1. In The House of Forgotten Cameras


    Date: 9/16/2015, Categories: MILF, Author: Jason_NYC, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    "Could you help me with my camera?" she asked. I was trying to pull the fog-shrouded pylons of the Golden Gate Bridge into focus on the ground glass of my old view-camera. As if by magic, Jillian's lithe silhouette emerged from the swirling fog. Even in the inverted image on the camera’s focusing screen, she was most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. "Umm… I guess. Sure." I stammered, climbing out from under the camera’s dark cloth. Back then, I was a quintessential San Francisco kid. Skinny, confident, and street-smart. One smile from Jillian turned me into a blathering idiot. Only in mid-1960s San Francisco could Jillian's Belle-Epoche wardrobe with its full-length skirts over crinoline petticoats and a narrow-waisted bodice go unremarked. Looking back, the Autumn of 1965 was one of those profound cultural turning points. Beat generation hipsters and their turtlenecks, goatees and berets, were fading. Flower-power hippies with a fascination for vintage Victorian fashions and psychedelic drugs were just taking hold. Jillian’s imperturbable demeanor, ageless beauty, and fondness for all things pre-modern seemed a perfect fit in this brave new world of shoulder length hair, antique clothing and blissful smiles. I could easily envision Jillian cheering for the San Francisco Mime Troupe at one of the Happenings in Golden Gate Park. Or in the audience at the Coffee Gallery a few blocks from my house in North Beach. A singer named Grace Slick and her band, the Great Society, were ...
    playing a strange new music there. Word on the street had it that the Great Society was best appreciated while smoking weed, or even better, dropping LSD. As I was about to discover, Jillian’s world was far stranger than any LSD trip. But that morning, as she held a Battenburg-lace parasol in one hand and a Leica M1 camera in the other, she looked to me like the most perfect creature in all of God’s great creation. Even without psychedelics, the sex-centric mentality of my late teen mind was envisioning the erotic possibilities. Jillian and I lying on the beach, her skirts and petticoats askew, my fingers probing the moist, pleated folds beneath her panties. Groping in the backseat of my Dad’s ’57 Chevy, her tiny hands peeling back the fabric of my jeans. Making love on the mossy bed of the Muir Woods, soft white flesh gleaming with sweat in the dappled sunlight, the germ of an explosive orgasm building between our thighs. She passed me her camera. The cold metal against my fingertips brought the reverie to a crashing end, save for the involuntary swelling between my legs. "I don't see anything wrong," I told her after inspecting the film advance, shutter release and focusing ring. "It must be me," she apologized. "I guess I don't understand how it works." Then I noticed the telephoto lens. The Leica is a range finder design, and needs parallax adjustment to properly focus with long lenses. I reset the parallax adapter and handed it back. “Don’t use the regular view finder with ...
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