“C’mon, please? I don’t know the owners at all, but I’m dying to see the house.”

My friend Sophie was trying to talk me into going to a gathering in the Hollywood Hills at a house designed by her architecture professor. Sharp lines and right angles aren’t really my thing (I’m obviously more about curves wink*). However, she was enamored with his modern, sleek style and desperately wanted me to accompany her.

That’s how I found myself wandering through one stark white room after another. To my mind, it was terribly boring except for one thing: a series of large black-and-white photos that were strategically placed on a huge wall.

Together, they told a story of mutual seduction. The first was of a couple standing a few feet apart, their faces out of the frame. He was in a dark suit and a dress shirt. She wore a fitted black dress that hugged her slim, dancer’s body as she curved gracefully towards him.

The next photograph showed only her hand on his chest; her darkly painted nails contrasted with his immaculate white shirt. He seemed to stand perfectly straight, while her fingers were slightly curled. Her nails looked like talons ready to claim his bare flesh.

In the second room, his strong, veiny hand rested on the arch of her ass. The following photo went back to a close-up of his chest that showed his right nipple peeking between two of her fingers.

I followed the unfolding story into yet another room. The photo on display showed the curve of her neck, his mouth was on her, and his blood red lips looked famished. The bold splash of color only added to the eroticism, and I found myself becoming more and more excited to follow the trail.

“Are you enjoying the art” a deep baritone voice whispered, so close behind me that my neck tingled. Startled, I stumbled back a bit until a stoic hand on my elbow steadied me. Glancing down, I recognized the veiny hand from the photographs.

“Yes,” I replied, “very much,” and started to turn, but another hand on my opposite hip held me in place.

“They’re all originals, and these are the only prints,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to see the studio?”

His hand now slid to the small of my back and softly propelled me forward. We took several turns as we walked deeper into the house; and I was beginning to wonder just how many rooms this place had when we came to the first closed door. The hand left my back briefly to push it silently open.

We entered a room dominated by yet another immaculately white object at its center – a bed. In contrast to the rest of the house, the walls in the room were a deep black, and the bed was surrounded by photographic equipment such as shades, lights and screens.

Finally I was allowed to turn and see the man who’d led me there, and the effect of the lighting in the room was stunning. Jet black hair swept back surpassed only by his dark eyes. Eyes that seared themselves into mine, hypnotizing me.

Without a word, he pulled me close, and his mouth claimed my own. Under some strange spell, I responded greedily and raised no objection as I felt the zipper of my cocktail dress being lowered. He continued to stare into my eyes as he removed the straps and my ample breasts sprang free. He seemed pleased that I wasn’t wearing a bra, and equally pleased when he saw the tiny black panties adorning my body once my dress was pooled at my feet.

He led me to the bed and sat me on the edge. He simply stood in front of me until I understood that I was expected to undress him. I unbuttoned his white shirt, almost the exact same shade of white as his skin in the filtered light. Coarse black hair covered a chiseled chest, and when I undid his slacks and slid them down, his toned thighs were “Adonis” like. The mere sight of him was intoxicating.

I started to slide down his boxer-briefs, but he stopped me, and urged me up onto the bed. He joined me on the bed and lay on his back. He pulled me atop him and we, again, began a slow, languid kiss, his hand sliding down to cup my ass.

I saw a bright flash in my peripheral vision, and heard the unmistakable click of a shutter. I saw a woman; her face was obscured by the camera she peered through. Her black dress gripped her body tightly, and her darkly painted nails stood out.

That baritone voice again sounded in my ear…

“Say hello to my wife, Lauren.” it purred. “She’s the photographer.”