The Underworld Goddess Posed Only for Me

Damián had spent twelve years photographing bodies and thought he’d seen it all. Models who cried between takes, models who fell asleep, models who took their pay and left without looking him in the eye. So when the agency sent him a woman named Selene for a series of “mythology-inspired” portraits, he figured it would be just another job: three hours of lights, a couple of wardrobe changes, and home.

He had no idea that afternoon was going to be ruined forever.

She walked into the studio without greeting him, as if the place belonged to her. She was tall, pale-skinned, with copper hair falling in waves down her back. She set her bag on a chair, let her gaze travel over the lights and the black backdrop Damián had set up, and only then deigned to speak.

—Where do I change?

—Behind the screen. When you’re ready, we’ll start with the tunic.

She came out wrapped in a lilac cloth, a long peplos that left one shoulder bare. She sat on the black throne he had rented for the occasion and, without being asked, struck a pose. One languid hand on the armrest, her head slightly tilted, lips parted.

Damián raised the camera and froze.

There was something about her that didn’t fit the models he was used to. She wasn’t posing to be pretty. She was posing to reign. Her mouth was stained a deep pomegranate red, and her eyes were fixed on some lost point on the wall, more tired than serene, as though she carried an ancient sorrow no one had ever asked her about.

—Lean a little forward —he said, and his voice came out lower than he intended.

She obeyed. The peplos opened another inch over her chest.

The click of the camera filled the studio. The flash flared and, for a split second, lit the curve of her breasts beneath the fabric.

—Like that —murmured Damián—. Just like that.

They worked for half an hour with the tunic. He gave technical directions, she carried them out with a precision that was almost insolent. No smiles, no awkward small talk. Just the shutter, the flash, and the breathing of both of them.

***

—Let’s change —she said, and stood before he could answer.

She came back from behind the screen with less clothing. Much less. She’d let her hair down completely now, and the copper locks fell over her shoulders like two rivers, barely covering her nipples. She wore a small gray mantle, almost a rag, tied over one hip. Nothing else.

Damián swallowed.

—Is this okay? —she asked, lying on her side on a velvet-covered platform, one leg bent so that the gray mantle covered her cunt by sheer miracle.

—It’s… —Damián searched for the word and couldn’t find it— …perfect.

She looked like a nymph. All her clothing was her hair, that natural blouse nature had invented for her, and the rest was bare skin and light. Resting on one thigh, she watched him with a calm that made him nervous.

He shot. He shot again. He forced himself to look at the screen, the histograms, the exposure. Anything before admitting what he was feeling.

I’m a professional. This is work. It’s just a body, I’ve photographed hundreds.

But it wasn’t just a body. It was her, looking at him from the platform like an underworld goddess who had deigned to descend into the studio, and he, a poor mortal with a camera, felt as if she were stealing his soul with every shot. For one absurd instant he dreamed of being someone else, of being a king of shadows who would take her to his bed and fuck her until she became his queen.

But I’m just a man.

And as such, he noticed his cock hardening under his pants and prayed she wouldn’t realize.

***

—The next one is the most important —Selene announced—. The nude one.

It wasn’t a question. She pulled off the gray mantle in a lazy motion and let it fall to the floor. Then she took a silver gauze veil, almost transparent, and draped it over her shoulders. It covered nothing. It only added a shimmer, a promise.

She gathered her hair back with both hands, arms raised on either side like a temple figure, like an Ishtar carved in stone. Standing upright before him, she looked straight into the lens.

—Do they look good? —she asked, and for the first time there was a flicker of doubt in her voice—. The nipples, I mean. Are they pretty?

Damián lowered the camera slowly.

—They’re perfect —he said, and this time he wasn’t talking about the photo.

He looked at her without the filter of the lens. The firm groove separating her two breasts. The taut belly. The small round navel. The lines descending from her hip to her shaved pubis, where a tiny mole rested like a detail drawn on purpose, and below that the lips of her cunt stood out clean and lightly parted. She was, simply, a dream that had materialized in his studio without warning.

He lifted the camera again, almost like a shield, and kept shooting.

—There’s a problem —he said suddenly, rising from the stool, dead with desire and ashamed of being so.

—What kind?

—Along the thigh… no, the other one —he pointed—. You’ve got a tattoo. A rosebush. For the mythological series, it clashes. Ancient goddesses didn’t have rose tattoos.

Selene lowered her eyes to her own leg and smiled for the first time all afternoon.

—I think it goes with everything else —she said, stroking the design with her fingertip—. It’s almost allegorical, my rose. Why do you think I came with my mouth stained with pomegranate?

—I don’t know. For the picture?

—To make myself more fuckable —she said without shame—. As if saying the sensual can dwell even among death and silence. That my tattoo should also be an omen. —She paused and looked at him hard—. Or tell me, photographer: why did you undress me?

Damián opened his mouth and found no answer.

***

She finished speaking and, very slowly, spread her legs.

Under the coquettish mole, under the drawn rosebush, the true flower made its way forward. Selene’s cunt appeared before him in all its rawness: swollen inner lips, shining, already drenched, the clit peeking out between them like a dark pearl. The studio was suddenly filled with a salty, thick smell, the unmistakable smell of a female who wants to be fucked. Damián felt himself go short of air and his cock throb inside his pants with every beat of his heart.

—Keep taking pictures —Selene said, though she was no longer a model giving orders. She was something else.

She settled back on the black throne, this time with her knees spread wide apart, offering him her open sex like a split fruit. She began to run her hands over her body. She caressed her outline, her side, the curve of her breasts. She pinched one nipple between two fingers, stretched it, twisted it until it stood hard and red, and let the air out through her nose. Her other hand slid down her belly, slowly, tracing with her nails the same path the camera had taken a little earlier, and with two V-shaped fingers she pulled her cunt lips open, showing herself completely.

He shot. No longer for work. He shot because it was the only thing he knew how to do with his hands when they trembled.

—Photographer —she said, without stopping touching herself—, you were responsible as long as you could. You were professional for as long as you held out. But this got the better of you. I know it. You know it too. Look at that hard cock you’ve got in there and don’t lie to me.

Selene rested the back of her neck against the throne and brought two fingers to her mouth, wet them with her tongue without taking her eyes off him, sucking them deeply as if they were something else, and lowered them again between her legs. When she sank them into her cunt she arched her back slightly and let out a deep sigh that echoed through the empty studio. She pulled them out shining, soaked, and with the pad of her middle finger she began to rub her clit in slow circles, faster and faster, until her breathing broke into short gasps.

—Come here —she said.

Damián set the camera on the stool. The strap tangled and the camera swung, forgotten, while he took two steps toward the throne like a man walking toward something he knew he shouldn’t touch.

—Before a goddess —she murmured—, a man kneels.

And he knelt. On the cold studio floor, between the dead lights and the black backdrop, he knelt before her. Selene took his head in one hand, unhurried, with the authority of someone used to being obeyed, and drew him toward her.

—Take my hips —she ordered—. From below. Softly. And drink.

Damián slid his hands under her ass, lifted her just a little from the throne seat, and buried his mouth between her thighs. His tongue went straight to her clit and she jolted. He ran over the lips slowly, up and down, sucking one after another, tasting salt, something metallic and alive, the desert and the pomegranate staining her mouth. Then he drove his tongue into her cunt, as deep as he could, moving it as if he were fucking her. Selene tangled her fingers in his hair and pressed him against her, setting the rhythm, the pressure, the angle, directing every movement as she had directed every pose.

—That’s it —she gasped—. Just like that. Just like you were telling me before. Suck my clit, photographer, suck it hard.

Damián obeyed. He closed his lips around the swollen pearl and sucked it, licked it in quick little strokes, while he brought two fingers up to her soaked cunt and pushed them in to the hilt. He curled them inside, searching for that soft, swollen spot, and Selene began to arch on the throne, to pant with her mouth open, to move her hips against his face, grinding her cunt over his mouth with no shame at all. She rode his face. She fucked his mouth.

—More fingers —she moaned—. Put another one in. Open me.

He put in three. Selene’s cunt was sloshing obscenely every time he pulled them out and shoved them back in, and the sound filled the studio along with her gasps. Damián lifted his eyes without taking his mouth off her clit and saw her: the naked goddess thrown back, breasts rising and falling with her breathing, nipples hard, mouth open begging for more. Her belly trembled in small contractions.

—I’m going to come —she warned, her voice broken—. I’m going to come in your mouth. Swallow me, photographer. Swallow all of me.

The forgotten camera’s flash went off by itself one last time, God knows why, and froze them for an instant in white: the queen on the throne with her head thrown back, and the mortal on his knees, lost between her legs, his tongue buried in the only river that mattered.

Selene shuddered against his mouth, drove her heels into his back, and let out a long cry that faded into the padded silence of the studio. Her cunt clenched spasmodically around Damián’s fingers and a hot gush soaked his lips, his chin, his neck. He kept licking, drinking her as he had been told, drawing out every tremor until she had to pull his head away with both hands, laughing in broken breaths, too sensitive to take any more.

Then she let down her hair, looked down at him with eyes calm again, goddess-like again, and smiled at the sight of his wet face, his mouth shining with her come.

—Good session —she said—. Send me the photos.

She dressed without haste, picked up her bag, and left exactly as she had arrived, without saying goodbye. Damián remained kneeling in the middle of the studio, his cock still hard under his pants and her taste in his mouth, with the certainty that he would never photograph anyone again without thinking of that afternoon. That night, while reviewing the shots on the screen, he found the final accidental frame: her on the throne, him on his knees, both trapped in a photo he could never show anyone.

He kept it anyway. Some goddesses stay in memory, even if they only passed through the studio one afternoon.