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Only he’s not a boy.
He’s all man, with bronzed muscles and dark eyes.
Watching him from my position, lying on his bed, makes me feel vulnerable and small and… cherished. As if just by looming over me like a shadow, he can protect me from every disaster in the world.
Abel has to visibly gather himself at the sight of me. His fingers keep flexing at the sight of my breasts, like he’s imagining his hands squeezing them. I’m imagining that too. He keeps swallowing, licking his lips when he focuses on my core, like he’d rather be licking that than his mouth. My toes curl.
Again, he finds it in himself to keep going. He narrows his eyes and cocks his head, studying me. Objectively. He’s thinking how does he want me. He’s thinking how should he re-arrange my limbs to get the shot he wants. The one he’ll be staring at, on lonely nights for the next four weeks.
Biting his lip, he wears the camera around his neck and bends down. Our eyes meet and I gulp. There’s such fire in the depths of his gaze, heated and scorching. It’s a surprise I haven’t melted yet. I clutch the sheets, crossing my thighs, pressing them together hard.
In complete contrast to his intense gaze, his fingers run over my stomach, casually, lightly. I tuck my tummy in, holding in a breath. He circles my belly button, making the flesh tremble and break out in goosebumps. The same fingers travel to the side and trace long-ago scars from the bruises. He’s angry, his fingers trembling like my body.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I assure him in a whisper and give him a small smile to tell him that I’m okay.
He grits his teeth but doesn’t say anything. His fingers though? They don’t stop. They travel upward, tracing the underside of my breasts, the valley between them. He even flicks a nipple, like it’s an afterthought, and it beads, turning an angry shade of red. I gasp out his name, arching my back. My thighs are slick; I’m pretty sure I’m leaving my wetness on his bed.
I reach out to touch him but he moves away, leaving me clutching the cold air instead of warm skin.
“Lift up your arms. Put them on the pillow.” He readies the camera, brings it up to his face.
Damn it. I hate this. Is this how he’s been feeling all this time? All horny and restless, with no relief in sight?
I am a cock-tease, then. So I obey now. I put my arms on the pillow.
“Arch your back,” he says.
I do that, too.
But Abel isn’t satisfied. He lowers the camera, studying my body once again. Then, he begins to arrange my limbs to his satisfaction. He presses his open palm on my lower stomach and my spine comes off the bed in a sharp angle. He curls his hands over mine and makes them clutch the pillow tight. He even goes as far as to arrange my legs: folding one leg up and forcing my thighs to smash together.
It’s like I’m rocking myself to orgasm on his bed. Only I’m not. I’m staying still so he can capture the fantasy.
And then, a current runs along the length of my spine when I hear the click. Then, click, click, click.
“Bite your lip,” he says.
I do it.
Click. Click. Click.
“Put one hand on your stomach.”
My hand goes to my stomach.
“Perfect,” he whispers, and I smile slightly. “Fuck, hold that pose.”
I hold it.
Click, click, click.
I moan and even though you can’t capture sound in a picture, something might have changed on my face because Abel praises me again, and takes multiple shots.
With every click, I become more aroused, more lustful, more free. My core is juicing up, all sensitive. My nipples are throbbing. My heart is close to bursting with all the love I feel for him.
He circles the bed, bends this way and that, squinting his eyes, looking at me through the lens. And I pose for him, obey his every command to the fullest.
Suck on your thumb.
Pinch your nipple.
Squeeze your tit.
Lie on your side. Arch up your ass.
I do everything. Every single thing. I moan, twist my hips, gasp. I give in to the sensations. Though in the back of my mind, I realize he never asks me to open my legs and show off my slit. He never asks to see it. I wonder why.
He’s growing sweatier, his voice turning raspier. Finally, the time comes when he lowers the camera with shaking hands and just stares at me with naked eyes. His noisy breathing fills the room.
“Tell me you want this,” he croaks.
“I do.”
He goes all loose, then. Years of chasing has taken a toll on my Abel. In a flash, his camera is gone and so is his t-shirt. My eyes try to latch on to every expanse of his bare chest. His tight pecs, those little brown nipples on the slabs, the hard lines and grooves of his stomach, his belly button almost hidden under the thatch of hair that trails down to where his jeans are riding low on his hips.
