Dear DOMAI
Let's say her name was Alisha. She was just a little bit taller than I
was, which was just fine with me. And she was a little bit older than I
was too, which I found incredibly exciting. I knew her for three
summers when I was fifteen, sixteen and seventeen. Whenever I saw her,
I was complete. She was kind and wise. Her eyes were soft and
intelligent, like our Domai model Hellena. Her voice was always gentle
and mature. I could tell that she liked me and enjoyed my company, and
it gave me just enough confidence to be myself when I was with her.
Simultaneous to anything that ever happened when we were together, I
was entirely aware that I was supremely fortunate to have even met her,
and most fortunate of all to be able to kiss her and walk her home
after the bonfires we shared down at the water's edge with all the
other teenagers who summered near the great bay where our family
cottages were. We shared conversations about literature and the Bible
and faith and the universe, and all the questions young people discuss
with their most cherished friends everywhere on this earth under a sky
full of stars.
And when my family and other summer friends realized that I was favored
by her, I was treated with respect by all my peers. Grudging respect
from the guys my own age and older who vied unsuccessfully to take my
place. Special charged looks from my uncles and father and all his male
friends as well, for every time that Alisha would enter a room the
energy shifted. All the males came to attention, displaying their most
gentlemanly behavior and paying much more respect to her than to any of
my other friends. And since she carried herself with such humility and
grace, all the older women present were charmed as well.
Alisha was magical. She had all the physical power and charisma of a
Marilyn Monroe, but her beauty did not rely on makeup and hair dye and
any obvious attempt to seduce. I see a great resemblance in her beauty
to a taller version of the truly lovely Domai model JT. Her hair was
naturally honey blonde, thick and lustrous, and fell down her strong
and graceful back almost to her buttocks. Her lips were full and sweet,
her smile both gentle and genuine. She often dressed in clean blue
jeans and men's style long sleeve dress shirts with button down
collars. It was evident that she must have magnificent cleavage to
share, but she was modest. Her blouses were only open at the collar.
Once when we were talking in private she opened two of those buttons in
a smiling moment with me. I felt so mature, being allowed a glimpse
into her body, and yet I was blushing, completely unable to conceal my
physical excitement. Her perfect white teeth shone in contrast to her
tanned and delicately freckled face. Seeing her look at me with
attention and affection was like dreaming of heaven.
Alisha was a golden only child. And her parents mystified me, for while
they were both kind and gentle souls, I could never imagine how they
had made her. I couldn't see her perfection in their reflection
whatsoever, but her father built antique guns and rifles as a hobby,
and I took that as fair warning to be on my best behavior with her! Not
that it was necessary. Like all great beauties, her personality created
good behavior in all who met her.
Whenever we kissed goodnight at her family's cottage door, naturally I
would do my utmost to prolong these few minutes as much as possible.
Tempting fate and rejection, I would fumble in my clumsy attempts to
understand with my hands the magnificence of her breasts through the
impossibly sturdy brassieres of the time as we kissed. Allowing a
certain leeway in this regard, her hands would eventually push mine
away. I knew it was my awkwardness that brought about these failures,
but even still, the thrill was intense.
Walking back home after these moments beneath the summer stars with
her, I knew drunkenness without alcohol.
And as I was constantly looking for ways to make more money while on
summer vacation, I jumped at the chance when her neighbour asked me to
help him re-shingle the roof of his cottage. A friend of my father's,
he had known me since I was a child.
All I was thinking about was the money. I had no idea this job would
lead to the simplest, most beautiful sight to be seen on this earth.
One morning under the hot summer sun, stripped down to my shorts and
socks and work shoes, I was working on the shingling by myself. My
employer had taken his wife and children to town to shop for groceries,
and having trained and supervised me on previous days, left me to
continue by myself.
Naturally my focus would return to the driveway of her house from time
to time. I wondered where she was. Was she in her house? Had she gone
walking or horse back riding, or shopping in town? Her parents' car was
gone, but I hadn't seen or heard it leave. The country air was full of
birdsong, and I could hear the sound of the cars passing by
occasionally on the highway up through the forest behind the cottages.
Standing on the roof in the sun, I could look out towards the
shimmering bay and the swooping flights of the gulls. And I could see
her bedroom window just next door through some pine trees. I could see
that the curtains were closed.
And then the next time I glanced up, they were open.
I continued to place the shingles along the "true" line, quietly
tapping in the small nails to secure them, simultaneously looking
frequently in the direction of her window and forcing myself to
concentrate in order to make suitable progress on the roof. I imagined
I would call out to her when I saw her and surprise her. Make her smile.
And then she was there, brushing her hair, looking at herself in the
mirror in her bedroom, framed almost perfectly in the window, dressed
only in white panties. The skin around her shoulders and upper chest
was reddened from yesterday's sun, and her long hair at once covered
and then revealed her utterly remarkable large ivory breasts, crested
with conical fattened nipples which seemed to point upwards and sway
majestically with her every movement. I was transfixed. I had seen
small, taut, adolescent breasts before, but I had never seen breasts
move. Girl's breasts were so securely restrained and enclosed by the
fashion at that time that even their bathing suits had full support
systems that completely hid them from any accurate understanding of
their form. The naked curve of her back was astonishingly attractive.
And then it happened. One of the truly great moments in life is the
moment a naked woman reaches underneath her hair to lift it up with
both her hands. The beautiful structure of her ribcage, the full
majesty of her breasts, back and neck appear to us in these moments.
Alisha was the first woman I saw do this. I can see her still.
Fixing her hair loosely back, she disappeared for an eternity into the
cottage until she reappeared in the window with her hands full of skin
cream, which she was rubbing in circular motions on the reddened areas
around her shoulders and upper chest, then on her breasts and tummy and
back. Bending over, she applied lotion to her upper thighs as well. She
continued to regard herself in the mirror, pausing occasionally to pose
and observe herself, to brush her hair. Stock still, I watched her in
utter awe.
Suddenly I heard a car. They were back! Ridiculously, I quickly tucked
my tee shirt into the front of my shorts to hide my spontaneous
reaction, and went back to my work with intense concentration, skinning
my knees as I dropped to the roof, banging my hammer particularly
loudly as I did. I wanted to warn her and assure my employer at the
same time!
Just as I heard the car doors slamming, I looked one last time at her
window. Holding the curtains to cover herself, she was looking at me
with a combination of shock, wonder and undisguised delight. And then
she pulled the curtains shut in one quick movement.
— Mik
Beauty for the Camera
Some years ago, while serving in the Navy, I shared a house with fellow
pilot. While my roommate was deployed overseas, his girlfriend,
Tara, came by one day with a request. She knew I was an amateur
photographer, and wanted me to take a few pictures to send to Mike to
ease the long separation and refresh his memory.
She had an outfit that was basically a long white T-shirt with a wide
black belt containing a holster and toy gun. It was not the kind
of outfit I would have chosen (I prefer more color), but she did make
it look fairly sexy. It was getting close to Christmas, so she
accessorized (and added a bit of color) with a red striped candy cane.
After taking a couple pictures, she accidentally dropped the candy cane
from her mouth and it stained a big red splotch on the t-shirt. She
immediately washed the stain out with cold water, but then we had to
wait for the shirt to dry before continuing. (I loaned her a bathrobe.)
I casually mentioned to her that if she was going for the intimate
look, it might work to get the whole shirt wet. Without much
hesitation, she went into the bathroom and came out again with the
shirt very wet and clingy which did in fact increase the level of
sexiness significantly. We continued taking pictures for a while, but
were soon looking for more options. The wet shirt did not leave a
lot to the imagination and she seemed to be comfortable (although
getting cold), so I began to wonder if she was willing to go further
for her boyfriend.
The problem was how to broach the subject without sounding like a
pervert. So I decided to just be upfront with her and explained
how much I appreciate the beauty of the female form and how there is a
great photographic art work (sometimes called Simple Nudes) that
celebrates the beauty of women without being pornographic.
She was a bit hesitant so I said, “I will make a deal with you.
You can have total control over what pictures we take and I will even
let you have the negatives (long before digital cameras). All I
ask for is maybe a couple of pictures for my portfolio if they turn out
good.
She finally agreed and peeled off the wet t-shirt with kind of a
mischievous smile. I wish I had been ready with the camera
because that smile would have made a great picture. She did a
good job with different poses, but I never did quite get that same
smile again.
She was wearing white silky panties and no bra (it didn’t work very
well under the wet t-shirt). Her breasts were average size and
perky and her body was lean and trim. I tried to remain calm and
professional, but it was probably obvious that I caught my breath with
admiration. I decided to give her a little encouragement and said
something like, “Wow, that is breath-taking.”
Again, she got a twinkle in her eye as she stripped off her panties.
She twirled them on her finger as she did a little dance. Maybe she was
covering her own nervousness, but I began to get the feeling that she
might have planned some of this. I finally recovered and went to work
on getting the camera ready while casually asking her if she had any
special poses in mind.
She wanted to ease into the process without total exposure, so we
decided to get creative. One of the first poses, we used the wide belt
and holster to partially cover below the waist and red bandana around
her neck that hung down to just cover her nipples. She playfully
pointed the toy gun at the camera and then blew the smoke off of the
barrel. I was able to get several nice photos that captured
the playful nature.
We spent several hours experimenting with different poses. This was not
the first time I had taken nude photographs, but it was the first time
my subject took an active and creative part in finding poses that were
intimate enough to highlight the loveliness without being pornographic.
The trick is to try to gage what is going through the mind of the
viewer—appreciation of the wonder of God’s creation or do the thoughts
turn more toward sex. Most ladies know they have the capability of
inspiring either if they so desire. I learned a lesson that day that
the secret is mainly in the eyes. When people express joy with their
eyes, they tend to appear more beautiful, no matter what they are (or
are not) wearing.
I wish I was able to share some of the photos with all you Domai fans,
but alas, I was true to my word and ended up with only a few good
prints. I left for my deployment before my roommate returned, so I
never did get to find out what he thought of the pictures or if she
even sent some to him (it is a bit dangerous to send pictures like that
to a guy on board a ship where there is little privacy). I do
know that somewhere out there is a great set of pictures and inside my
mind, a great set of memories of a very special Domai moment. When I
look at the pictures on the Domai Web site, I wonder if the
photographers behind the pictures continue to get that same sense of
enjoyment that I did once upon a time.
Hermie
