need a model? I’d work hard, Mr. Falch. Honest I would. There’s no school all summer and I could work whenever you wanted me to and I know I don’t have any experience but I can learn real well and…”
“Hold on a minute!” He laughed and held up his hand. “I don’t know how much I could pay you…”
“You don’t have to pay me. Just for the experience, it would be worth it.” Her eyes pleaded with him, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. He’d pay ten bucks an hour for a gal like her, any day of the week.
“Well,” he said, forcing himself to hesitate, “I guess we could give it a try. But you might not like modeling; I mean, you might not like to pose for, well…”
She smiled. “You mean cheesecake? I don’t mind. Whatever you want.”
Whatever he wanted! If only she knew what he wanted, what plans he had for her. He looked over her body again, drinking in the vibrance of it. Paula must have been like that, once. It had been good with Paula, and he could almost feel the way it would be with Saralee.
“Saralee,” he said, aloud, “where would you like to work? I don’t have a studio yet.”
“How about outside? There is a little stream down the road, no good for swimming or fishing. Nobody goes there, so it’s a perfect spot. Nice scenery too. Kind of wild, like.”
“Fine,” said Falch. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, in front of the hotel. Eleven-thirty okay?”
“Wonderful. Oh, I can hardly wait!” She turned, then, and half-ran, half-walked down the street. Falch stood rooted to the spot watching her.
When he left the hotel the next morning, his camera bag over his shoulder, she was waiting for him. She wore a gray skirt that hugged her hips and a tight yellow sweater that threatened to burst any minute. He led her to the car, and they drove off down the road to the spot she had picked out.
It was, as she had said, a perfect spot. The tough wooden bridge and thick-trunked oak provided a rustic touch, which contrasted sharply with the green of the grass and the blue water. Falch wished fleetingly that he had brought color film.
He was a good photographer, and he worked swiftly. He posed her in a variety of spots—leaning lazily against the bridge, sitting at the base of the tree, staring moodily into the water. He taught her how to pose, how to smile, and she was a good pupil. Falch was surprised to discover that his interest in the pictures was almost as great as his desire for Saralee.
He was careful not to try any real cheesecake that first day. He did take a few leg shots, but he kept her fully clothed and avoided the more provocative poses. Saralee attracted him more than any girl he could remember, and he didn’t want to spoil things at the start. She was so young and inexperienced, he’d have to play things very slowly. And he had all the time in the world.
Getting into the car for the ride back, she brushed against him accidentally, and the softness of her skin startled him and sent his pulse up. He wanted to reach for her, then and there, but he forced himself to bide his time.
At night, he covered the cracks and light openings in his room with masking tape and developed the pictures. They were better than he had expected. The girl could project herself, could endow the pictures with real vitality. He thought how she would be in his arms, with her blond hair spread over a pillow.
Gradually, day by day, he took increasingly sexier pictures of her. He taught her to bring her body into harmony with the camera. He photographed her in a skimpy bathing suit, with the sun glistening on her flawless skin. He posed her in a low-cut gown that he bought just for that purpose, and with her blouse open part way down the front, so that it barely hid her breasts. That time he could barely stand it, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
Saralee took it all in stride. She never faltered, accepting it all as part of the job of becoming a model. She showed more and more of her legs and breasts, and never so much as blushed.