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My boobs are big, bigger than most of the girls I go to school with, and most days they feel clunky and heavy, sometimes sore too. My waist is small but it’s not the kind you see on TV where everything is tight and muscled. No, my stomach is soft and cushiony. It’s all the Toblerones over the years. My skin is pale with blue veins and my thighs and butt are meaty. As I stand here, I realize how rounded and smooth-edged I am in comparison to him. Even covered by clothes, he looks sculpted and muscled.
“Pink,” he whispers, his eyes blistering through the fabric of my bra.
“For you.”
It’s true. I picked out my underwear for him, even though I was going out with Duke. It’s lacy — lacier than what I usually wear. I didn’t know he’d be seeing it though.
His smile is tight and disbelieving. Just when I think he’s going to touch me, he steps back. I watch him walk backward, his eyes never leaving my body, my breasts specifically, and I’m left feeling shy and flushed. I question him with my eyes as to what he’s doing but he’s silent now, doesn’t give anything away.
His thighs hit the desk and he reaches out to pick up his camera. The action doesn’t make a sound, but somehow it echoes all around the room. He stares at the black object once before lifting his eyes.
“Take off the rest of your clothes.”
Now that sound — his voice — is forever going to echo under the night sky, as if it were only a star-studded roof and the entire world is nothing more than a big, black space. A space where Abel Adams is the king. A god in a black t-shirt, white pants, a silver cross and golden hair, and I’m his disciple.
He’s taken away my free will with his command, and I step out of the pool of my black dress, my yellow hair swishing across my back. With shaking hands, I do the deed. I unhook my bra and let it fall, and I bend and slide down my panties. The air that brushes against my nipples and my wet slit is heated and cold at the same time.
I stand up straight. Naked. Completely, utterly naked.
His eyes go wide and hungry. The fingers clutching the neck of the camera flex and jerk. His lips move but no sound comes out. Though it looks like he’s cursing and saying something to the effect of fuck me.
He doesn’t know where to look first. I watch him watch me, trace my naked breasts, my jutting nipples, and then drop down to my core, the wet curls around it.
For a second, I think he’s going to abandon the whole photography session and pounce on me. He’s going to lose all patience, sate his desire on my body, uncaring of my comfort, uncaring that like him, this is my first time too, and take everything from me. It would’ve scared me yesterday, but yesterday I was just a girl in love. Today, I worship him. I’m not afraid — nervous and trembling and excited, yes, but not afraid.
Somehow, he manages to get his wild breathing under control and keep a firm grip on his camera. With his free hand though, he reaches down to the distinct bulge in his jeans, massaging the hardness. I want to shout that I should be the one to touch it. Let me. But I’m mute. If my sex was wet before, it’s gushing now. It’s swelling and there’s a strong buzz in my clit. Especially when he lowers his gaze and focuses on it — on my core.
“I love your curls.” His gaze is glued to it, pinning me in place.
I jerk at his words, almost disbelieving that he’s bringing it up. He’s touched them before, my curls, but never seen them. But still. People don’t just bring it up. I should’ve known though. Abel Adams doesn’t follow rules, does he?
“I, uh, I sort of don’t want anything sharp around my… you know.”
“I like it.”
“You do?”
He nods. “It just means I gotta work a little harder to take what’s mine. And if I want your pussy shaved, I’ll be the one to do it.”
Wait a second, what? Did he just say that he’s going to… shave me?
That’s gross. So why am I clenching my thighs together, picturing his long fingers holding a blade?
The air thickens and the time to talk is over. He motions with his chin. “Get on the bed.”
My legs give out and I sit on the edge before sliding back. His rumpled dark sheets are scratchy against my skin, almost like his hand but not as warm or as brimming with life and energy.
“Lie down.”
I do it. I sigh when my head hits the pillow. Not because it’s soft, no. His pillow is lumpy and I can’t imagine him sleeping on it. But the fact that he does, that this is where he rests his head at night, floods my body with all the love for this boy.
