The Photographer

Imagine the velvet chaise with mahogany claw feet, its burgundy velvet shining in the diffused lights. I am standing in front of him, facing the chair, untying my robe and letting it fall to the mirror-waxed black stone floor. I wear only the cool air and a plain silver necklace chain.

I can hear him step forward; hear the leather's light rustle and the faint clink of chain links. The blindfold first, black cloth folds block out light with his hands combing my curls up to tie a quick knot at the top of my neck. He turns me around and clasps my hands, rubbing his thumbs along mine. He clasps and buckles suede-lined heavy cuffs around each of my wrists. I can feel the air move along my hip as he bends down to buckle larger ones around each ankle.

He hooks his fingers in the D-rings on my wrist cuffs, stands, and begins walking me back by my wrists, pushing me with his large chest, clad in soft, tight cotton. I put my feet on top of his shoes, and allow him to walk me back until velvet and cool wood touch the backs of my knees and calves. I sit down. He pushes my hands down toward the floor, and releases them. I hear the rustle again, feel him grasp one wrist; hear the snick of a clip on one D-ring and the clink of the chain again. I rub my thighs and shoulders against the soft fabric, sinking my ass into the springy cushion. I pull my hands out a bit and feel the chain catch on the back, while warm hands attach my ankles apart by a bar that runs between them under the lounge.

My legs are open and the air is almost cold. My nipples are small hard candies on my chest. A nearby breeze wafts chilly on my very wet cunt. Every nerve jumps randomly, each cell is awake for any sense input. Hot gasoline floods every blood vessel. I can hear nothing but an occasional soft shuffle of shoe on floor, my breath quickening, my heartbeat the chug of a train gathering speed on a long stretch of flat track.

"Snick," opens and closes the camera eye, on the expanse of my invisible naked flesh. I am more vulnerable, more helpless than ever before; as never before I feel secure, safe, protected -- and frustrated. I let go of the tension, knees and thighs relax, slick swollen petals part. The bloom reveals a silver circle of steel, small through the hood of my clit. A trickle of warm fluid weeps onto my thighs.

A soft breathing is next my ear. A finger traces the inside of my left arm, down along the edge of my armpit, along the crease between breast and chest, circling my navel. A palm cups my belly; a thumb nudges the top of my labia open, and more shutter clicks echo off the ceiling. Fingertips caress the edges of the inner lips; one lifts the blue bead in the center of the ring. It spreads my juices up over every surface of my hungry lips, before stopping as if to request entrance at the temple gate.

I can't stop the rocking of my hips, motion rippling my breasts. My body scoots toward the foot of the lounge, shuddering lightly over smooth velvet. Toes curl crawling forward along the floor, moving my cunt to the fingers. The hand remains equidistant. It pulls away slightly with each scootch closer. Two digits wriggle alongside my clit, touching only the moisture. They beckon caresses on the sides of the tiny pink marble, and pleasure radiates outward on ten million nerve impulses - frying all capability of coherent thought from my consciousness.

The chain cannot tighten further on the back of the chair. I lie flat, panting through my nose, trying to focus my will to orgasm. My knees bend as the ankle bar catches against the legs of the chaise. My arms stretch straight out above my head, breasts loll slightly to each side. The smooth ellipsoids of pale flesh boast large rose ovals, hardened into small mountains; a circle of steel halos the left peak.

I feel the lights on me as warmth in the faint draft. Two torturing fingers slide inside me simultaneously slipping and sliding, thumb constantly circumnavigating my clit. I moan, and arch my torso. "Please!" I whisper.

His chest chuckles deeply, "Please what?"

"Please, please touch my tits?" A large hand wraps around my pierced breast, squeezing, stretching the skin and the aureole. The fingers in my cuntcave cycle and gyrate; the thumb down there hooks through the jewelry. I am all energy, all desperate aching, and I am right... about... to...

"Hold that pose." His soft, emphatic tone stills me; he stops and pulls away. More clicks. The hand returns to my vagina like little fishes within and the thumb twitches rhythmically on my clit like the wagging of a kitten's tail. Slide-pull-pause... Slide-pull-pause... click.

Slide... Pull... Pause.... Click.

Slide. Pull... Slide. Pull.... Slide. Pull. Stop. Click.

Slide, slide, slide, slide, slide... PULL... Click.

I can't stop. It's coming, I'm coming, all lines of electricity several inches behind the blindfold. Limbs writhe against restraint, pleasure is pain, it's too much but I dimly sense the click click click click click click click click... before I lose all being to the ecstasy.