1. In The House of Forgotten Cameras


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

    Jillian's room, Eros didn't whisper, he bellowed. The walls were decorated in a sea of nude photos. There were all sizes and kinds, from postage-stamp sized daguerreotypes to 16x20-inch glossy prints. There were males and females. Some were artistic. Some were erotic. Some were lascivious. Many were famous. I recognized iconic photos by Edward Weston, Henri Cartier Bresson and Horst P. Horst. Over the mantlepiece in a gold leaf frame was Alfred Stieglitz's photo of "Georgia O'Keefe, Hand and Breasts" and a pair of E.J. Bellocq's brothel-portraits taken in the Storyville red-light district of New Orleans. Beyond Jillian's bed was a small alcove and the portraits I saw there pulled me in like a magnet. They were of Jillian. A few were contemporary. But in most, her hair and makeup were done in remarkably convincing imitations of historical styles like '40s Rosie the Riveter, '20s flapper, and even several with a late Victorian-era Gibson Girl look. Most stunning, and surely the reason that I overlooked exactly how remarkably convincing the historical prints appeared, was Jillian herself. Except for a light dusting of freckles across her upper chest and crescent-shaped birthmark on her inner thigh, Jillian's skin had the flawless translucence of a porcelain doll. I guessed her age to be about 30. Jillian's breasts had the ripe pertness of a teenager with nipples lilting skyward as if on the verge of taking flight. Her waist was impossibly thin, lending her an hourglass shape ...
    even though her hips were narrow enough to be called boyish. In her photos, as in real life, Jillian's legs seemed to go on forever with perfectly turned calves and delicate thighs. Her stomach was flat and smooth and her public hair so thin and pale blonde as to be almost unnoticeable. There was no point, I realized, in wasting an exposure on a conventional portrait. "How many plates do have?" she asked, as if reading my mind. I was impressed that Jillian realized my view-camera dated from before the invention of film and, indeed, used glass-plate negatives that I had to make in the darkroom by first pouring an ether-rich pyroxylin syrup over a sheet of glass and then bathing it in a silver nitrate bath. It was difficult, time-consuming and error prone. From a dozen attempts, I was lucky to get a couple of useful negatives. "Just four," I told her. While I unpacked my gear, she walked to her canopy bed and lowered the muslim side-curtains, in effect, creating a “soft light box” from the curtain on the window side of the room and reflector from the other. I positioned the tripod at the foot of the bed and mounted the camera. As soon as I had inserted the first glass-plate negative, Jillian walked up and looked me in the eye. "Well, Mr. Photographer, are you ready?" I had barely replied, when she began releasing the buttons down the front of her bodice. Beneath she was wearing a silky camisole with no bra. "Help me, Davey," she said, turning her back and pointing to a long row of ...
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