We get back to the truck. He wants me again to stand by the sapling at the edge of the pull-off. He says something about wishing I had other shoes. I know he means high heels, so out of place in the forest, but that’s his whole idea.
“You’re not taking pictures anyway,” I call out, “so what’s it matter?” I figure that In the Photoshop of his mind, he can replace my wedge sandals with cherry-red, five-inch heels.
Soon Jameson comes to stand behind me, and for a time we watch together the nature we’re in. A breeze picks up and makes the leaves rustle. The sun’s rays, filtered by the aspen, dance along the ground. He wraps his arm around my bare waist, and I reach my hand up behind his neck, leaning my head back against his chest. This is the moment I have wanted — us both together in nature that we share, his dominant body against my submissive nakedness, our union a communion in a forest of hushed silence.
A car approaches, then passes without slowing, the driver probably not seeing us in the rear view.
Jameson slides his hand up my midriff and cups my right breast, letting it pool in his palm. I close my eyes, swooning in the moment. He slides my nipple between two fingers, and squeezes. As always when I’m aroused, I think of clever things to say, but this time I don’t speak, not wanting to pierce the quiet.
His other hand slides down to my pale and shaved vulva, then between my legs to my pussy. There, he fingers my lips, already extended and hungry, making me need to squirm, but I don’t, instead holding still so his fingers won’t leave me.
I realize I am holding my breath. I exhale slowly, and it tells Jameson, if his fingers hadn’t told him already, how his touching affects me.
His index finger collects some of my wet, and with it slowly paints the outer ridges of my labia. The breezes immediately cool them, and I sigh as the air evaporates my ooze from them, just making me even more puddled in between.
Another car sounds from a distance. It seems to approach from the south. Jameson leaves me, disengaging, walking back to his truck, as I remain in plain view and puffy arousal. I resist the urge to hide and simply stand without covering myself.
Indeed, the car appears, slows. And then it stops.
I catch my breath.
It parks behind Jameson’s truck. A heavy-set man in jeans and a black tee gets out.
“How’s it goin’?” he asks.
“Great day for a photoshoot,” Jameson says.
“Yep, looks like,” the man says. He looks across the pullout to the alcove where I am standing. From that distance, he can see my body, but not my blushing.
“Yes,” Jameson says. “Waiting for the sun to find an angle.”
“You have the model for it,” the man says. “Pretty one.”
“Here,” Jameson tilts his head toward me. “Let me introduce you.”
The men walk my way. There is no way to hide or cover myself. I decide to stand full on and try to maintain my dignity.
“This is Shannon,” Jameson says, like the stranger is a friend of a friend at Thanksgiving.
The stranger says “Good to meet you” — polite but delivered with a shit-faced grin.
I nod to him. I don’t know what to say, sure that Emily Post never had advice for proper etiquette in this situation. I put on a thin smile but say nothing, pretending to be a model.
But a real model would have a robe. There is no robe anywhere in sight, and the stranger, I’m sure, sees through the sham. Why it matters I do not know. Whether nature model or slave girl, I am still nude, all flesh and curves before a stranger’s eyes. He knows this too, seeing me for what I am — a woman naked in the forest for strangers in cars.
Now the stranger’s eyes shift into a different awareness of me, a sensing of my humiliation. I redden, which he also notices with a smirk and which makes me blush more deeply. Humiliation begets more humiliation.
Nothing’s been said, but he knows exactly what I am.
The stranger and Jameson walk back to the truck. I hear patches of their conversation. “Pretty girl,” the stranger says, “nice boobs,” and then he adds with a chuckle, “Maybe I can help.”
“Well, here’s the kind of photo I was trying to get…” Jameson says to him, as their voices fade, falling out of hearing range.
The men have pulled a length of chain out of the truck, along with other items. They walk back to me at the edge of the woods.
They have quickly figured out how to work in tandem. Jameson throws the length of heavy chain over a branch of the tree. The stranger holds a pair of cuffs and now wraps them around my wrists. Jameson attaches one end of the chain to my cuffs, so my wrists are linked together. The stranger pulls the other end of the chain until my arms are extended above my head, then wrapping the chain tightly around the tree trunk to secure it.
The two men step back and look at me now chained naked and pale to a tree branch overhead. My head is tilted down and to the side as I look away, flushed in my humiliation.
The men walk back to the camera and tripod, talking about me, about getting the right shot, about whether to take the camera off the tripod and move closer, about how this should or shouldn’t be done — they way men can discuss the theory of something for hours when simply trying it would take just two minutes.
I hear Jameson giving the stranger instructions. “It will be timing,” he says to the man, “you’ll be behind her, touching her, bringing her along… ”
They moved the tripod closer, and Jameson pretended to adjust it, directing the man to step behind me. “Let’s start,” he says.
The man positions himself behind me and inches close, then tight. I feel the buckle of his belt cold and hard against the small of my back.
His hands reach around me and cup my breasts.
I do not resist, but I regret the violation. Not the violation of me but the violation of nature, my worship interrupted. I don’t want this chunky man stranger to be touching me. I want Jameson. With him, it was perfect for a few moments, the two of us in a wedding of nature. Why now this? Why this stranger?
Jameson stands behind the camera that he cannot operate, but he isn’t pretending to, not looking through the viewfinder. He’s just watching the stranger fondle me.
Soon the man slides one hand down, across my waist and below into the paleness of my sex. He cups my vulva, and I catch my breath.
His fingers feel rough as they slide along my labia. I feel myself swelling there, opening, my pussy becoming wide and wet. My earlier distress that it’s a stranger touching me fades away until it no longer matters. The stranger, oddly patient, now nestles his finger length-wise between my lips below, which coat him with my ooze.
In such a short time, I have gone from a wish that this would not happen to a wish that it would, and I am now complicit in the act with a man I don’t know. I writhe in my wrist constraints above my head, but it isn’t any attempt to get away, rather the natural response of my flesh, coiling and uncoiling within the pleasure. Below, my flesh curls around the man’s hand.
He plunges a thick coarse finger into my cunt. I squeal.
It feels scratchy, but not such that it hurts, just making me all the more aware of the foreigner inside my vagina.
His thumb dips into my wet and then graces my clit, and I breathe sharply.
This becomes a rhythm as his finger slides in and out of my pussy and his thumb touches and retouches my clit. His other hand continues its feel of my breast with soft squeezes. He’s a one-man band, creating a kind of forest music without sound — my huffy breaths and occasional sighs the simple percussion.
I close my eyes and lose track of time. It becomes a kind of heaven I didn’t imagine, maybe even a paradise I didn’t want, but now an eden I deeply craved. I want this to be over and yet never end.
He brings my body to an edge, and I feel like I’m at the brim of a cliff and about to fall into the depths of phantom canyon. I open my eyes, but see only a blur as I am dizzy from my swoon.
The stranger steps up his tempo, and I am now breathing faster and faster, uttering a moan once each cycle.
It continues, my moans becoming more frequent and breathier.
Suddenly, his finger slows its pumping in and out of me, his thumb easing its pace but now lingering longer when it slides across my clit — like a lyrical, slow movement of a symphony, an achingly beautiful largo.
And then he stops altogether. It is as if his strumming fingers hand off the melody to my flesh, my spasming curves and folds continuing the tune onward into a musical climax.
I step off the edge and soar into the canyon below. My body shudders visibly, my head falls back.
The stranger quickly steps away. Out of the shot.
Jameson clicks the shutter.
I hang there, my body limp, as Jameson thanks the stranger. They talk in words I hear only as faint murmurs. They say goodbye, and the man drives off, having made himself a memory in me never to be forgotten.
Jameson leaves me there, my body used, as he collects the camera and tripod and other items and stows them in the truck.
In time, he unshackles me, and I, shakily, find my footing. I put on my clothes.
He shows me the image in the viewfinder of the SLR.
The stranger is not in the picture. I am alone in the thick of my orgasm, my head tossed back in the throes of my coming, my pussy catching a ray of sunlight glistening, and parts of my body slightly blurred by my spasms.
And it is more. The blur of my orgasm is pitched against the backdrop of aspen in sharp focus, as if the forest, all of nature, stopped at once for my moment of ecstasy. Finally, after a whole day of yearning, I literally became one with nature
It, somehow, against all odds, is a perfect picture.
I turn to Jameson and say, “You take one picture in your whole damn life, and this is the one?”
In the truck on the way home, Jameson says, “The man is named George.” He says it as if I want to know, but I would rather the memory be less specific than that.
We ride in silence.
Jameson says, “George is an old army buddy of mine.”