Dance For Me Savannah

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  I’d have liked more praise for my efforts, but coming from Savannah, whose beingness reeked with sincerity, I was assured that she was genuinely happy with the results. Unfortunately, when she did return for the final book of prints, I was on a photo shoot at a location outside the studio, and my assistant Becca made the final transaction.

  My love affair with her, so easily came and went. So brief, I wouldn’t think it would affect me. And yet, its ending was as fraught with sadness as if we’d been together for years and were breaking up. She stirred in me passion, abiding passion for the sensuousness in life.

  Chapter Two

  The quaint resort of Boothby Bay was the kind of vacation spot where everything seemed constructed in miniature. What was charming, picturesque and unique brought tourists to its streets and cafes almost all year long, except on the most biting days of winter. To walk its streets was not so much turning back time because the marks of present time appeared everywhere in shop windows featuring bold contemporary clothing, digital watches, computer gadgetry and no smoking signs; it was rather an excursion into a made-up fairytale world where quaint was manufactured to please the eyes of people weary with the look of cities and suburbs and massive quantities of concrete.

  In the village of Boothby Bay that atmosphere was commercially inclined; though what was on its outskirts was genuinely quaint. The cottages along the coast were where the sea breezes blew salt and sand and the smell of ocean brine. It could be considered a fit retreat for the weary, or those who needed a place away from the crowded, maddening pace of life. It was not a place where people were easily noticed, so many came and went.

  In the small post office in the center of town, a figure drew from one of the larger post office boxes a parcel. Noting the return address the recipient was pleased, suggested by the smile. Dashing to a parked car, the keys still inside, the engine running, there was a quick exit from the center of town, and a sharp turn on the road toward the beach. The house where the car stopped was the fifth in a row of whitewashed cottages. The picket fence was slightly leaning, and there were scrub bushes growing though the sandy ground. Quite unlike the cottages where there were terraced patios and pots of blooming flowers, this cottage looked rarely used.

  Inside the house, the package was opened by deft but patient fingers. An album of photographs pulled from its wrapper. Flipping though the pages, the viewer saw the erotic poses of a blonde woman, with creamy skin, reclining naked on a rumpled bed, exquisitely captured. Drawing the prints from their protective covers, each one was carefully viewed then tacked to a corkboard on the wall, haphazardly mounted with pins like butterflies fixed to a display. A typewriter cover swept to the side, the typist inserted a piece of heavy buff- colored paper stock under the platen and began to type out a message. It was brief, neatly done, and then stamped at the bottom with a woodcut stamp that had been pressed against a pad of green ink the color of grass. Sealed inside a buff- colored envelope, the letter would be mailed that day in the village post office. The cottage locked and vacant again, the only change was the racy boudoir photographs pinned to the wall, daring someone to find them. The blonde’s ass and breasts and feminine treasures were artistically yet overtly exposed to the fly on the wall and the atoms in the air, but little else until the cottage was occupied again.

  Chapter Three

  “Michael.” I knew her by the sound of her voice. Picking up the receiver while in the middle of developing film, something never do, I had to concentrate carefully in order not to ruin my work and still talk to her.

  “Savannah?”

  “Yes, it is. You do remember me?” she replied.

  It had only been three weeks since I’d seen her. “How could I forget?”

  I imagined her smiling that coy half smile that revealed so little.

  “Would you be interested in doing another shoot?” she asked.

  “Another? Of course. When?”

  “As soon as possible. I have an anxious lover.”

  “So he liked the other photographs?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you again,” she said, skirting my question. “When can you do it?”

  “I think tomorrow afternoon, but not until after five.” I remembered that I was booked solid. Actually, I liked it better putting her at the end of the day. I wouldn’t have to squeeze her in-between other clients.

  “I’ll be there then.” She hung up, and I could already feel a surge of sexual arousal pumping through me, making my penis throb happily.

  For twenty-four hours I thought of nothing but Savannah appearing for me in the buff. I pulled from my files her proof shots and thumbed through them one by one, finding myself masturbating to the images on the paper and even more to the lusty quality she radiated through them, as if they were alive and moving, her limbs and lips reaching out to draw me inside them. I wanted her with my whole being, every fiber in me breathing Savannah, whispering her name, letting its soft syllables woo me to the energy that surrounded her. I forgot about my occasional girlfriend, Josie, I forgot about who Savannah really was and that some other man was behind her photographic quest. I forgot that she was a client, I a professional. I forgot my common sense, a reasonable thing to do when masturbating. I simply forgot everything but she and I; my daydreams readily imagining a scenario in the studio, its finale: the two of us on the bed together, the camera sitting on the sidelines forgotten. I ejaculated to the picture of her rose lips covering my stalk, her tongue dancing on the tip and how after she finished, she’d fall against the bed like a limp flower past its glory.

  I considered my moments of pleasure self defense. With the edge off my arousal, perhaps I could objectively do the work she was paying me to do. I wondered if she had any idea how deeply she affected me.

  Savannah arrived the next day wearing red: a severely cut silk suit, her hair already abandoned to its liberated state and her lipstick this time a wicked crimson. An impressive change. The gave off the allure of a much harsher woman, though I still detected the same sweet shivering vamp beneath the brave attire.

  “And did your lover enjoy the photographs?” I asked when greeting her. I was anxious to know, wondering if the speedy repeat performance was because the prints were somehow lacking.

  She hesitated. “As far as they went.”

  “As far?” I sought her explanation.

  “He wants some more stark,” she explained.

  “I see. And how do you see that?” I asked.

  “Could we?” She motioned to the curtain that separated the outer salon from the studio. I nodded, and followed her inside.

  I’d already placed the bed in the same position as it had been four weeks before. On seeing it, Savannah moved directly to it and stripped it of its sheets down to the bare striped tick. If it was stark she wanted, that certainly worked. “And the flowers,” she added, moving to the blue bouquet beside the bed. Picking them up she handed them to me. “He’s a very fundamental man, I think.” She mused to herself, though speaking loud enough so that I could hear. “Can you begin taking pictures as I undress?” she inquired of me.

  “Whatever you’d like,” I replied. She was less personal this time, perhaps even more nervous, and that formal attitude served to keep me at a distance, though I’m not sure that I could remain distant from her regardless of her efforts. Savannah invaded my psyche like some alien virus, the molecules of her elemental form having trickled through my system, implanting an erotic imprint that fused so completely with my own, I knew I’d be forever altered. If she needed distance now, for whatever reason, I’d give her that privilege, but I knew we’d come together in other ways. I would be patient.

  Retrieving my cameras, I loaded both the black and white and color, and worked on focusing the shutter. She waited, sitting on the bed as demurely as she had the time before. When I finally nodded for her to begin, she rose from the bare mattress and began to unbutton the black buttons on her red suit, moving slowly as if in time to music. Music would have
made an appropriate background for her efforts, but she didn’t seem to need anything added. Her head slightly cocked, her face blank and passive, she continued unlayering herself before my clicking camera.

  The jacket, the sheer blouse, the bra carefully removed were discarded on the bare floor beside the bed. I was struck by the motion of her breasts swaying for my camera’s eye. I sensed her shudder once they’d been completely bared. The nipples tightened, her face became flushed. She was embarrassed, as though she believed herself indecent.

  Was she listening to some inner voice? Were the words of her lover directing her? For an instant she’d hesitate before continuing, and I wondered if she wasn’t fighting with herself—or the demon that invaded her mind—over her next move. Drawing her hands behind her back, her breasts jutting out, she released the zipper on her skirt and let the garment drop. Except for a black garterbelt and lace-topped stockings, she was naked. And unlike weeks before, instead of the soft bush of hair to protect the voyeur’s eye from seeing into her sex, she was shaved clean. Vulnerable. Childlike, though the garterbelt and stockings defied the childlike quality of her appearance.

  Savannah stepped out of the high heels, an act that diminished her stature even more. In preparation to remove the stockings it was necessary, but I was beginning to understand that this calculated unveiling was designed to play inside her thoughts, transport her to a destination where she could continue with the shoot as her lover required.

  All these steps she did silently. As I moved about her snapping photographs, I caught as many angles as possible. She wasn’t playing for the camera, only for herself. If I were to accurately convey her sexual sense it would have to be a random act, some moment that occurred by chance where the camera for that instant caught the nuances of her erotic attitude. Once she finished undressing, she climbed on the bed and began to move for me. On hands and knees, Savannah swayed her hind end. Catlike, she clawed at the mattress. With her shoulders pressed to the bed, her ass still raised, she reached back for her bottom cheeks. Grabbing the flesh in her fist, she squeezed hard, letting out a whimper, as if it were someone else doing this to her body. She pulled at her cheeks so the camera photographed her anus, clear as day, and the shaved pussy and the wetness that could be seen there. That display complete, the beastly blonde dropped to her back, parted her thighs and began masturbating.

  I watched her lick her juice from her fingers, then as she inserted the middle one in her hole and draw it out. She smiled at it, as if it was a piece of candy she’d devoured. The camera snapped more pictures as she pinched her nipples and slapped her breasts, as her fingers drove deep into her hole and pulled out only to slap her mound with a harsh thwack.

  My body jolting, as if she was slapping my genitals, I put down the camera for an instant and caught my breath.

  She hissed, seeing my vexed state, bidding me to continue. So I resumed.

  After that brief pause, her body drove her towards a climax. Forgetting me altogether, she enacted her masturbation ritual. I wondered how many times she’d played with herself that way, how many orgasms had swept through her needy female form. To the end, it seemed no more than a dream from somewhere inside her fantasies, driven by that mysterious lover.

  Again, I would have made love to her, dropped my camera, thrown off my clothes and brought myself a pleasurable climax between her thighs. Yet even more this time, I couldn’t bridge the barrier that came between us. Perhaps another time when I finally had at least a tacit invitation.

  I left her when it was clear her climax was over, taking several shots just as she was recovering her sanity from its brief hiatus. I’d have been remiss not including photos of her at just that moment of consciousness, when she had the presence of mind to smile at me. Returning to the room fifteen minutes later, I found Savannah just buttoning the last button on her blouse. She bent bending down to retrieve the red jacket.

  “Would you like to have a cup of coffee?” I asked her. My question came as much a surprise to me as it was to her. She was startled by it, but then smiled again.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.” She put on her black pumps and then looked for her purse that had been tossed in a chair.

  For the life of me, I had no idea what I’d say to her, but if she felt comfortable with the invitation for coffee, I suppose I could find some words. I admit, I simply wanted to be with her a while longer. To have her disappear again for months or forever, no, I wanted just another few moments of her time before she was lost to my life.

  We ordered latte at a coffee bar down the street from the studio. Green awnings reached out over half the sidewalk where behind a white metal fence there were a half dozen wooden tables the owner pulled out every morning for her customers. Half exposed to the afternoon sun, half guarded by shade, our faces darted in and out of the shadows, our eyes sometimes squinting, depending on the mood of the shade tree above, whose branches bobbed lazily with the breeze.

  “So what keeps you occupied when you’re not in my studio?” I asked her, after we’d sat long enough in silence for it to feel uncomfortable.

  “I teach medieval history at the university,” she replied.

  I must have looked impressed. “A professor?”

  “Not a full professor yet,” she answered. “But that will happen.”

  “And your lover . . . he works there?”

  “Oh, no. He doesn’t live in the city.” She seemed bothered by the question. “That’s why the photographs, to keep him company.”

  I wanted to probe more, but she was aloof to those answers, her relaxed mood having tightened appreciably. A slight twitch to her jaw. She’d just barred the door to further inquiry on that subject.

  “Why medieval history?” I asked, changing the subject. “Seems rather ...” I struggled for words, “dead.”

  She laughed, the tones of her voice mellow. In the flickering light of the cafe she seemed even more erotic to me than she’d been in the studio, perhaps because I wasn’t snapping pictures and she wasn’t as nervous. She tossed her head back, ran her fingers through her hair, and took a sip of her drink with lips that fondled the edge of the ceramic floral mug as though they tasted something more there than coffee. “All history is dead,” she said. “What happened yesterday is dead. Why I study it? It fascinates me. That time in history draws me in. I’m sure I had a past life, maybe several during the dark ages.”

  “And what fascinates you so?”

  She didn’t have to think for a second. “The women, the mix of strength and submissiveness. The harsh realities. Understand, it’s hardly like a romance novel.”

  “You read romances?” I doubted the possibility.

  “No, never,” she immediately replied. “They’re too pat. I like romance that’s out of the ordinary.”

  “I should say so,” I was ready to comment.

  When the sun lingered behind a cloud for a split second, the shadows around us deepened. I saw her face then without having to strain, and she looked with ease into mine. Perhaps for just that moment we fused.

  “You must find my taste in romance strange,” she said.

  Strange yes. And strange too that there was no nervousness in her now. Where she couldn’t seem to open her mouth to speak about her need at the photographic session, she was now able to put on an objective attitude, as if it hadn’t been her at all writhing on the bed. There was even a change from a few moments ago, when she fended off my queries about her lover. “I don’t know enough about your taste in romance to judge it,” I answered politely.

  “Let’s just say, he’s quite dominant and I don’t argue.”

  “You were trembling,” I reminded her.

  “Perhaps I was. But that doesn’t matter,” she said flatly. She closed again, so I changed the conversation once again.

  We spoke about her teaching, about my work, and then talked of movies we liked—we had tastes in common—and food. She ate a muffin with her latte, pinching off a piece at a tim
e and making love to the crumbs with her lips and tongue. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, even wished I had my camera to catch the spontaneous moment. But then, it was better to let my eyes feast on Savannah’s quirky style, the way she blushed every time she spoke about herself, and the way she brushed back her yellow hair until it annoyed her so much that she finally pinned it behind her. She was composed, her poise and self-assurance returned. I would continue to be in love with her, with both the Savannah in the studio and the one that shared coffee with me now.

  When she glanced at her watch, it was nearly six thirty.

  “I have to run,” she announced. “Thanks for the latte.”

  I thought for a moment that she’d lean over and kiss my cheek, and was disappointed when she didn’t. As I watched her round ass beneath the straight skirt swish away, I had the feeling that she was doing that subtle come-on for me, even though it was likely she was on her way to see her lover.

  Chapter Four

  In a row of aging brick buildings, hers stood out distinctly, having been restored in recent years. Lofts on three levels had become the new penthouses for the slightly offbeat. Savannah’s was on the top floor, requiring two full flights of stairs to reach the landing. She’d changed the doorway, replacing the sliding metal door with solid oak panels that swung wide on hinges and locked with three deadbolts when she didn’t feel secure. The third floor was the least convenient to the street, but the most unique, half the space a greenhouse that became her bedroom in the spring until it was too cold in the fall to sleep there comfortably at night. With windows on three sides of her, she felt the elements of the city sweep round her; thunderstorms flashed their fiery bursts at nearly 360 degrees about her, fog shrouded her in its gray cocoon and rain pelted down on the sheets of glass as though it threatened to reach right down and drench her body. When the sun shone, the space became so hot inside that she had to escape to the cooler dungeon-like space of the loft itself for relief. But when the mornings were warm, she opened the sliding windows and sunbathed nude in the natural light. Once the heated rays penetrated the first layer of her skin, the prickly sensations urged her hands to reply, her fingertips to trace lines across the tingling surfaces of her body until they finally lighted on the churning center between her legs. The sun beating down on the exposed inner folds between her opened thighs drew desire and need from her to a degree that she could almost orgasm spontaneously. Gentle play at her crotch, and she’d buck against her hand in seconds with a climax that peaked and then slowly faded away.