The Lost Photo

by Matt Triewly

Sunday morning. Lazy Sunday morning. Early summer. Just warming up.

She was sat there. In the old rocking chair by the window. Naked. Smoking a cigarette. Silent. Just thinking. But I don’t know what about. Enigmatic. Impossible to fathom. That’s what she was at times. Difficult too. Yeah, she could be… difficult.

She intrigued me though. And I loved her. Lusted for her. Lusted for her slim, well-proportioned and thirty-four-year-old body.

She was intelligent. Competent. Confident. Artistic. Independent. In control.

Too good for me?

Maybe?

We’d been fucking above the covers. I’d kissed her delicate neck, ran my fingers over the pale flesh of her arms then gently raked her back with my nails. It was a slow burn. And she loved it.

And then I’d pulled her arms behind her, restrained her, sucked and bit her prominent nipples whilst I firmly frigged her to orgasm. And when she came, she uttered a low groan and heaved momentarily as though in pain, her features tense.

Immediately after, I mounted her with her legs between mine whilst she rubbed my nipples. Her cunt was tight, and it didn’t take me long to climax. Never did.

We’d lain there for a few seconds. Quiet. Just us. On the top floor bedroom of the old townhouse that had belonged to my late mother. And I had inherited.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” she answered.

I’d rolled out of the double-bed, exited the room and descended two flights of stairs to the kitchen on the ground floor. On the way down I had paid a visit to the toilet and taken a piss.

Whilst waiting for the water to boil I heard the toilet flush.

I took the mugs back up and she was there in the rocking chair. Smoking.

She wasn’t a regular smoker. Only when she wanted to. On her terms, like everything in her life. Like me. Our relationship on her terms. Nothing or no one controlled her. Or seemed to. Ever.

But there was something about that moment. A moment now lost in time.

“Do you mind if I take a photo of you?” I asked her.

“Feel free,” she responded, almost with a shrug, “but no one else sees it.”

“Okay.”

She knew I’d do as she requested. I always did.

The camera, a Zenith, was already in the room. And loaded with black and white film – I was going through a stage of ‘moody monochrome’. Pretentious really. And only one shot ever came out that I liked.

I set it up and adjusted for depth and focus.

Meanwhile she just sat there, inhaled, and exhaled, whilst looking out of the window across the gardens and out at the sea beyond.

“I’m not going to pose, I can’t be bothered,” she stated in her flat Yorkshire accent.

I took four photos, but I only ever liked one. Really liked.

Her face is turned three-quarters away, looking north for what it’s worth. Her thick and curly chestnut hair is falling over the right side of her chest though her nipple is obscured by her right arm temporarily on the curved wooden arm rest. Her cute turned up nose, nicely shaped chin, and long eyelashes, which hint at a hidden and elegant beauty, can just be made out in slight relief. Her lips are slightly pursed and blowing out a plume of smoke whilst the prominent nipple of her full and firm breast is clearly visible, a nipple that only about fifteen minutes previously I had gripped and chewed between my teeth. The white flesh of her arm, which is closest to the camera, is speckled randomly and abundantly with small moles adding to the intimacy of the shot. Yet ironically it is that intimacy that also distances it, so near and yet so far, because you can almost touch it. In the background through the window can be seen the roof of the lower neighbouring house and further still, over a clump of trees, can just be made out the sea. It cannot also be seen that she is totally naked because the bottom frame ends just above her trim tummy.

I am not certain I am doing justice to it – it’s so difficult to convey with words - but I felt that there was not only an eroticism to the image but also a… languid melancholy.

About a few weeks later the developed photos arrived. I showed them to her, and we both agreed that was the best one.

I have to confess that on a couple of times after that I got the photo out and masturbated over it.

But then out of the blue she finished with me and just before she did, whilst I was at work, she came over and took all the photos and negatives I had of her. Even innocuous ones. In exchange was the house key lying on the mat in the hallway. I was shocked and devastated. Heartbroken.

I attempted to speak to her, but she cut me off. Gave no reasons for dumping me.

A few weeks later she left her job and the area, and I’ve never seen her since. Bizarre.

It took me a good six years to get over her… if I really have… I still think about her… and that photo and wonder if it still exists…


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