Shortly after we were married, Fiona presented me with a beautifully framed photograph of herself taken the year she turned 19. In it she lounges carelessly on her left thigh, leans forward on both hands and beams into the camera. A deep green lawn embraces her. She is wearing a brightly flowered skirt. Her unrestrained breasts hang invitingly between her arms. Her erect nipples strain the thin fabric of her blouse. She exudes youth, beauty and desire.
"From my summer on Martha's Vineyard," she said haltingly. "I found it last week and thought you should have it." I could only stare at my suddenly younger wife staring at me from the photo. We knew each other's histories quite well by then, so I instantly understood the implications of the photo. My penis was also instantly hard.
Fiona had spent her 19th summer in Aquinnah with a dangerous college boyfriend to whom she was drawn precisely because he was dangerous. He had claimed her virginity the previous summer, untethering a voracious sexual appetite that is still raging almost 40 years later. He was much older than Fiona and she had been frank about how eagerly she embraced his well-rehearsed sexual desires. "I have always responded to men who know exactly what they want," she told me during our first exploration of that piece of her history. Indeed, she still does and I am lucky to be that man.
They had spent an extended holiday alone in his family's summer home on the Vineyard and I knew the contours of what had happened, primarily days spent on Aquinnah's nude beaches. Fiona described with relish how she enjoyed displaying her trim figure on the beach while men stared and other women eyed her enviously. There were other provocative stories about that trip that Fiona parceled out as we explored each other's histories with a growing recognition that each of our vivid pasts had prepared us to approach each other as experienced and confident lovers, curiosity sated by past sexual variety and ready for marriage to a partner capable of filling every sexual need for the rest of our lives. We started hot and after twenty years we burn hotter for each other every year.
I knew that Fiona's lover had also spent the summer photographing her nude, assembling what she laughingly referred to as her "sun tan portfolio," always noting that in the photos she wasn't even wearing tan lines.
"There's more if you want them," Fiona said somewhat provocatively, I pondered the offer carefully. Finally, I responded," Keep them for a snowy night. What I really would like is my own portfolio."
Now it was Fiona's turn to think. In a moment, she whispered, "Next weekend at our beach house."
A turgid week later we escaped to our house on the Outer Banks and spent the morning lounging, then shopping until after lunch. I have never been certain whether Fiona was intentionally building the anticipation or simply building up nerve. Whatever her motives, by the early afternoon my cock was throbbing.
Home finally, we flirted over the dining room table until Fiona slipped off her shirt and unhooked her bra, exposing nipples as engorged as my dick. Finally, she whispered, "Wait," and disappeared into the bedroom while I clumsily assembled my camera.
I sensed Fiona's presence before I saw her. She was standing silently in the doorway draped in a sheer peignoir. It was buttoned to the neck but sunlight from the bedroom windows behind her silhouetted her legs through the thin fabric. Fiona's pubic triangle was barely visible. My legs trembled.
"You're the most beautiful woman I know. I want to celebrate you, to caress you with the camera."
She stared at my bulging jeans and laughed. "Well, you seem to have a big enough lens. What would you like me to do?"
"By the windows, with your back to me. Look outside for your lover. He will be here soon."
Fiona glided to the window and began posing, her legs more clearly silhouetted now and her tight round ass clearly visible through the skirt of her gown. Click. Click. Whirr.
She stands on tiptoes, peering toward the dune, looking for an imagined lover, shaping her calves and raising her behind. Click, Click.
"Slowly turn sideways for me now. Part the skirt of your gown slightly and caress one leg." Fiona complies and the camera purrs as she unsheathes a leg, and straightens her right foot ballerina-like. Her leg is long and shapely, her calf hard. Click.
