings. If you like them great, if you don't that's fine too.

You're welcome to quote my writing, but please make sure you include a link back to the page from which you got the material.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.
Creative Commons License

Thanks,
Patricia

Briefly

[This is where the summary would go if I'd bothered to write one.]

« Week 106Before We Get Started: A Practical Memoir of the Writer's Life »
Photo Shoot

Crushed velvet, deep red, draped strategically in voluminous folds across her body. She shifts to the left and a breast is revealed, the nipple puckered from the cold. He lifts his head from the camera and stares at the scene before him. Impatient, he adjusts the lights shining down on the bed.

“Are we almost done?” she asks. “The kids get home by 4:30 and I promised I’d have cookies ready for them.”

Exasperated, he angrily shakes his head and dismisses her with a flick of his wrist. She sighs and cranes her neck to look at the clock behind the room divider.

“Stop moving,” he commands. “I’ll have to redress you and you won’t get out of here on time.”

She closes her eyes and daydreams about being on a beach, reading a book. How boring am I, she thinks. She furrows her brow and tries harder to come up with more exotic locations and situations.

“Lean back and lift your right leg,” he says. With her eyes still closed she does as instructed.

“No, no, no. Concentrate!” The bed sinks underneath his weight as he takes over the job of moving her body. His hands are clammy as usual. She vaguely remembers a time, years ago, when she was slightly repulsed by his touch. But his touch was so asexual that she soon overcame the revulsion. That her nude body didn’t seem to excite him in any way should have bothered her perhaps, but it made the job easier. He treated her as he would treat a mannequin. At times she thought he’d prefer that more. At least a mannequin wouldn’t ask to leave early because of family commitments, a mannequin wouldn’t call off a shoot because of cramps.

She opens her eyes to watch him pull the velvet across one shoulder and delicately frame the exposed breast. His hands move down her body, tucking and stretching material along the way until he reaches her hips. He leans back and peruses his work. She closes her eyes again and drops her head back onto the silk covered pillow. While she concentrates on her breathing, in and out, slow and deep, he bunches the material between her legs, exposing her hips. His hands move down her thighs to her knees where, with light pressure, he splays her legs open. She is familiar with this pose. She’s seen it in magazines a lot and she often wonders what it is about it that is so titillating.

She doesn’t see it. But she doesn’t think she is particularly alluring so maybe she isn’t meant to see it.

“There,” he says. “Don’t move.”

She barely hears him, so lost in herself she is. She no longer wastes her time trying to figure out if this is wrong or crazy. All she knowsis that it pays the bills. And bills she has plenty of. It seems like every other day the kids need new shoes, or clothes. Braces were in the near future. The dentist had told her that last week. She’d thought about giving all of this up but where else, how else is she going to get things done and still be home in time to bake cookies?

The soft whir of the camera serves as white noise as she tries to drive away thoughts of braces and utility bills. Think sexy, she admonishes herself. Think hot.

“Yeah, that’s it. Good, good. Just a couple of more and we’ll be done here.”

[13]

Published 02/13/05 in Writing • | Views: 1845 times | Print

0 Comments & Trackbacks

Post a comment

Name:

Email::

URL::

Smileys



First time commenting? Please read the disclaimer. Thanks.

Remember me

Subscribe to comments?

Submit the word you see below:


Love it live.
Your comment will appear below as you type.