“A little wider,” he said, squinting a bit as he squatted down to examine me there, demurely perched upon the chaise.
I leaned back, defiant now, and opened my legs enough that they pushed my knee-length skirt high up my thighs.
“Like this?” I asked, mocking him. I knew full well that he could see only the top of my thighs, not more.
I let my head fall back, and spread my legs just a little wider now as he aimed his view.
I heard the shutter click, and felt a warmer sensation take over my entire lower body. I was suddenly drunk with it. I wanted more.
My legs spread even wider, my unshaved pussy now was his, was there for all the world to see, my glistening lips, my hot desire. I feared this, feared what he was doing to me, The fabric beneath me was damp.
“Come for me,” he said.
I started to stand, then realized what he meant, and eased myself back onto the sofa, unbuttoned my blouse slowly and let it fall open. My clit was alive, dancing, and I could nearly come. I could, nearly, just from the excitement of this timeless exhibition.
He was famous, he said, would publish these pictures somewhere. I really do not know where. Nowhere, maybe. Maybe he is just another pervert. But then, it seems, so am I.
I do not come for just any man. I look at him, as he smokes those detestable cigarettes that normally do nothing but turn me off. But they turn me on now, as I reach round back to unfasten my bra, then lean back on this chaise on a stage of sorts, not in a living room, but pulled out with a screen behind it to make it seem staged. I know this is on purpose, for the light perhaps, but this sex out of context brings the smoke rings into perfect perspective as I raise my head and lick my fingers. Snap. He takes another picture, and I lean my head to let my hair fall down around my face before looking up at the camera and licking my fingers again. Snap. He likes that one. He is snapping, and I begin to luxuriate in the haze of the fantasy we are creating. I toss my head back again, ecstatic the longer he takes, but then roll onto my knees and let my bra fall as I lean on my hands, searching once more for the camera, mesmerized once more by it, breathing in his smoke and his cologne, catlike as I arch my back deeply and purr.
“Tell me what you want,” I tease, as I spread my legs, my back arched even more, my face and not my exposed back to the camera.
He circles around me, predictably. I do not let him capture me yet. I roll onto my back, take my long pearls into my teeth as I have always wanted to do, and hold out my hand in vain, as if I did not really want for him to seize my erect nipples on film.
He uses film. He develops it in the chemicals that are as ancient as the notion that his smoking actually benefits his health. He develops the film in his bathroom, issuing me stern warnings not to open the door at certain times, at certain times when the room must remain completely dark, even outside the bathroom, because any light would destroy the negatives.
In the dark, we are alone, primitive. In the dark, all we can do is fuck. We can fuck in the dark, chanting and moaning and grabbing at all other sensation but sight for some remnant of the world, some indication that we are real and not simply figments of our own imagination. He plays loud thumping music as we fuck, loud as I take another sip of wine and roll him onto his back so that I can take over and use him, too. His cock is fine, hard, new, never ending it seems as I take him in far enough that it aches, then the ache opens me, the only thing that will fill me, the only thing I have ever needed.
He lets his head fall back, as he pants.
“So you like photographing my naked pussy, don’t you?” I tease him, agonize as I slide back and let just his head slip in and out of my flooding cunt.
“Tell me,” I say, as he has not yet answered me with anything more worthy than a grunt.
“Say it,” I tease him still as he tries to push his cock higher, his hips now lifted into the air beneath me, my hips still high enough that he never can.
“Say what?” he pleads. I feel his hands pushing my hips, fighting to make me give in to his gorgeous huge cock.
“Tell me what you want from me,” I said, my hips still stronger than his hands, which have not yet succumbed quite to out and out aggression.
“I want you to fuck me,” he said.
“Tell me exactly what you want, how you want it, and when, ” I say, now powerful, now lusting powerfully for him wanting me.
My resolve conquers my immediate desire, and I jump away from him and light a candle, now stand above him, eyeing his hand wrapped around his enormous dick, his eyes dilated in the new light and glaring wildly at me.
I pick up the camera.
His cock will be lovely, there. I do not know how to develop this film.
“Show me what you want,” I say.
He looks at me, the camera, looks afraid, looks needy as he lets his hand slide down the length of his cock, then back up, his eyes closing.
“Oh my god…” he moans and lingers as his hand reaches the head. Snap.
His cock is lovely, yes, but it is the photo of his face that whets my lust now. His cherubic eyes shut tightly, eyelashes peaking out of the creases beneath his eyes, his dimpled grimace, the lines of his forehead drawn, not young but knowing, his mouth unposed, open. I imagine his need. I hear his ever louder breathing, his cry, his silence now just as he could come.
I remember that day, the dim light. I remember his other hand dangling, holding, then dropping his drink, the ice cubes sliding across the floor, the bourbon and the smoke drifting up from the ashtray through the room, my mouth nudging away his hand. Once, twice, I lick him, swallow him, and he stops me there where I am kneeling against the chaise longue to reach him, my drunken desire now for him, to reach me, spread me. He regains control, an animal, hungry.
“Wider,” he growls, as he spins round back of me, pushes my back against the furniture and lifts my skirt.
I let him. I want him. I arch my back, and his cock glides into me. Slick, tight. I imagine a photo of it, an x-ray. I imagine his cock through me, deeper, deeper still. I imagine his piston-tight fucking, his ass clenched as he digs deeper, my lungs expanded, my head buried into the plush fabric, my resistance futile. I imagine his come shooting the negative black–just the opposite of the liquid that leaks from me later–coating my bones, coating my blood, a door opened, and my heart is exposed.