Technology has made a lot of jobs obsolete in a very short space of time. Remember before smartphones and digital cameras, when you had rolls of film you handed in somewhere, or sent off to be developed? Well in the years before digital technology killed that particular business stone dead, I was one of the people who developed your photos.

Not that I actually did much. Automation had by then long since ensured that the job consisted largely of feeding and overseeing a large machine. I wasn’t particularly well paid either, but I was young and just starting my working life. Besides, the job coincided with my major hobby, which was photography, and which I hoped, somehow, to develop into a career.

Besides, the job had interesting perks. If you think people taking x-rated pictures of themselves and each other was confined to Polaroids and exploded with the rise of digital photography, think again. New on the job I was actually amazed at how candid some photos were. Sometimes you got whole rolls to develop which contained stuff that was substantially more candid than that found in magazines like Penthouse or Men Only. Once or twice I got the feeling a particular couple had engaged a photographer to provide a lasting memory of their wedding night or their honeymoon on film. Maybe they had.

The guys who had worked at the lab for a while soon taught me a trick or two; running off copies of pictures for your own private pleasure by chalking one batch up as a machine error. If you’re one of those people who had graphic photos developed back then, I might still have you in my collection!

Though truth be told, the photos that interested me most weren’t the really graphic images. I liked things to be left to the imagination. Very few of the photos were “artistic” in any meaningful sense of the word. I was drawn to the less graphic images because they at least left something to wonder about. What I liked best about the pictures was the stuff they left to my imagination.

Accidentally sexy was my thing. One obvious subsection of this was the unintended upskirt photo, of which there were enough to keep me happy. But another, perhaps less obvious group of images consisted of women wearing nylons. Any image of a woman in tights or stockings was likely to grab my attention. Photographs taken at some festivity or celebration or anniversary were a goldmine. It seemed to me then, as it seems to me now, that any woman could transform herself into an object of sexual desire by the simple means of applying nylon to her legs.

In short, the pictures I preferred were those with no intentional sexual content whatsoever, where the accidental spark of arousal was entirely due to my own predilections and imagination. And that’s how I became obsessed with Wanda.

Maybe it would have been different if I’d had a girlfriend, or at least money to go out, but I didn’t. What money I had left over at the end of the month was spent on photographic equipment. I never went out to places where I might meet someone. Very occasionally I’d have a drink with one of the guys from work, but that was it.

By now I had a fair sized, slowly assembled collection of other people’s photos, of women I didn’t know and would never know, but who took on a life of my own making. Wanda, however, was special; I knew that the moment I set eyes on her in a photo. I didn’t reel off copies at work as I usually did, instead I smuggled the packet of photos and negatives out that evening, knowing I could stick them in the outgoing pile the next morning with no-one being any the wiser.

I had a darkroom at home. Well, I say darkroom, but it was really a modified broom cupboard, and my flat wasn’t much bigger in its entirety. I developed my own copies of the pictures I wanted from the negatives. Some of the photos featured a man, and some featured Wanda with a man, who I assumed was her husband. Those I didn’t care for, but I adored the pictures of Wanda on her own. The reason I’d taken them home was that I didn’t want the standard size photos, I wanted her on as a grand a scale as possible without losing too much sharpness.

Things went smoothly. I replaced the envelope with photos and negatives early next morning. The large scale photos I’d developed at home went on my wall, where I could look at them when I laid in bed. There were fourteen of them with the kind of content I liked, but two especially caught my fancy. In one Wanda was sitting on a park bench, legs crossed. She wasn’t looking at the camera, just gazing in some other direction as if lost in thought. The other was taken in a coastal location with a lighthouse in the background, Wanda leaning over a railing looking out to sea. It was taken diagonally from behind, and there was something about the curve of her behind in relation to the lighthouse that made the composition surprisingly artistic, however accidentally.

Every night before I went to sleep I stared at the photographs. I couldn’t explain it to myself, but there was something about Wanda that captivated me utterly. Who was she? What did she do? What were her interests? I assumed she was married, but was she really?

And of course there was a sexual dimension to my interest. There was no nudity in the photographs, nothing remotely salacious, yet Wanda seemed to me the most desirable woman I had ever set eyes on. She looked classy, way too classy for me even if she was available. I’d be lucky if she gave me more than a cursory glance.

I imagined myself touching her. In most of the pictures she was wearing black nylons, pumps and a half-thigh skirt. That was how I liked her best. In bed I fantasized about sitting down next to her on that bench, and just running my fingers across the smooth sheen of nylon. Or standing next to her by the sea, the curve of her bottom fitting the palm of my hand like a glove. I didn’t really need any fantasy other than that, although I did wonder about her sex life, what she did, what she liked, who she did it with (I assumed her husband, unless she was single or having an affair). For the most part, though, I imagined my hand, my fingertips running up and down the nylon; just touching was enough for me to imagine as I touched myself.

It was almost inevitable that I would come to want more of Wanda. Oh, I knew I could never have her, but that wasn’t want I wanted anyway. I just wanted more than the fourteen photos on my wall. I began to fantasize about her posing for me, for my camera, not in any definite, planned way, but just so that I could have more of her.

That was never going to happen. Not only for the obvious reasons, but because though I’d remembered her name when I developed the photos, I hadn’t thought to make a note of the contact details. Not that I would have tried to contact her, but perhaps somehow if I hung around long enough where she lived I might get to see her, to capture her on film. She wouldn’t be posing for me, but they would be my photos of her.

Still, if that was impossible, I could search for another woman, someone else with the power to possess my imagination utterly in the way Wanda did. Up to now, my own photography had focused on townscapes, on buildings, on scenes, on the juxtapositions of signs and symbols. Now I began to search for women. I didn’t care much if they were tourists or mothers or married or anything else, but I did want them to wear nylons, preferably black, preferably with heels of some kind, preferably with a shortish skirt.

The real goldmine was when I had weekdays off. Then I could make sure I was on hand before and after office hours and during lunch hour, lurking in the area of town where nylons were standard issue office uniform. I bought a second hand telephoto lens so as not to make my interest obvious. Women with nylon legs would swarm across the bridge from the railway terminus in their droves, and I took every opportunity to capture them on film. Not just there, but in the street and outside offices and pubs. I broadened my scope, visiting parks and commons, honing in on stations and bus stops, photographing woman after woman and going home to develop the photos.

The lens, the rolls of film, the chemicals, it all cost a small fortune, and I was more or less reduced to a diet of pot noodles. It was worth it though. The pictures of Wanda were still my favourites, but since she was unattainable, once I’d gazed on her long enough, I consoled myself with one or more of the other women who now surrounded me on my walls. I imagined that my hand was one of their hands, clasping my erection, pumping eagerly until my ejaculate soiled their stockings, rather than just pump out over my stomach, as it did.

And then I met Lily.

It was on one of my many outings. I’d gone to Wandsbury Common. I found a spot where I could set the camera up on the tripod without attracting suspicion. I turned it this way and that, zooming in on various females. Unfortunately it was a hot day, and hot days always meant bare legs rather than nylons. Bare legs didn’t interest me. I snapped a few pictures anyway, if a particular skirt caught my fancy, or an unintended provocative pose did, but I wasn’t having much luck at all.

Then I heard a voice behind me. “You the paparazzi or something?”

I turned sharply. “No. I just do this for a hobby.” Then I found my breath being snatched from my chest. It was as if I was staring straight at Wanda, only a twenty years younger version, about my own age.

Searching eyes appraised me. “’Cause you look like you’re paparazzi.”

I felt myself go hot all over. I was in a public place, so technically I could take whatever photos I liked, but knowing what the photos were for suddenly made everything seem embarrassingly sordid.

“I just… I…” The stuttering wasn’t just because I didn’t know what to say, it was because I was still reeling from being confronted by this younger version of the woman of my private fantasy world. In spite of the temperature she was wearing black nylons along with a black skirt which revealed just enough thigh. She was in black brogues rather than heels, but somehow this streak of independence only heightened her allure. A sleeveless black top reacted to the sunlight by giving off tiny, glittery sparks. Her head was cocked to one side, black hair framing a face that seemed amused by its own secrets, and capable of penetrating mine.

“I said to myself when I saw you, that’s either paparazzi or some perv,” she said. “And if you’re not paparazzi…”

“No, really…” I said, but she was nudging me out of the way, getting her eye up close to the viewfinder.

A wave of shame washed over me. The camera happened to be trained on a group of three young women sunbathing in their bikinis. I hadn’t snapped any pictures of them because there was too much flesh on show, not enough left to the imagination, but Lily wasn’t to know that. “So are they celebrities I’ve never heard of, or…?”

She let the implication hang as she pulled back to stab me with a quizzical eye. “No, no,” I said, still horribly, horribly embarrassed. “It’s a hobby like I said. Urban scenes.”

The girl in black seemed to consider this. Then she nodded. “Whatever you say, Guv’nor. I don’t care about the urban so much myself, just people.”

This was better. Normal conversation, potentially common ground. “You do photography too?” I asked.

“No,” she replied. “Painting, drawing, sketching, whatever. I’ve applied to dozens of schools, but they won’t have me, the bastards.”

“Bummer,” I said.

She shrugged. “It’s no big deal. In a way I’m happier doing my own thing.”

This was much better. Relaxing a bit, I said, “And what kind of thing is that?”

A smile, an inward smile, all secrets again, and utterly beguiling. “It’s hard to explain,” she said. “You’d have to see for yourself, I reckon.”

Intrigued as much by her as by the suggestion of a private viewing, I said, “I’d like that.”

She seemed amused by this, though I couldn’t think why. “You’re funny,” she said, though I hadn’t said anything worth laughing at. If I was strange, she was stranger. “I’ll let you see,” she said. “On one condition?”

“What’s that?”

“That you let me draw you.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that at all, but I knew I wanted to see more of her. “OK. It’s a deal.”

She smiled. “Got a paper and pen?”

I did have, among my accessories. She took them, jotting down her name, address and phone number. She handed me the slip. “I don’t know your name,” she said.

“It’s Mark.”

She held out her hand. “Well, Mark, it’s been interesting meeting you. I look forward to drawing you.”

I took her hand. “It’s been interesting meeting you. I look forward to being drawn.”

She gave her quirky little smile. “Does Tuesday evening work for you?”

“Sure. Half six? Seven?”

“Whenever you like,” she said. Then she turned and began to walk away.

I aimed the camera in her direction, waiting until she was far away enough for the telephoto lens. I felt sure she divined what I was doing even before she looked back over her shoulder. Again there came a smile that both held and saw through secrets. I hoped I’d managed to capture it.

I badly wanted to develop the photos, but film was expensive and I hadn’t used up the whole roll. So I contented myself with the many photos on my walls, not least those of Wanda, who Lily so closely resembled. I was a little in awe of Lily, who had so freely furnished me with her details. I could be a right weirdo, after all. But I was also intrigued, very intrigued. More curious than nervous when I approached her building on the Tuesday evening.

Inside was a different matter, though no less intriguing. Like me, Lily lived in a poky bedsit, the walls plastered with examples of her own work; drawings, paintings, sketches, just like she’d said. But the most conspicuous aspect of them was that they all featured naked men prominently, some involved in graphic if slightly cartoonish activities with female figures, all of them with the kind of erection even John Holmes would have envied. I just stared, Lily watching me until she gave a little laugh. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to ask you to take your clothes off.”

“Judging by these, that would be a first,” I observed.

“You’re funny,” Lily said, though I wasn’t seeing it myself. “Do you like them?”

I did like them. I liked them very much, though it was obvious to me now why Lily hadn’t been accepted to any establishment where she might develop her talents. I hesitate to describe her works; mainly because it would be impossible to do them justice with mere words; there seemed to be a little bit of every imaginable influence, but all geared to the fine art of titillation. I was especially taken with Lily’s personal take on Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe. In her version a naked man and four fully dressed women surrounded a picnic hamper, with one of the women staring wide-eyed at the man’s equipment, which hilariously resembled a Cumberland sausage more than an ordinary penis.

After a bit of talk about the pictures, Lily indicated the room’s one chair. “All you need to do to satisfy me is sit there.”

I did as I was told, I didn’t know what else to do or say. I’d already observed that Lily had a large sketch book waiting on an easel, and now she stood, marking the paper with charcoal, glancing up occasionally, but not very often.

That gave me the freedom to look at her. She was wearing black nylons and a black skirt again, but this time with a white shirt with the top two buttons undone. There was just a hint of make-up, perhaps because her abnormally clear complexion held its own beauty. A strand of black hair occasionally fell across an eye, causing her to puff it away. I almost wished I’d brought my camera, though I was afraid that she would be too conscious of it, that the photos would come out staged. Even so, I could imagine her on my wall, alongside Wanda. And I would have, as soon as I’d developed the photos of her. The thought gave me an illicit thrill.

“Would you believe me if I told you that you’re the first man who’s actually modelled for me in person?” she said suddenly, conversationally, her hand working briskly.

I looked around, at the endless array of nudity. “Would you be offended if I said it seems hard to believe?”

Lily didn’t answer, not directly. “I go out,” she said. “I sketch random strangers, and then I come back and work the sketches into proper pictures, except that I imagine the men naked. Does that sound weird?”

I looked around the walls again, and it was then it struck me, though it should have struck me much sooner: We were like two peas in a pod. There was virtually no difference between her walls covered with drawings and paintings of naked men and my walls covered with photographs of random women wearing nylons. Some of her pictures were more graphic, but then she was in a position to give expression to her own imaginings, whereas I had to keep them in my head. “Not at all,” I said. “But just out of curiosity, why change your way of working now?”

‘Why me?’ I wanted to ask. ‘How did you find me?’ But I didn’t.

Lily stopped working just long enough to flash me one of her quirky smiles. “There’s a first time for everything,” she said. Then she went back to work.

I decided not to disturb her anymore and just sat, looking from the walls to her then back to the walls, trying to figure out what was going on here. All this felt so natural, and yet it was possibly the strangest thing that had ever happened to me. I must have lived a very sheltered life.

Finally, Lily put the charcoal down. “Done,” she said. “Do you want to see?”

“Of course.”

I stood behind her to see. She’d captured me very well, if with the flourishes that were so obvious in her other images. “It’s very flattering,” I observed. From behind I couldn’t see, but I could sense the amusement in her eyes.

“That’s the advantage of fantasy. You’re never disappointed.”

It was an odd exchange, two people almost trying to persuade each other not to take their odd relationship to a physical level. I fell silent for a while, running my eyes over the picture. Lily turned with a mischievous look on her face. “Now that I’ve shown you mine, are you going to show me yours?”

“You want to see my photos?” To see my secret fantasy world.

“Yes. What did you think I meant?” Teasing.

Here was the opportunity to turn the tables on her. “Of course you can see them. On one condition.”

She understood, of course she did. “You want me to model for you?”

I licked my lips and coughed slightly. My throat had suddenly gone very dry. “Not as such.”

“Oh?” Raised eyebrows, puckered lips.

“I want to follow you from a distance with my camera. One or two hours. You go wherever you like, do whatever you like. That’s it.”

The sparkle in her eyes told me what I needed to know. “When?”

“Friday evening? It should be light enough if we start at six.”

“Where?”

“Why don’t you just start out from here?”

Lily nodded. “OK. It’s a date.”

A funny old date by almost anyone’s standards. But then we were odd people, I realised that now. Two odd people who had somehow found each other, or rather Lily had found me.

Work couldn’t end quickly enough for me on the Friday. As soon as it was over I was off like a shot. I parked myself at the end of her road, trying not to look too suspicious with my camera. In the event no-one challenged me, though one or two people did look inquisitively at me. Perhaps they thought I was paparazzi, even though it would be odd to find any celebrity in this part of town.

On the stroke of six Lily appeared in the doorway, dressed in her custom black nylons, black skirt and brogues. It was a warm night, and she had a light jacket slung over her shoulder. On top she was wearing a different shirt from last time, a light blue number with oversized lapels. I took a shot, then another as she turned in my direction, then ducked back as she began to walk towards me.

If she saw me, she gave no indication. In fact she seemed to instinctively understand what I was after. She didn’t pose in any way, she just walked and stopped and sat down and bent over, looked in shop windows, bent down again to retie her shoe laces. I snapped and snapped, shooting her as she lingered by a bus stop or sat down next to a fountain, crossing and un-crossing her legs. By now I’d taken clandestine shots of hundreds of women in nylons, but this was a very special thrill, an almost proprietary thrill at owning the unownable. Lily was special in the way that Wanda was special, in ways that I couldn’t explain to myself. The fact that she knew and was happy for me to photograph her like this was an added bonus.

Finally, we ended up in a park. Lily sat down on a bench, just looking straight ahead, her gaze remarkably similar to that of Wanda in the picture on my wall. I had three shots left on the roll of film, and used them up, wondering what to do next. Should I approach her, or just go home, develop the photos and phone her when they were ready?

Then she was caught by the setting sun, her nylons glistening like a magnet.

I took a slight detour so that I could come up on the bench from behind. Lily’s nylons still glistened and my throat went dry and my breath shortened as I closed in. I rounded the bench and sat down next to her. She didn’t move, just stared straight ahead as I reached across and placed a hand on her thigh. The feel of nylon made my fingertips tingle.

“I knew you were a perv,” Lily said. She sounded amused, saying it humorously, invitingly even.

I drew my fingers across the nylon, unable to help myself. Luckily the park was almost deserted, with just a few people in the distance, one with a dog. I slid my fingers upwards, the sensation of nylon on thigh causing a familiar throbbing. I felt no fear. If I’d gotten the wrong end of the stick, this could all go belly up, but somehow I just knew that everything was as it should be.

Lily just sat, staring straight ahead, letting my fingers work their way higher, pushing her skirt before them. Then they veered off, to the inside of her thigh, still climbing until I could go no higher. Lily pushed her legs together, clamping my hand in between them. “Did you get the pictures you wanted?” she asked.

“Yes. I did.” The words would hardly come out. Lily had a hand on me, pulling down the zip in my trousers. Her hand slid inside, her fingers resting on my y-fronts which were at pains to contain my excitement. She applied a little pressure, and then we just sat completely still.

Neither of us spoke, not for about ten minutes, when Lily said, “This is nice.”

"Yes. It is.”

We continued to sit, motionless hands up against fabric-covered genitals. The sun was slowly setting, a very few people passing in the distance. We were completely undisturbed. There was no question of trying to go further. It all felt so very right, and it was exactly what I’d fantasised about, looking at the pictures of Wanda. Just the touching, just the smooth, silky feel of nylon and a hint of welcoming humidity. With the added bonus of Lily’s hand resting on me, without actually moving.

Then, after perhaps another ten minutes, Lily spoke again. “I have to go,” she said. “I have things to do. Call me when you’ve developed the photos.”

As she got up she gave a hard squeeze. Suddenly I was sitting there with a torrent of semen pouring out into my underpants. I just sat, watching her saunter off as her nylons glistened with the dying embers of the sun. She didn’t look like she was in any particular hurry.

I couldn’t wait to develop the photos of Lily. As with every other photo I’d taken of women with my telephoto lens, there was no aesthetic value to them whatsoever. They were all about her, that’s all. I rearranged my walls slightly. No, that’s not true, I just pinned the best of the new photos of Lily over the worst of the collection already there. Some I added to the wall directly in front of the bed, the wall that hitherto had been exclusively Wanda’s domain.

It felt strangely disloyal to give Wanda competition in this way, but she and Lily were much alike in some ways, at least as far as I could tell from just the photos of the older woman. I laid out my townscapes on the small table, since these were my “proper” work, though of late I’d done precious little of that, and invited Lily round on the Wednesday.

“Do you want something to drink?” I asked.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Lily replied.

“Only if you can get drunk on tap water,” I said. “It’s what I can afford.”

“You’re funny,” Lily said.

I didn’t feel particularly comedic. I felt suddenly obscenely creepy. Not until someone actually visited my humble abode did I realise how these walls, covered with pictures of women in nylon, were evidence of obsession, making me appear like a lunatic half a slight away from going on a killing spree.

Fortunately Lily wasn’t the kind of person to let such things worry her. She studied the walls, then she studied the townscapes on the table, then the walls again. All the while I studied her nylon legs. The nylon, always the nylon.

“These are good,” she said. “You should go professional.” It wasn’t clear which photos she meant or in which way I should go professional. I wasn’t sure how much of a market there was for telephoto voyeurism, though I realise now that there almost certainly was one.

“Thank you,” I said.

Lily tilted her head to one side, giving me her look, the one that held and penetrated secrets. “I brought my sketch book along,” she said. “I want to draw you again.”

“Fine,” I said. I was happy for that to happen. Happy to have her in my flat as long as possible. Happy to talk to her, however brief our exchanges.

Lily got her bag and took out her pad with a piece of charcoal. She placed the items on the table before taking another tour of the walls, looking especially, I fancied, at the photos of herself. Then she turned. “Do you … when you look at these?” She replaced the missing word with an unmistakable hand gesture.

“Yes.” There was no point in denying it. Lily wouldn’t have believed me if I’d tried to. In fact I rather fancied she’d be disappointed if I’d come out with a denial.

“Then that’s how I want to draw you.”

I wasn’t shocked, but surprised. “I thought you liked to leave everything to your own imagination,” I said.

Lily gave a little smile. “Maybe I’ve decided to push my boundaries,” she said. “See what happens. Now undress and get into position.”

It should have felt strange and embarrassing. It felt completely natural. I undressed and positioned myself on the bed, as I did every night. Lily moved the chair about until she was satisfied. I watched her, remembering the feel of her nylon thighs and rising to the occasion.

Lily put her feet up on the edge of the table to prop the pad against her legs. This afforded me a view up her skirt, reminding me even more of the feel of her thighs. Using the tips of two fingers and a thumb, I moved my hand, enjoying that secretive look of Lily’s as she set to work.

“I hope the reality doesn’t destroy the fantasy,” I said.

“Oh I think I can live with the reality,” Lily replied without looking up.

I scanned the room, my eyes feasting on the evidence of my nylon obsession, as was my habit over an evening. But with Lily in the room, how could my gaze not be irresistibly drawn back to her? There was the fantasy of her and Wanda and all the other women on my wall, but also the reality of her sitting there, glancing up from time to time as I manipulated my erection, remembering how that same hand had experienced the warmth of her thighs clamped between them.

Staring up her skirt, I said, “You do realise that now that I’m showing you mine, you’re going to have to show me yours?”

Lily flashed me an amused look. “Fair enough,” she said.

There was a temptation to say I wanted to see right this moment, but I needed to let her finish the sketch. Besides, as I laid there, making sure I kept myself hard, staring at the wall, staring at her thighs, I realised that I didn’t want that exactly, and knew immediately what I did want.

Lily was a fast worker. I don’t know how many minutes had passed, but it couldn’t have been that many. The charcoal stopped scratching and she tilted her head to one side, staring at me. Then she indicated the wall with her head, the one featuring herself and Wanda. “Do you want to fuck her?” she asked.

The question took me by surprise. It was by far the most direct Lily had ever been with me. It also wasn’t clear whether she was referring to Wanda, or talking about herself in the third person.

I plumped for honesty. “Mainly I just imagine myself touching her,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Lily said, her hand working again, charcoal scratching. “You should really consider fucking her. I’m sure she’d like it.”

Wanda or Lily? How could I know? What I did know was that for the past five minutes I’d been concentrating hard on not bringing myself to the boil. However many minutes it had been were more than enough, even though I’d enjoyed longer sessions looking at the pictures on my wall.

“How can you be sure?” I asked, nerves turning the question into an anxious croak.

“How do you want to do her?”

But I didn’t want to do her, not like that. What I wanted was to have my cock clamped between her warm, nylon thighs, the way my hand had been.

“Don’t be shy,” Lily said. “You can tell me. Come on!”

There was no time. My cock was twitching, contracting violently. Lily’s hand worked, my hand worked. Thick, creamy spurts were shooting out of me. “Shit!” I gasped. “Shit!”

Lily put the charcoal to one side, grinning wickedly. She showed me the sketch. It was an excellent likeness, but with her customary exaggeration my ejaculation resembled a fountain. “I’ve decided to work this up into a proper painting,” she announced. “I’ll let you know when it’s finished.”

And then she was gone, leaving me to wonder and to wait, and to plan. It took five days for her to get back to me, during which time I gazed on the pictures of her every night, recalling her words, “Do you want to fuck her? I’m sure she’d like it.” Had she meant herself or Wanda? Was she just teasing? It didn’t really matter, since my immediate plans didn’t involve that. I took my camera along. More photos. More pictures for my wall.

There was never a moment with Lily that didn’t involve a surprise. The sketch she’d drawn had been worked up into an oil painting, all bold colours and even greater exaggeration in the cause of effect. She’d added a figure, too. It might have been a self-portrait, or just the way she’d remembered Wanda from my wall. Since the two of them were so alike, it hardly mattered. This female figure was leaning over me at the moment of eruption.

“It’s a departure from your usual work,” I observed. “But it’s rather fetching.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“How much would you want for it?”

Her eyes gleamed. “Oh it’s not for sale. A woman needs her stimulation.”

She was looking at me with an air of expectancy, as if she was just waiting for the next move. I let my eyes roam her, from her brogues, up her black nylon legs to the black skirt, up over a rust red polo neck sweater. My mouth was dry. I could see her staring at the camera, almost as if she couldn’t wait. I waved my hand, indicating the nudity on her walls. “Stimulation?”

She flashed me an amused glance. “You know what I mean.”

“Perhaps… But how can I really know?”

She gave a short laugh. Like bells peeling. “Well, I suppose you showed me yours…”

She reached behind, fingers searching for skirt fastening. “No!” I said. “I don’t want you to undress. I want you to lay on the bed fully dressed and allow yourself to… be stimulated.”

Lily raised an eyebrow. “Yes, sir!”

I hadn’t meant to sound so demanding, but she took it in her stride, climbing onto the bed and laying on her back. “Is this how you want me?” she asked.

“That’s beautiful,” I said, removing the lens cap.

She seemed pleased with this, but waited for me to snap an introductory shot before sliding a hand inside the waistband of her skirt. I moved, trying out different angles, seeing how her arm flexed and her hand made the fabric of her skirt shift.

I snapped some more, feeling an obscene thrill as she looked at the camera, then at the wall. She was looking at the new painting, and I moved, so I could capture it in the background. At first she looked amused, as if it was all just a bit of fun. Then her expression changed ever so slightly, a rising tide of arousal filling her eyes.

“So what’s your fantasy?” I said conversationally. “When you lay here like this?”

“Anything and everything. I have a very vivid imagination.”

“So I can tell.”

I left it at that, snapping away as her skirt shifted. I didn’t even care to imagine what she was doing, I was simply mesmerised by her general appearance, the way she gradually gave herself to her feelings. I snapped so many shots that I had to change film. Lily didn’t stop, and as I fumbled with the equipment, her breathing increased, soft moans coming over her lips.

“So what’s your very vivid imagination conjuring up now?” I asked, breaking in a new film.

“That would be telling.” Her voice was strained, but she laid remarkably still, save for the ever shifting skirt. She stared straight into the camera, then at the new painting, then back to me, to my crotch. She smiled, and well she might. There was an obvious bulge, of course there was.

I pointed at the painting, at the likeness of myself ejaculating like a geyser, at Lily (or possibly Wanda) leaning over me. “Is that what you’re thinking about?”

“I’m not telling!”

I snapped another shot, then indicated the rest of the small flat. “Or do you just fantasize about ramdom men fucking you?”

“Perv!” she gasped. Her arm was moving with greater intensity. Her eyes had glazed over and she seemed to be seeing things only she could see now. There were incoherent moans, then a sudden spasm, a long, deep moan, then another spasm. It was in a sense a very restrained climax, but it looked marvellous once the photos had been developed.

This time I let the best of the series take pride of place alongside Wanda at the foot of the bed. I desperately wanted to see Lily again, let her see the photos, but I wanted to appear cool about it too, so I left things a few days longer than necessary before inviting her over.

It was a Friday. She made admiring noises about the pictures, then said, “I hope you’ve enjoyed looking at them.”

“I most certainly have.”

“You are such a perv!”

“It takes one to know one.” I don’t know where that came from, but it amused Lily, I could tell from her smile.

“Maybe I’m just someone who likes to have fun,” she said. She paused, teasing her lips with her tongue. “Maybe I want some fun right now! Let’s go out!”

“I can’t afford to go anywhere.” I hated disappointing her, but I really couldn’t. I barely had two tubs of pot noodles to rub together before next pay day.

“What I have in mind won’t cost anything,” she said, taking my hand and giving a tug. “Come on! You’ll enjoy it!”

So out we went, Lily holding my hand, almost pulling me along. “Come on!” she said impatiently. For me the words ‘going out’ implied the town centre, but not a bit of it. Soon we were on the edge of the common where I’d met Lily on that hot day several weeks ago.

“Are we really going onto the common?” I asked. “At this time of night?”

Lily just shrugged. “Why do you think people say you shouldn’t?” she said.

We walked in silence. It was a balmy evening and the moon was full, so we had no trouble finding our way, even when Lily veered off the beaten track, leading me in among the trees. “Where the hell are we going?” I asked.

Lily turned and put one finger up to her lips. “Sshhh!” Her excitement practically surrounded her like a shroud, and I couldn’t help but be infected by it. She pushed aside a few more branches. I could hear voices now, murmurs that grew louder the closer to them we came. Then Lily pulled up short. We were right behind some bushes about chest high. Directly beyond the bushes, there was a steep drop, about eight feet. We were at the part of the common known as The Hollow.

Below us was a group of people. In the moonlight they looked like unearthly spectres. That was until I recognized one of them and my mouth fell open. “But… but… that’s Wanda!” I whispered.

Lily nodded. “I recognized her as soon as I saw your photos,” she whispered back.

“Do you come here often?” I asked.

“Haven’t I told you before? A girl needs her stimulation, inspiration.” She put a finger up to her lips. “Now just watch.”

I understood well enough how this would provide Lily with inspiration. There was Wanda, presenting an unreal figure, as if she’d leaped straight from my wall into this moonlit scene, wearing heels, black nylons and a slinky red dress. She was moving as if in time to music only she could hear. There were men standing round, in a semi- circle, watching as she gyrated teasingly.

She moved across to one of the men, who gave her two strips of condoms. She tore one of the French letters off, handing it back to the man before placing a hand on his crotch. He reciprocated by groping her before she moved to the next man in the queue, tearing off another rubber and handing it to him before grabbing his crotch and allowing him to grope her.

The little ritual was repeated with the other seven men present, then Wanda moved, to where a groundsheet had been laid out on the uneven ground. She turned her back on the men, bending over and reaching back to fondle her buttocks. From our vantage point I could see a smile on her face, as if she knew the secrets of the universe.

“So what do you make of your fantasy woman now?” Lily whispered.

“I’m intrigued,” I whispered.

“Do you wish you were down there with her?”

“No. I’m perfectly happy where I am.” I realised as I said it that it was the absolute truth.

“Prove it.”

I moved, taking care not to make any noise. Standing behind Lily and looking over her shoulder, I pushed myself against her, letting her feel the rigidity I was packing. Down below, Wanda was pulling the straps of her dress over her shoulders, eventually rolling the dress down to expose her full breasts, though only Lily and I could see them at first, until she turned around, cradling them, rubbing fingers across stiffening nipples for the group of men to see.

Instinctively my own hands gripped Lily’s breasts. She immediately took one of my hands and showed that she wanted it on her leg, on the nylon she always wore. I fancied I could feel static electricity, though that was no doubt as much a mirage as everything else seemed. Lily kept hold of my hand bringing it up her leg. A ripple of pleasure ran through me when I realised she wasn’t in tights today, but hold-ups.

Down below two men had moved up to Wanda and were sucking on hard nipples as Lily brought my hand ever higher, forcing her skirt before it. She only released my hand when she’d made me discover what she wanted me to discover, that she was naked underneath her skirt.

It was the first time I’d touched her there without fabric in between, and it was all I could do to restrain myself as my fingers slowly explored this new territory, a finger eventually teasing its way between her folds. Down below Wanda’s dress was rolled up from the other direction leaving the garment suspended round her waist. Appreciative eyes took in the fact that she too was knickerless.

“Do you wish you were down there with all those men?” I whispered.

“No. I’m perfectly happy where I am.”

I rewarded Lily by finding her entrance and sliding a finger just a little way inside. She sighed softly, a sound that oozed pleasure. “Who’s the perv now?” I whispered.

“I never said I wasn’t,” she whispered back.

Below us Wanda pulled away from the men, sinking slowly to her haunches, then leaning back and steadying herself with one hand. The other she used to rub her pussy, wasting little time before she inserted two fingers, frigging herself in front of the group.

Lily moved, shifting, her feet moving further apart. I squeezed a breast while I availed myself of the easier access, bringing a second finger into play and pushing both digits as far inside as I could, startled at the thick creaminess my fingers encountered as a sigh of contentment came over her lips.

There we stood, watching as proud organs were displayed down below, men applying the rubbers that had been supplied. Even in the dim light, the look of greed on Wanda’s face was obvious as her eyes took in the sight of the nine men with their hands round their erections, staring at her with every intention of ravishing her. She dug her fingers deeper inside herself as the men closed in.

Lily reached back and her fingers began fumbling for my zip. Still with the fingers of one hand buried in her snatch, I released my grip on her breast to help her out. She held up her skirt for me to be able to push my bulging erection against the soft flesh of her behind. There was a soft hum from her as my hand went back to her breast, squeezing as I pushed against her, my fingers stirring her secretions.

By now Wanda had changed position, turning to all fours, wiggling her bum at the men. One of them stepped forward, positioning himself in haste. As he penetrated her, another man stepped forward. Wanda tilted her head up, opened her mouth and extended her tongue as the man offered her his organ.

Seeing Wanda like this, taking hard meat at both ends was sensational. I began grinding up against Lily, pushing my own hardness against her soft buttock. At the same time I was feeling a slight sorrow, knowing that the pictures of Wanda were never going to mean as much to me again, that they’d already lost the power of mystery.

On the other hand, I’d gained a very special friend. I loved the fantasy but also the reality. Holding my fingers steady inside Lily, I angled my thumb, rubbing it up against her nub. She gave a soft moan of pleasure. Encouraged, I rubbed a little harder, my hard cock sinking into the soft flesh that was now smeared with pre-cum.

We stood like that for a while, watching as the men took turns with Wanda in a brotherly fashion. I was enthralled by the scene, but more enthralled by the way Lily’s body became increasingly tense. Not that I was completely sure how long I could hold out either.

Then Lily tilted her head back. “Have you seen enough yet?” she whispered. “I’ve seen the film before. I know how it ends.”

“Why? Do you want to go back to my place and fill me in on the ending?”

“Why not? On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“That you fill me up against a tree on the way.”

“I’d like that,” I said.