Man with Camera

It started off as a joke, a bit of a lark. I spotted the small ad in the “Etcetera” column of the local evening newspaper:

Wanted – Male Private Investigator with Digital Camera — (Central London)
“I need a completely confidential private investigator with a digital camera. Will pay fifty pounds upon completion of assignment. Need assignment done tomorrow. This is a one-day assignment. You must be available all day and have excellent surveillance and self-concealment skills. Please E-mail box number X836 ASAP!”

Well, I’d always fancied a stint as a private dick. Just call me Philip Marlowe. The ad specified a man, and I could borrow the eye-spy gear. As requested, I sent off an e-mail, referring to myself as “Bob.” I wondered how many responses the ad would receive and if any, other than my own, would be genuine. The scenario seemed ripe for parody. Why the last-minute rush? Was risk involved? A mere fifty quid for a largely unspecified day’s work that might involve being punched in the face by an angry boyfriend or even knifed by a drug pusher? My imagination worked overtime. The ad-poster didn’t want to involve the police — were they crooked themselves or it was it more of a civil “crime”? It had to be a jealous husband. Well, he must have been waiting online, as a reply pinged back into my inbox within five minutes.

“Bob — be at the Tate Modern north entrance at 9 am, SHARP. Stella.”

Stella, was it? Well, well, well. A jealous wife instead of a jealous husband. Why did she need a man — to infiltrate her husband’s gentleman’s club? I fired off a few inane questions but answer was there none. It was 9 am at the Tate or not. I like a woman who knows what she wants.


I crossed the new Millenium bridge over the murky Thames and strode towards the rendezvous, the converted power station which now houses eclectic artwork in its vast turbine hall. It was a weekday morning and not too busy, just a gaggle of bored looking school kids and the ubiquitous squad of Japanese tourists grinning through their miniature camcorders. What did “Stella” look like? Was she young or old, or in-between? Tall or short? Blonde or brunette? My mind concocted a wish-list as the minutes passed. Five past nine and she was a buxom redhead. Ten past nine and she had morphed into a slender raven-haired femme fatale. At almost a quarter past the hour, a small figure in a long gray raincoat approached the gallery entrance, making a fine display of looking at the posters and generally acting nonchalant. Instinct told me: “Stella”. Casually, she worked her way along the row of adverts for coming attractions of the intellectual variety, her eyes flickering over the words but not taking them in.

When she reached me, she murmured, “Follow me and don’t say a word. Act as if we’re not together ’til I give you a sign.”

I thrust my hands in my coat pockets and whistled a brief air from My Fair Lady. It seemed as good a response to give as any. Off went Stella at a brisk pace, the high narrow heels of her boots clicking rhythmically on the damp pavement. She took the walkway that leads along the Thames embankment and I followed at a respectful distance, watching the pleasing wriggle of her neat little hips beneath the tightly-belted coat. She was a pretty girl — early twenties, with heavy straight dark hair, cut into a short, thick bob. She had a square-ish jaw and a wide, scarlet-painted mouth. And she was fit. I began to pant slightly as she disappeared into the distance, a diminutive, determined figure marching on towards — what?

I fingered the borrowed digital camera in my coat pocket. It was perfect for the task at hand, no bigger than a small pocket calculator. I stroked its rounded metal contours as I watched Stella’s pleasing behind vanish into the shadowy confines of an underpass. To be truthful, I felt like stroking something else. I was getting quite hard and required some relief. When I entered the passageway, I found that she stood, casually leaning against the tiled wall, her raincoat unfastened.

“Get the camera out,” she hissed, her eyes firmly fixed upon the tunnel entrance behind me. I reached in my pocket and drew out the spy-cam. I raised one eyebrow and smiled. She frowned. Espionage was a serious business. Suddenly, there were voices behind us, and footsteps, approaching the underpass. Stella fixed me with a steely, commanding gaze.

“Now! Take this!”

Quick as a wink, the young woman whipped open her coat and gave me a flash of what she had on underneath. Obediently, I pressed the button and felt my manhood press against my fly. As two girls entered the passage, Stella moved away, like a bat out of hell, swiftly wrapping the raincoat around her nubile body. She stalked off at her former brisk pace, again leaving me in her dust. Outside, near the sturdy Victorian arches of Blackfriars Bridge, a faint London drizzle was beginning to fall. I replaced the camera in my pocket and turned up the collar of my coat. So, Stella was a flasher. Well, well, well. An image of her exhibitionist’s outfit was burned into my brain as I followed the young woman, beginning to feel like a stalker and a pervert. She was wearing black leather thigh-high boots and a cherry red latex mini-dress. The dress seemed to be melted onto the surface of her firm, tight body. Its skirt was so short that it barely covered her crotch. Was she wearing panties? I had a sneaking suspicion that I would soon find out. My cock throbbed as I kept the girl in sight. Her boobs were quite small and very round, like oranges. The nipples formed two little dimples in the glossy fabric of the skimpy dress.

On we trotted, past the tall red-brick faade of the Oxo building, with its upscale design galleries and restaurant in the tower, which, in a more practical age, was a meat extract factory. Stella kept her gaze firmly fixed to the front, as if she knew exactly where she was going. I wondered how many scenic miles she’d take me on her Wednesday flash and whether we would pause for refreshment. I was musing about lunchtime Guinness and shepherd’s pie, when she suddenly took a turn to the right and clip-clopped onto the wooden boards of a small pier used as a viewpoint.

This was a much more exposed venue than the underpass. My fingers closed on the camera as she commanded me with her dark-lashed eyes. I presumed she was scanning for onlookers but, funnily enough, I was ceasing to care. I pressed the button as she opened her coat. I pressed it once, twice, three times, punctuating her movements. She leaned against the iron rails of the pier, damp black hair beginning to curl a little above her ears. Closing her eyes in ecstatic abandon, she thrust her boobs forward, two perfect juicy mounds encased in tight bright latex like a second skin. They looked almost as if they had been sprayed with paint and were still wet. As she arched her back, she parted her lips, which were as glossy as her naughty outfit, revealing small, rather predatory-looking even white teeth. Her nipples looked as if they were poised to pop over the tight, elastic neckline of the outrageous dress. I snapped buoyant cleavage and several inches of tantalizing thigh. The boots were amazing. Stiletto-heeled, they were quite wide at the tops, reminding me of a pantomime boy. Dick Whittington boots but sexy, oh so sexy. My cock threatened to wear a hole in my underwear.

In the distance, someone whistled and, with little change in facial expression, Stella smartly belted her coat and trotted off again, like a fox tipped off by the baying of hounds. I heard the metal-tipped heels of her boots drum a hollow determined beat on the boards of the pier, then she turned right to continue along the Thames walkway. The rain was getting heavier and I saw her retrieve a tiny umbrella from her bag. With one deft flick of the wrist, the brolly was up, a bright red splash on a dull gray day. Of course, my own head was unprotected. I marched on in the young woman’s wake, wet about the ears and rigid in the crotch.

Eventually, we arrived at the stretch of the embankment favored by street performers. Stella paused to watch a young woman who seemed to be coated in silver paint, a living statue in a Victorian style dress. Slowly, moving jerkily as if propelled by a rusty mechanism, the street artist offered a paper flower. Stella tossed a pound coin in the “statue’s” basket and took the giant daisy with a hint of a smile. The statue blew her an arthritic kiss. I lingered amongst the onlookers until she headed off towards the enormous gleaming wheel of the London Eye. Was she hoping to flash inside one of the see-through capsules that took people up for a fairground-style ride to view the city from a pigeon’s angle? I’d heard the queues were dreadful.

The queue was lengthy, especially for a drizzly winter morning when the view from the Eye would surely be cloaked with cotton wool-like mist. I saw Stella turn to the left, into an open-air caf. I’d rather have had a beer but it wasn’t lunchtime yet. Was she really going to sit down? Like a sleepwalker, I followed her wriggling bottom through the maze of little tables. She selected one in a corner, near the concrete-clad anchor point of one of the vast Eye’s cables.

I made to join her and she muttered, “Not here. Sit at another table and watch.”

“Mind if I have a coffee?”

The young woman fixed me with a brief, withering glance. It seemed a cappuccino was out of the question. Like a good boy, I took position at a nearby table. Stella’s table wasn’t protected by the tented roof of the cafe, so she kept her umbrella up, effectively screening her from those around. I sensed a photo opportunity was nigh and fumbled for the Fuji.

With a conjurer’s sleight of hand, the young woman stood up, flipped open her coat, arched her back and, still holding the umbrella, popped out her tits. I swear they bounced out like a pair of rubber balls. They didn’t quite look real but who was caring? I snapped her as she pouted moodily, her red lips, red dress, red umbrella startling as blood against the gray London day. Her boobs were very white, the nipples full and dark by contrast. They pointed upwards, as did my cock.

Then Stella placed one kinky-booted foot on another chair, exposing an acre of strong, slender thigh. I snapped the leather-clad leg from sharp pointy heel to wide, thigh-caressing top. Her dress rode up to her crotch and I snapped a glimpse of shaven heaven, a perfect little pink pussy with just a touch of dark hair. She had a small silver ring in her labia. Slyly, she caressed her clit, running the tip of her tongue over the thick gloss of her scarlet lips. I snapped and came.

She knew what she’d done and smiled, her vixen’s face looking quite smug. Before I knew what was happening, she had tidied herself and was off again, leaving me in a damp, sticky mess. An elderly woman glared as I trotted out of the cafe, limping slightly as my trousers stuck to my swollen, sodden crotch. Now where was she?

The familiar silhouette of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament rose up in the darkening sky. Stella’s bright umbrella bobbed along the walkway towards Westminster Bridge. She seemed to be gaining speed and I suddenly remembered the fifty quid. Glancing back at me, she stopped by a tree and I watched her retrieve an envelope from her bag and tuck it into a notch in the trunk. Thinking of sudden gusts of wind and thieves, I broke into a jog. Stella reached the main road crossing the bridge as I reached the tree. I clasped the envelope in my hot little hands as I watched a big red London bus come along. Calmly, Stella walked to a nearby bus stop, got on the bus and turned to blow me a perfunctory kiss from its platform. And then she was gone, southbound to who-knows-where. I opened the envelope. As I suspected, there was no money, just a brief note in a bold, strong handwriting.

Enjoy the pictures.


Good Vibrations

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