Soul Stealer

... By T

I took this picture. That’s right, I’m a professional photographer. I can’t tell you who I am, because I promised him I wouldn’t give out the details of our relationship, but you see I can’t keep it to myself any longer, because I read a comment someone made about this picture recently and, well, they were right.

I was only 25 when I took that picture. Although young, I was anything but inexperienced when it came to photography. I made my way up through the ranks and had created quite a reputation for myself by then. I had neglected a lot of shit in my personal life, but I was driven when it came to my career.

Without giving too much away about myself, I guess it’s safe to tell you that I’m of Native American descent. I’m not full-blooded, but I have enough to be proud of my heritage. That’s why it’s so ironic that I took up photography. You see, it was the belief of my people in centuries past that a photographer actually stole your soul when taking a picture. Some of the old ones still have that belief.

We, he and I, still laugh about what happened that day. I’ve been his dirty little secret since that day, and yes, he’s been mine. I never married, but I’ve not lived one day without love since that day. I remember it like it was yesterday.

I arrived on the set early, so that I would have the time to set up my equipment because I don’t use an assistant. Never have. Mainly because I don’t like others to handle my cameras, my babies. I blocked out the few people who were running hither and yon to set things up. I was in the zone. Hell, I didn’t even realize that he had arrived until Natasha, the editor of the magazine, came over to me to introduce him. He was such a flirt that day, but I soon learned he’s a flirt everyday. He loves women, all women. Big, small, short, tall. He loves them all.

He went off to get dressed for the shoot and to go through hair and make-up. I took that time to finish setting up. While I was setting up, I happened to glance over and see him talking to Natasha. He was nodding his head and looking very serious. Nat nodded in agreement with whatever he was saying, and he glanced at me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain the fire in that light blue gaze, but it was there. I felt it.

Soon, I heard Nat telling everyone that it was to be a closed set at his request. So, once everything was set up, people began to filter out of the room. Nat was the only one that stayed, but right after he took his place and I started to make the necessary adjustments to the lights, she got a call on her cell and had to take it. Once the door closed behind her, he grinned from ear to ear. I’ve seen that grin many times since that day, but at that time I had no idea he was up to something.

"You look awful young," he said to me, "are you sure you’ve done this kind of thing before?"

"Have no doubts, Mr. Bon Jovi, I know exactly what I’m doing," I told him arrogantly.

I didn’t miss the ‘up-down’ he gave me. You know, that look every man does, when they look you up and down from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. His gaze rested briefly on my breasts in my white tank top, before it moved slowly past my waist and then my legs encased in tight faded jeans. I didn’t know it then, but I most certainly know it now, that he’s a leg and breast man.

I had snapped several photos when he said, "Whaddya say we get outta here?"

"And go where?" I asked distractedly as I adjusted the lights for another round of shots.

"Somewhere where we can be alone," he said huskily.

"We’re alone now," I pointed out, stepping back behind my camera. "Now show me those pearly whites," I told him, preparing to shoot some more.

Through the lens, I watched him look around the room. "I was hoping to go some place more private. Some place where when you scream out my name, a lot of people won’t come running to your unnecessary rescue."

"Do you proposition all the photographers?" I asked, snapping some shots.

"Only those with long sable hair, dark chocolate eyes, and legs that will fit nicely around my waist," he answered, smirking. Yeah, he actually smirked. Like he was sure of the outcome.

"I don’t have sex with married men," I announced, as my camera clicked. "Besides, you’re not as cute as you think you are," I told him, that’s when he gave me that look. The one captured in the photo. My knees went weak at that look, but I would never have admitted it. It was so full of determination and sexual promise, fire and ice.

"I’ll remind you of that remark when you’re under me," he said, softly.

"You’re pretty sure of yourself," I replied, laughing nervously and snapping some more photos, before stepping out from behind my camera and moving to adjust the lights once again.

"There’s never been anything I wanted, that I didn’t get," he seemed proud to inform me, "and right now, I want you."

"I really hate to break your astounding record," I quipped.

He moved quickly, and pressed against my back, grinding his arousal into the curves of my ass. "Then don’t," he whispered softly in my ear. His breath was warm on my neck and somehow I found myself turning in his arms.

He kissed me then, like his life depended on it. Our tongues tangled in a heated erotic dance. Somehow, I found myself in his dressing room, and he seemed quite proud of himself that I didn’t know how we got there. He kissed me again then, as he pulled the tail of my tank out of the waistband of my jeans, breaking the kiss only long enough to whip it off over my head. His lips met mine again, sipping like I was the finest wine. He nipped at my shoulder as he unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans. He placed kisses all over my body as he peeled my jeans down my legs. When I stood in front of him, naked save for a pair of black lace thong panties, I felt a little self conscious, but he reassured me quickly. In the years since, I don’t believe he’s ever shucked his clothes as fast as he did that day. He sat down in the straight back chair in front of the mirrored vanity, then raised one hand toward me, beckoning me forward.

"C’mere," he ordered softly.

I walked to him, eager to run my fingers through all that golden hair. Just as I was marveling that it felt as soft as it looked, he was slipping his fingers into the strings on my hips and pulling the barely there thong down my legs. He flicked one of my nipples with his tongue as his right hand moved to part the curls at the juncture of my thighs. I knew he could feel my wetness there, but I was unashamed at my natural reaction to him.

"Is this for me?" he asked, smirking.

I moved my left hand down to clasp his hard cock in my hand. "Is this for me?" I mimicked him, and moved to straddle his thighs.

His breath escaped his chest on a hiss, when I guided him to my entrance. Slowly, I lowered myself down on his lap, and he thrust up to meet me. "Weren’t you going to remind me of something about now?" I asked, grinning smugly down at him.

"You’re not under me," he said, his voice heavy with passion, "yet."

I rode him. Hard and fast. And, I enjoyed every minute of it.

He groaned my name, then said harshly, "I’m gonna come. Please tell me you’re close."

"You’re going to have to do better than that cowboy," I gasped out.

That’s when he slid his hand down between our bodies, and his clever fingers unerringly found my swollen clit. With a few quick flicks, I was soon screaming his name. Luckily, no one came running to my rescue.

He likes to claim that I stole his soul that day. But, I know better. He’s the soul stealer.