Captured

He took pictures the last time he was in town, too, remember? The pictures he took this Wednesday are better. More intimate. More explicit. I keep going back to one in particular -- he had held the camera down close to my face while I knelt before him, lost in the act of sucking his cock, occasionally leaning into his thighs to keep my balance, my hands cuffed behind me. No, I didn't notice the flash this time.

My eyes are closed, lashes dark against my pale skin; my hair lies in Medusa streaks across my face, upon my shoulders -- there are even some tendrils clinging to his wet shaft. His worn jeans are pushed down. He has a tattoo on his thigh. The picture was taken at the moment I have only the head of his penis in my mouth, the moment between up stroke and down stroke, my cheeks hollow. I can see the blue veins in his cock and the light freckles scattered across my bare shoulder.

It's a very good picture.

I want to write about the way he came into the room and steered me straight to a chair, settling me into it and pulling my arms behind me, cuffing my wrists, kneeling to bind my legs to the chair, all done wordlessly, deliberately, purposefully. Then he stood close behind me and when I tried to turn my head to see him, he turned it back to face frontward.

I want to write about later, when I probably should have said something about the wrenching pain in my shoulder, and the metal cuffs digging into my back where I laid upon them while he fucked me, my legs over his shoulders, but didn't, because I didn't want him to stop.

Maybe I will. Maybe I'll write about it in detail, trying in vain to capture every image, every sensation, every fleeting thought. Maybe I'll even admit that I cried a little afterward while I laid on the bed next to him, my head turned away in a vain attempt to hide my vulnerability. I hadn't ever done that -- cried as an immediate reaction to sex. It frightened and thrilled me to let it happen.