Scandalous Polaroids

I first met Martin when I was at a shitty bar in New York, drinking every guy there under the table, smashed out of my brains. I remember wearing an old college sweatshirt, the NYU cracked and faded, and some short shorts that showed a little too much skin. I wasn't fat, but I wasn't some skinny bitch either, and I wasn't going around like I was better than everyone else. I wasn't a whore- I didn't sleep with many people and I had some fucking class. At the time, my hair was a dark brown, wiry and untamed like the Muses in the old paintings, and my lips were always coated in red, and at the time I wore thick rectangular glasses that gave me a childish look.

I slammed my fist on the waxed wooden counter and demanded the bartender to give me another rum punch, and some guy, hoping to fool around with me, fronted the bill. I downed it with ease and smiled in satisfaction as my competitor slumped to the floor, passed out in all of his glory. A chorus of cheers roared in my defense. Nobody, to my dismay, challenged me, but many asked me home, thinking that I was baked beyond reason- I am surprisingly cunning when drunk- and these people were blatantly refused.

I heard the opening of the bar door, and turned around, livid eyed, waiting for the poor sap eager to lose a bet. I was the most attractive broad in the bar, and expected to be greeted flirtatiously.

But to my dismay, the newcomer was a woman. She seemed pretty on the outside, if a little butch for my tastes (not that I had tastes, I didn't swing that way) --her hair trickled past her shoulders in a small wave of black- her eyelashes were long, and she was flat-chested and dressed masculine-ly.

"Guinness," said the stranger.

It was a man's voice. At first I thought, is this a fucking tranny? Are you shitting me? Upon further inspection, the newbie's attributes were most definitely male. He had the fine appearance of stubble across his chin, which was cleft; his eyes shone an enigmatic blue, his hands were rough and calloused and big; hair graced his arms, not much, but it rose in small wires. I smelled his scent. He smelled like cologne and sweat and sex, and for the first time I felt a strange sort of desire well up within me. What a fucking gorgeous man.

"Hello," he turned to me, satisfied with his beer, downing it in a few gulps.

"Hey," I said, warily nursing my latest gin and tonic. "You new in town? Never seen you before."

He laughed, melodiously, his tone low in his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, the faintest perception of sweat on his skin.

"I'm an art student. I'm here from Savannah, hoping to get my masters."

Ooh, an artist...how intriguing.

"Cool. What brings you here?"

"Photography," he answered candidly. No you asshole, I meant what brings you to this bar.

"What do you photograph?"

"Women."

I felt a shiver run through me.

"What kind of women?"

He shrugged. "Beautiful women."

I almost expected him to say "like yourself" at the end of that, but then if he was from SCAD, well, he had to have some credit behind his claims. Not all guys wanted to hit on me, God. Suddenly his hand was in front of my face. I shook it firmly, amused by how his hand consumed mine.

"Martin," he said.

"What?" I remained staring at his hands, feeling their smooth texture.

"My name..."

"Oh. I'm Carmen," I answered.

Martin smiled. "You definitely have some Spanish in you."

The remaining time I drank at the bar, all I noticed was Martin's hands- on the handle of the beer stein filled with the black, oozing scum that was Guinness- on the pen as he signed his check, and most importantly, on my arm, on my shoulder, near my thigh. For the first time, I knew overpowering desire. I wanted those hands- with their softness and their grace- on my body, finding places I didn't know existed, running along my back, gripping my hair. I wanted those hands to make me come.

After he signed his bill, he looked at me and offered me a charming smile.

"Shall we go?" he asked, expertly, deftly, delicately.

"Go where?" I feigned skepticism.

Martin leaned down and whispered in my ear, his lips so close it made my skin tingle. "I want to take pictures of you."

Again, the desire flooded my veins. I followed him blindly, like a sheep.

He led me to this fancy hotel- the Parisian looking ones that every child wants to stay at when they are in the city. It reminded me of The Plaza in that book my mother read to me when I was young- Eloise.

Martin opened the door and ran to his camera bag, pulling out a Nikon with the biggest lens I had ever seen. The room felt grand, bourgeois, luxurious. The walls were covered in a black and white fleur-de-lis pattern, the bathroom had granite countertops, there were Monet prints on the wall, and the single bed- a black four-poster loomed in the middle, the white of its sheets begging to be corrupted. A leather armchair relaxed like an old friend in the corner.

The window loomed in the background, the glorious insomniac city gleaming in, illuminating the room in a pallid glow.

"Stay there," Martin began, excitedly; "The lighting's perfect."

I stayed there, as he asked, and stared at him confused, my lips in a small pout. I heard the click of the camera, and feeling vainglorious and sexy, leaned on my hips, my hands on them, and a brilliant smile on my face. Click, click.

"Put your hands in your hair," he demanded. I was happy to oblige, knotting my fingers in the inky tendrils, smirking lasciviously as the camera offered its satisfying sound. Getting frisky, I removed my sweatshirt, and underneath it there was nothing save for my bra- a lacy little thing, black, flattering as it cupped my 34 Cs. I felt inward satisfaction as I felt them bounce and settle with the lifting of my arms. I saw Martin from the corner of my eye, snapping away, fascinated. My shorts fell to the ground. He whistled under his breath upon seeing the sheer black boyshorts I wore, mostly for my own amusement. His mouth hung, slightly agape at my poses- the sensual artificial light of the city pooling at my feet.

"Do you want to take some nude shots?" I offered, coquettishly. He merely nodded, not trusting his words.

The bra fell to the ground, revealing the tits that all the boys wanted to grab in high school. The nipples were pert with the change in temperature, aroused by the sudden cool air. My panties dropped languidly to the floor, my hips bobbing to and fro, just to tease poor Martin. I prayed he didn't notice the spot of white in those black shorts from the sheer sexuality of the situation, my delight in having my picture taken. I fluttered my eyelashes at the photographer, now underneath my spell. In a pouty voice, I addressed him.

"Martin," I whispered.

He made a noise of acknowledgement. I looked him dead in the eye and he put his camera down, paying full attention to me, and I loved it. He cocked his head to the side.

"Kiss me."

I found myself shocked at the quickness with which he rose, and striding across the room, he put his hands on my shoulders and his lips against mine. His lips were soft, but with the rough edge of a man. His mouth attacked mine, devouring me with one kiss. His tongue was skilled, and when it brushed mine the right way, I shivered against him. He kissed like a man who wanted to please a woman should. I lost my feistiness beneath those lips. My hands groped his shirt, furiously undoing the buttons and roughly pulling it down in order to get a glimpse of that alabaster skin. His hands, soft, tender, were around my back, supporting me, one found its way to my ass and grabbed it. I wanted to devour Martin, I wanted to consume him. He inconspicuously slipped off his shoes and socks and kicked them to the side. His pants followed, revealing the tent in his boxers.

My hands were all over him, behind his ear, running through his long ashen hair, gripping his back. My lips nipped at his neck, his nipples, finding their way down. I took off his boxers with my teeth. His cock was large, bigger than most, and I took it in my hand immediately, pumping it, listening to the groans that passed through his parted lips. I replaced the hand with the mouth, sucking lightly, caressing the head. He gripped my hair roughly, forcing me down on it, and I let him, teasing him with my tongue, my teeth, my throat.

"No more or I'll come," he pleaded, and when I rose, he pushed me against the bed, his mouth hot and needy on my neck. Sweat lubricated our skin, his body loomed over mine. He took my breasts in his hands and fondled them, teasing the nipple with his thumb, his tongue. I moaned, gripped his back, feeling the heat go straight between my legs. I was so wet with juices I could barely stand it. He continued to tease my tits, biting, suckling like a newborn. I felt his hard-on against my leg.

"Goddammit," I cursed, "stop teasing me."

He laughed the sound sending chills down my body as I felt his hand dip between my legs, reveling in the slick honey of my sex. To my enjoyment, he licked some of it off of his fingers before stroking once more. God, I had never been so turned on in my life. His fingers teased me, played with me, refusing to touch my clit. In impatience and need, I thrust my hips against him, begging him to touch the little bud that would send me to heaven and beyond.

"Shhh," he whispered, a groan, "Let's not be in a hurry."

I felt the tip of his cock sliding along my slit, and moaned in anticipation, delighted at the squishy sounds all of the juices I had conjured up were making.

"Martiiiin," I whimpered, "Goddamn you, fuck me."

Suddenly he had sheathed himself entirely in me, and I let out a loud cry of both surprise and pleasure.

"You've been bad," he whispered sensually, groaning at the feeling of being inside a woman, "You let me take dirty pictures of you. You loved it, didn't you?"

His hand fingered my clit, flicking the bud repeatedly, making me whine with the overwhelming hotness of it. "Yess," I whimpered, thrusting my hips against him, begging him to move within me, "I love it when you take pictures of me."

"It makes you wet," he continued, his tongue lapping at the inside of my ear.

"Yess," I sobbed, wanting him to move. He flicked his thumb over my neglected nipple, causing a new jolt of pleasure to be sent to my groin. I moaned, my senses heightened by arousal.

"Please," I cried, along with his name, and slowly he started rocking within me.

"Like this?" he crooned, his hand still teasing my pert nipple. I groaned.

"Harder," I managed to whisper. He thrust harder, pounding me. My breath came in little moans and whines and sighs as I felt him moving in and out of me, his cock hitting somewhere that made me tremble with pleasure, weep with wetness.

"Now what?" he mused, his groans filling the air as well, heightening mine. "Nnn," I moaned, "Touch my clit!" He continued thrusting into me, putting my legs above my head so my entrance was tighter to him. Choked cries of passion found their way from me. I was being devoured.

"Here?" he chortled, mid-groan, as he brushed his thumb over the nub of skin. I moaned loudly. "God yes, there," I screamed. I heard him spat on his hand and then I felt the cool slickness of his newly-lubed fingers rubbing me, and I could no longer stifle the chorus of sounds echoing from me.

"Fuuuck," I groaned as he found his way deeper inside of me. I heard the sound of his balls slapping against my ass, and I cried for him. The sensations were overwhelming me, choking me, each thrust was better than the next, his groans sent pulsating heat through my veins...

"Martiiin, I'm gonna..." I didn't even finish that sentence before I felt my orgasm ram all of my senses, force a loud final moan out of me. And right after, I heard a loud moan from Martin, and felt his seed drenching me inside.

"Shiiit" he said in a sudden panic, pulling out, realizing he'd forgotten the condom in his car. I groaned at his absence. "Relax, I'm on the pill," I managed to choke out, calming his state of frenzy. I curled into his chest.

"I came so hard," I whispered.

He chuckled and said to me-

"Next time you should wear stockings."