Dance For Me Savannah Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dance For Me Savannah

  by

  Lizbeth Dusseau

  A Pink Flamingo Publications Ebook Publication

  ISBN: 0-9742892-8-0, All rights reserved

  Copyright ©1996 Lizbeth Dusseau

  Chapter One

  Southern breezes move me. So does warm rain when I’m caught in one of its downpours—the ones that take you off guard, rising out of nowhere during the afternoon of sticky summer days. The savage shades of green in spring move me, that time of year when the seductive beating of the earth drives erotic passions wild. I’m moved by the seasons in their endless change, and at other times, when I’m lucky enough to hear the sound of a woman’s velvety laughter while she lies in bed with me, and feel that woman’s skin against my fingertips. Such times as these, I know I’ve moved miles towards my soul and reached a state of grace.

  I’ve found that kind of grace more than once in my thirty-five years, and yet in all that time, I’ve never felt as stirred by something beyond myself as I was the first moment I saw Savannah. It was not her flaxen colored hair, or her pale complexion; it was her fragrance, reminding me of a spring shower, mixed with her attitude of ease that made me stop short of greeting her immediately. I’d emerged from the darkroom into the studio to answer the sound of the chime informing me that I had company.

  “Mr. Renz?” She stood in the waiting area wearing a simple pale blue suit, a long strand of pearls and lipstick—slightly pink—blushing her lips. For an instant I was fixated on those lips.

  “May I help you?” I asked, extending my hand to her. She held hers out to me and I held it far longer than convention dictates, though it wasn’t awkward to do so.

  “Yes, I called yesterday, about a photo session?”

  “I remember,” I replied.

  “The name’s Savannah,” she added.

  “Yes. You inquired about boudoir photographs.”

  I had the feeling from the outset that she was scrutinizing my insides as thoroughly as I attempted to understand her. I was seduced that instantaneously, completely in love with her. The thought of love descending on me that way so jarred me, I had to eradicate it from my mind quickly. I’m not given to such irrational thoughts about any human, even a woman as alluring as this one.

  “And you said you might have time this afternoon?” she queried me. I noticed her eyes then: the lilt of her slightly arched brows, the thick lashes brushed with dark mascara, and the color of her irises I couldn’t describe—something that reflected blue and green but was neither one. There was an odd streak of brown in her left iris.

  “I really don’t know,” I responded to her question, flustered. She was not in my plans for the day. “It is late.” I looked at my watch seeing that it was nearly four o’clock.

  “You mentioned that afternoon is a good time of day for natural light and erotic photographs,” she returned.

  “I said that?”

  “Maybe you just implied it,” she suggested, seeing how I hesitated.

  I thought so, I never remember using words quite that way.

  “So, it’s not a good time?” she asked.

  I smiled as if I was a blushing kid. “No, no, now’s perfect. I could use the break.”

  I ushered her beyond the curtain to my studio and motioned her to a couch where we could sit together and discuss the shoot.

  “I heard about your work from a friend. Norma Evans. She had some photographs taken for her tenth anniversary.”

  “Most of my clients wanting boudoir photographs have that sort of thing in mind. At least those who aren’t looking for modeling jobs. Is that what you were thinking of?”

  “I don’t have a husband,” she said.

  “Then this is a professional layout you want?”

  “No, I have a lover.”

  Over half of my boudoir shoots were most likely done for lovers not husbands, but I’d never had a woman put it so frankly. I nodded to her, and went to the more delicate matter at hand. “Perhaps you could tell me the kind of photographs you envision. I think it’s necessary for us to have the concept of our work here.”

  “Nothing posed,” she replied. “I need to look natural, like I’m looking at him.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of attitude I suggest you convey,” I told her. “I know being with a stranger, it’s not always easy to relax; but for the attitude I’m sure you want to convey, it is necessary. You’d be surprised how the camera will pick up any nervousness.”

  “I don’t think it will be hard with you at all,” she replied kindly. I suspected that something about me appealed to her. My darkness against her light. Though I’m just five feet ten, I’ve always had a way of attracting women. I suppose because I can look so mysterious. I’ve been told the intensity of my brown eyes alarms some women.

  “Good,” I said nodding. I took the moment to appraise her again, allowing her lush gentleness to seduce me. “And what kind of attire would you like?” I asked, noticing that she hadn’t brought anything with her.

  “Nothing,” she stated flatly.

  “Nothing at all?” I was amazed by that. I figured her for sexy lingerie, lacy bra, panties, garter belts and hose.

  “Yes, nude, if that’s all right?”

  “I haven’t done nude shots for sometime. It’ll be a pleasure.” Everything I said sounded awkward, but she took no offense.

  “I suppose I imagine myself on a bed, or lounge. A bed perhaps the best, with wrinkled sheets the way it might be just after making love. I could intertwine with the sheets if I get modest.”

  My mind was already creating the images that would appear in the photos. “Black and whites or color?”

  “Both, maybe,” she replied.

  I nodded, thinking I could make photographing her an endless project. Just concentrating on her lips for an entire afternoon. I was mesmerized by the way she formed her words, and the way her tongue occasionally licked the delicate rose tinted surface. She was shy and bold at the same time, a curious combination of behaviors, but perfectly suitable for Savannah.

  “How many photographs were you thinking of?” I asked.

  “What do you normally do?” she asked.

  “That’s all in dollars and cents.”

  “If money doesn’t matter, what do you think would be best?”

  “I suppose that depends on whether you want to present your lover with just a single perfect pose, or you’d rather offer him a collection.”

  “Oh, I need more than one, a dozen at the very least.”

  “Then I suppose we could just shoot until we’re both tired, and we’ll see what we have.”

  She liked that idea, her smile of reply warming me.

  For a moment we sat at opposite ends of the couch staring at each other, not in an uncomfortable way, but as if we were trying to both get used to the idea of what was about to happen. Finally I realized that the entire afternoon would slip away if we didn’t begin; and because she wouldn’t move on with the session without some cue from me, I rose from the couch.

  “There’s a screen there,” I motioned to the Japanese screen in the corner of the room. “You can undress behind it. I’ll throw a sheet over the top if you like.”

  She didn’t reply, but instead reached a
round behind her head and loosened the hair clasp that held her shoulder length tresses in place. Tossing her head, she shook out the curls, and for a moment, when she unbuttoned her suit jacket, I thought she would forgo the modesty of the dressing area and simply disrobe in front of me. It was a relief to see her rise and avail herself of the privacy I’d offered. I’m sure if she hadn’t, there might have been an embarrassing accident inside my khakis. As it was, I had no idea how I’d get through this session without giving myself away or making some indecent proposition.

  Thankfully, I had some time to adjust to the idea. Once Savannah was safely behind the screen, I busied myself arranging the room as I thought she would like it. After tossing a sheet over one end of the Japanese screen, I threw another across a rollaway bed I kept in the corner, and ruffled it, thinking of sex the entire time. Just under the wide studio windows where the afternoon light would provide a perfect erotic exposure, I adjusted the bed to create the best angles. And on a table next to it, I placed a vase of peonies, the color of them as pale as her skin. The flowers were ones I’d use for a formal wedding shoot earlier that day. (I liked them better next to the mussed bed than as part of the formal pristine bridal setting. I’d always thought that peonies had a way of looking sensuously like female flesh in wanton repose.) Getting my cameras ready I had my back to the rollaway. When I finished, I turned around, surprised to see Savannah sitting primly on the end of the bed. The sheet was wrapped around her, almost as if she was waiting for a doctor to examine her, not a photographer.

  “Ah, that didn’t take long,” I observed.

  She smiled demurely. For the first time since she walked in my door, I saw a degree of hesitation in her face, a touch of innocence. If I could only capture that look in the midst of these racy photographs, we’d have an astounding result. The artist in me burned brightly at the possibilities. I wish I knew what lucky gentleman would be receiving this prize, though I could take heart, I’d be the first to glimpse the photographs, seeing this sultry woman posed in her unblushing nakedness.

  “Would you like me to begin with you there?” I asked, as I’d readied my camera.

  Her hesitation continued, and she seemed lost for words.

  “Perhaps you should move up on the bed,” I suggested. “Recline against the pillow and adjust the sheet any way you like. And please relax.”

  She seemed grateful for the instruction and moved as I suggested, the sheet following her the whole way, the pose ending in a rather lovely seventeenth century style Rubenesque—though you could hardly consider her figure Rubenesque. What I could see of her body was her neck and shoulders and all the way down her right side, along her bare thigh. I began snapping pictures, and then motioned her to move to her back. Then, the sheet dropped slightly and I caught her breasts, naked, the white flesh looking as if it was disappearing into her chest, except for the prominent pink nipples that rose off the smooth surface like two tiny volcanoes rising out of a tranquil ocean.

  “On your side again, perhaps,” I said, my hand directing her. A willing subject she followed my ideas and allowed the camera to see her naked breasts in their fullness swinging away from her torso. The shy smile on her lips remained, though the sexual hunger in her eyes was unmistakable. The way her lips parted made me feel as though she was ready to take my erection between them.

  “On your knees?” I suggested as my imagination ran free with images of her in every lewd pose it could summon.

  To my delight, she didn’t balk, but proceeded as if she were bound to obey me by some tacit agreement between us. I would command and she would submissively yield.

  Once she moved to her knees, I photographed a side view of her ass end; and when I waltzed around behind her, I had an exquisite shot of her valentine shaped derriere with its sexual pouch in the middle. Self-conscious with that position, Savannah looked back at me, her expression almost pleading. I nodded, and she dropped back down to the bed. For a dozen shots, she remained posed on her stomach so I could capture the look of her rounded mounds of ass flesh. Appearing translucent bathed in the natural light, I could see them quiver when she moved, as if I were seeing the atoms beneath the surface sway in a seductive rhythm.

  Ours was a nearly silent communication. The nod of my head, a motion from my hand and just a word or two was all that was necessary for Savannah to alter her position and so my photographs. When she was on her side again, the sheet still entangled with her limbs, I pressed her to slowly draw it away from her body. She followed cautiously, but faithfully. It was a regimen she’d chosen, but did not have the courage to enact on her own volition.

  I was exhilarated by my power to control her.

  When at last she pushed the sheet back altogether, and the camera caught that first glimpse of her complete nakedness, I recognized a degree of sadness in her eyes, as though any minute she might begin crying. Such vulnerability!

  “Touch your pubis,” I told her.

  She trembled, but compliantly, her hand followed orders, gently petting the soft hairs at her crotch. The triangular sexual doorway had been shaved neatly; the fluff at the center just a seductive ornamentation.

  Her thighs remained tightly closed, as though she could hang on to this last piece of modesty. But I relished telling her otherwise. “Raise your right leg, Savannah,” I instructed, and with some delay, but not a mutinous one, she followed suit. Snapping off pictures straight on and at every angle of her body, I captured that center of herself, her womanhood, the parted plump outer labia, the purple inner ones, the clitoris and the opening between. Her hand moved from place to place at my command until I had her sexual attributes chronicled in precise detail.

  “On your back now, Savannah. And spread your legs.” As on every other occasion, she followed suit. “Now, as if you’re masturbating yourself,” I directed her, and her hands began to play with her body folds and soft skin, until I was too flushed to continue. I took a few final shots and then put down the camera. “That will be enough,” I said, knowing that if we didn’t stop now, I wouldn’t stop until I was screwing her. And I wasn’t sure at that point if she’d allow that.

  Trying to keep my own arousal in check and maintain a professional attitude, I turned away from her and retreated to the darkroom adjacent to the studio to remove the film from my cameras. I wondered if she’d continue her masturbating; though I assumed she didn’t, since minutes later that I peeked into the room to see the bed empty and some commotion going on behind the oriental screen. When she was dressed, I was amazed to see that while she’d covered her nudity with clothes, they’d done nothing to mask the erotic trance that still remained about her. It was as if I could still see her firm thighs, her nipples appearing from underneath her blouse and her pubic mound blooming below like one of the peonies opening in the vase beside the bed.

  She brushed her honey hair away from her face and was about to pull it back into the clip.

  “Please, leave it free,” I said.

  She smiled with half her mouth, her lip just slightly curling. I’m sure she felt what passed between us, but neither of us would be mentioning that.

  “What do I owe you?” she asked, when we came to the front desk.

  “Twenty-five for the session. I’ll have proofs in a week. Shall I call you?”

  “No. I’ll stop by,” she said, as her finely manicured hand dashed off a check and tore it out of her checkbook.

  Being with her, somehow my senses had all become more acute, picking up sounds and smells so strong, I thought I could taste them with my tongue. Her fragrance seemed more pungent than ever, something sweet, some flowery aroma—though I could detect a hint of perspiration, female dew. I hadn’t touched her, though I had the feeling that we’d made love the last hour.

  “I’ll look for you,” I said, and I watched her glide towards the door and disappear. My first thought was that I’d daydreamed her appearance, but then I had her check in my hand, and her perfume still lingering in the air.

  Ne
ver in my working career had I had such an afternoon as this. Not even with my own lovers when for sexual purposes I got out my cameras and took naughty pictures. No woman had ever been so bold wanting boudoir shots that blatantly pornographic. And yet, I wondered as I thought of her, if she got what she’d wanted. There was something about this session that she wasn’t telling me. I knew that to be true, though I’d remain without a clue as to what that something was. I wondered if she’d actually return for the proofs. The possibility that this was just a sexual lark for her would gnaw at me until she walked through my studio door again.

  ***

  I saw Savannah next at seven one morning nearly two weeks later. Her appearance completely dashed my theory that she was out for sexual kinks not pictures. Her proofs were in a sealed envelop ready for her to do with as she pleased, though I was glad she chose to view them in my company. I can’t count the number of times I’d looked at them myself. Each one was a breathtaking journey into this woman’s sexuality. Unlike nervously posed boudoir shots or professional glamour photos of a teasing vamp playing for the camera, these conveyed that innocence and that daring I’d noted in her before we began the shoot. I wondered if she would see the pictures the way I did.

  Unlike her more sultry mien on the day of her session, Savannah was remote on this visit to my studio. She thumbed through each page of photographs without comment, so I almost thought she didn’t like them. But when she finished the nearly ninety shots, she turned back to the beginning and began to flag with sticky notes the ones she wanted. She knew the difference between those she liked and the ones she didn’t, seeing something right or wrong the instant she turned the page. I marveled at the ease with which she made her choices, so unlike the agonizing moments I’d had with other clients when they couldn’t make up their minds.

  “How soon will they be ready?” she asked me.

  “Ten days, should be enough time,” I replied. I usually allow a month for the kind of processing that she desired; but I planned to do these myself. Though I had other work, I knew they’d be a priority.

  “I’ll stop by,” she said. “And thank you. I’m pleased.”