Chapter 12 - Becca - Tiny Cameras and a Vagina Sex Bathroom
Johnny holds his shirt up as he presses his hip closer to the mirror, trying to get a better look at the tattoo I gave him. It’s small and in a weird spot, so it’s hard to get a good look at on his own. After debating for a moment, while enjoying the last few seconds of unrestricted access to a view of his abs and amazing Adonis belt, (seriously, it should be illegal to be that sexy), I pull out my phone and take a picture.
Tattooing him was both easier and harder than I thought. I didn’t really want to hurt him, and I didn’t want to give him a terrible tattoo, either. That’s part of the reason I chose the design I did. From what he’d said about the location, I thought I’d be doing some upper thigh, or incredibly intimate butt-cheek work, but Johnny was only joking about having fun with where I was tattooing him. He had a small spot near his right hip where the pieces that he has on his back and stomach didn’t meet, that was available.
“Here,” I say, handing him my phone with the picture on the screen. “This will be easier to see.”
He lets his shirt fall and grabs my phone.
Damn, back to a fully clothed view. At least his jeans are still open for now, giving me a glimpse of skin and sexy black boxer briefs. I suppose that will have to do.
“It’s a camera,” he says, smiling up at me before looking at my phone again. “Lines look nice, very smooth. And you did a great job fitting it into the space. It clearly doesn’t match what’s on my front and back, but it looks like it was meant to be there.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the phone back when he offers it. “It’s my logo. You’ve been branded. Johnny Donovan is now property of Becca Morris Photography. It’s a pretty big deal.” I laugh. I know he’s not my property, but I can’t lie and say I don’t like the idea of having my mark permanently on his body. “Now you can avail yourself of such benefits as helping me carry my equipment, accompanying me to shoot locations, being a snack bitch for my clients, and other assorted tasks as required. It’s a very prestigious position to be in. Highly coveted, you know.”
Johnny laughs, his eyes crinkling. “Well, I’m glad to be of service. And thank you for the privilege of being your unpaid assistant.” He starts cleaning up the equipment and swapping out supplies for the tattoo he has planned for me. “Now, take this,” he says, tossing me a large, thin towel, “and go through the door just outside this room. It’s the bathroom. Pants off and… what kind of underwear are you wearing?”
I spin around to face him. “Excuse me?”
He gives me a small smile and steps close to me. “I figured we could place the tattoo from about here,” he says, placing a hand just below my hip bone, “to about here.” He trails his fingers from my hip to my lower thigh, igniting a trail of sparks on my skin.
My breath escapes me in a whoosh, and I drop the towel, the sudden rush of heat in my lady bits surprising me. “I… umm… uh… what was the question?”
He turns me slowly, walking me to the door, his hand on my lower back. “Panties. If they go up high on the side, leave them on. If they don’t,” he whispers in my ear, “well, then they’ll need to come off.”
I stumble into the hallway, tripping on the tiniest bit of trim in the doorway, before lunging for the bathroom door at the end of the hall, throwing it open, and jumping inside. What the hell was that? “Keep it together, Becca,” I tell myself. “Johnny is a love and marriage kind of guy and no one wants to wake up to someone who looks like you every day for the rest of their life,” I say, parroting what my mother has said to me countless times. “Yes, he is sexy as hell. No, you can’t have him.”
Now that my pep talk is out of the way, I strip off my pants and underwear and come to a horrifying realization. I mean, I already knew about it, but still.
My panties are wet.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper, holding my underwear and spinning frantically, looking to the bathroom to give me some answers. I could just hide them in my pants, like so many women do at the doctor’s office, but I can already picture Johnny bumping my pants onto the floor, bending over, picking up my wet panties, and giving me that look. You know, the one that says he knows I want him, even though I already shot him down? Ugh, I can’t deal with that. So what am I going to do?
On approximately my eighth or so spin in place, I spot my salvation. This bathroom has an air dryer to dry your hands with.
Yes! I’ll use the hand dryer to dry my underwear. Problem solved.
I smash at the start button with the side of my hand and fan my underwear into the air coming from the nozzle. If only I were paying closer attention, I would have noticed that this is a hot air hand dryer and while it is drying my underwear, it’s also sending a very distinct scent into the air.
The smell of arousal.
The smell of vagina.
The smell of sex.
“Fuck!”
I’ve never been concerned about the smell of my vagina. It’s always smelled perfectly normal and healthy. Then again, I’ve never had a sexy man that I’m just friends with cause a flood in my panties, which I then heated with a hand dryer, either.
Tap, tap. Johnny knocks softly on the door. “You okay in there, Becca? Did you forget something?”
Shit. The towel. I forgot the fucking towel.
I spin around frantically, full on Winnie the Pooh-ing it, shirt and no pants, hoping the towel will magically appear.
It doesn’t.
“Oh, yeah, ha ha.” I close my eyes and lean against the door. “I’ll just come back and grab it. Be right there.” Please leave, please leave, please leave.
