“Don’t move,” the photographer tells me. How could I even entertain the idea given the fact that I am lying face down in an X shape, tied to a bed? I’m completely naked except for a latex mask and the fact that he is fully clothed only makes me feel even more exposed and naked.
Aside from some pointers on poses, he’s not very talkative. Although I don’t see him, because I’m face down, I can still feel his gaze scrutinising me, both from his eyes and from his camera lens.
I feel each click as if it were a caress on the skin. It’s like a reiki session; there is no physical contact, but I feel a force of energy that stimulates and relaxes me at the same time. This is how my week starts on a Monday morning. Not bad.
Despite the strangeness and the excitement that this situation provokes in me, the photographer is a professional. In fact, the more formality and professionalism there is in an erotic photo session, the more it turns me on.
He is a very serious man in his late 40s. He is also one of the most fetishistic men I know. Tits and ass aren’t his thing. He likes subtle details that only an experienced observer would notice.
His exquisite attention to detail is something I love about him. And he never loses control. I love that. The denial of expressing carnal desires, but being able to talk about them freely, and in a controlled way, is something that never ceases to amaze me.
After nearly two hundred bondage photos, I’m exhausted from posing. It’s almost lunchtime and I’m starving. As he unties me, I begin to remember the contents of my fridge and the possible dishes I can prepare. But out of politeness I offer the photographer a coffee and he accepts.
I get up and put a bathrobe on and head to the kitchen as he packs up his camera and lights.
As we sit on the sofa in my living room with our coffee, we start talking about how good today’s session has been and we begin to share ideas for the next ones.
“I’d love to photograph people when they wake up to watch their morning routines,” he says.
“Well, I always masturbate in the morning… In fact, I’ve always wanted someone to take pictures of my face when I cum; of my petite mort.” I say looking out the window before taking a sip of my coffee.
“Do you want to do it now?” he asks. “If you have time, of course,” he adds.
I thought the erotic photo session was over, but I realise that the real session is about to begin. Suddenly I forget about my hunger and I feel a tingling between my thighs that I am unable to ignore. Food can wait, I clearly have another appetite that I need to feed. What’s more, I know very well that opportunities of this kind don’t come along every day and I plan to take full advantage of it.
“Okay,” I tell him. Then I get up from the couch and run to my room for a toy. I want a rabbit; I need to feel something inside and my clit is throbbing like a heartbeat between my thighs, demanding my full attention. I pick up Ina Wave and go back into the living room to find the photographer standing with his camera in his hands, ready to shoot again.
“Only the face,” I remind him, before removing my bathrobe and throwing it on the sofa.
“Understood,” he assures me.
I lie on the floor face up. Although it is not the most comfortable place, I am thinking about the photo more than my comfort. I position my hair to create a halo of red curls against the parquet. The photographer positions himself above me, standing with one foot on either side of my hips, so that he won’t see the most explicit ‘porn’ part from the waist down. He covers his face with his camera, waiting for the first click.
I close my eyes and spread my legs. I caress my vulva with my fingers. I’m already so wet that the toy goes in easily, and once inside, I turn it on. The photographer starts taking pictures of me, but despite my obvious excitement, I feel nervous. I know it will take a while for me to come because my head is still absorbing these strange and unexpected circumstances. Despite being ‘face only’ photos, I feel like I’m revealing something much more intimate than a nude photo.
As I listen to the sound of his camera, my mind begins to wander. I think of the petites morts of my past lovers: the loss of control, the expression that seems to be a mixture of suffering and ecstasy that always gives me butterflies in my stomach whenever I see it. I also think of all the times my own petite mort has embarrassed me and I’ve wanted to hide my orgasmic face with a pillow or with my hair. And now here I am willing to show it to someone who isn’t even fucking me… I can’t help but see the irony of the situation.
I almost reach my orgasm several times. But there are too many things distracting me and I have a hard time concentrating. I hope the photographer isn’t getting bored… he must be thinking: “How much longer is this going to take?” I imagine that all the photos we have taken so far will all be the same because I have the feeling that I have not made progress in my arousal and we have been there for a while.
But this is not the time to think about my poses, I have to let go. I have to feel it and forget about the photographer and be as natural as possible so that I can finally get to see one of my most personal expressions, one that I have never even seen with my own eyes.
I open my legs a little more to expose my clitoral glans, I increase the intensity of the toy, and hold it tighter. I need more stimulation so I turn on the wave effect inside making a ‘come hither’ motion against my G spot. I sigh as I feel the toy moving inside me. My breathing quickens, accompanied by the click, click, click of the camera.
But it’s only when I stop hearing the clicks that I get really turned on. Without needing to open my eyes, I realise that this is when the photographer is actually really looking at me, with his own eyes and not through a lens. Suddenly it stops being a mechanical process and I feel his penetrating gaze as if it were an injection of desire, stimulating my most exhibitionist side.
I take a deep breath and hold it. I bite my bottom lip, frowning, holding my breath until I feel my legs start to shake. I have reached the point of no return. Finally. My body tenses even more, before surrendering completely. Now! Oh my God, I’m going to cum now!
Noticing the first spasm, I throw my head back and cry out in pleasure as my buttocks bounce rhythmically against the floor. I need to close my legs against the toy, which I try to push even further inside me. All the accumulated tension is released. Now I hear the clicks of the camera again, with increased frequency, watching and capturing my ecstasy; my petite mort.
I snap back to reality still breathing hard. When I open my eyes, I see him on top of me, just like when we started.
“How crazy!” I exclaim before laughing with relief and nervousness while he takes a couple more photos of my post-orgasmic state.
“I think we’ve got what we wanted,” says the photographer, as if masturbating in front of him were the most natural thing in the world, which only increases the strange horniness of the situation. I get up and put my robe back on. The photographer puts his camera away again, he puts on his jacket, ready to go.
Later, I receive an email with the photos. Although they are not explicit, everything is implied. I study the entire sequence from my obvious nervousness at the beginning, and how my expression changes, little by little as my face becomes tenser and tenser until the final surrender. I notice all the subtle changes and as my skin turns red, my makeup smudges as well as the appearance of veins on my neck and lines on my forehead that I didn’t even know I had.
Some images evoke sensuality and pure sexuality while others convey pain, like childbirth. As I look at them, I remember the feeling of being there masturbating in front of the photographer.
I can’t believe what I’ve done, but it’s precisely these crazy things that make me feel alive. I review the sequence, and each time I find new details. They are not my most beautiful portraits, but these petite mort photos are the memories of a moment that made me feel more alive than ever.
