Not in person. Not until that night when we grappled in the car. We touched each other, and we almost fucked. But you wouldn't let me put my cock in you. Only touch your bush, your clit.
You pulled your pants down to your knees, and I buried my face in your crotch. I smelled and licked the warm smell of your pussy and asshole. The wet slurp and sweat.
We continued to date, but it wasn't about sex entirely. It was about being together. One day you sent me a love note with the words so explicit I knew you had been thinking about it. That you were interested. You were exposing your sexual side to me, in words and not in person. You wanted to show me, to capture my imagination. But not to simply present yourself to me. To surrender.
You knew you could get my cock hard when you touched me... kissed me and licked my ear. My neck. You sent me a picture of yourself, naked that you had taken yourself.
I poured over it. I analyzed every pore, every detail.
I analyzed every detail. The camera. The stuff on the floor. The placement of your legs. You were the author of this photo, there was the camera. You looked at yourself and took the picture, staring into the mirror, with the camera capturing what you had seen.
I told you I liked it. In fact that I had masturbated to it... but not cum. I saw you in the bathroom, as plain and as normal as you always were. Yet naked. Posed, but unaffected.
The second picture you spend more time posing yourself.
You stood in front of the mirror, exposing yourself. This was something more explicit and rarified and straight-ahead fuck than the first, although I don't think you quite realized it.
It emphasized your sexual attributes. You take a picture of yourself unposed, and it's a self-portrait, and whatever is captured is what it is. Your hair may not be correct, or the glare of the camera may obscure some important detail. There is a documentary/reality aspect to it that lends authenticity to the picture.
Even if you've taken off your clothes. If your hand is at your vagina. And the smile is a come-hither come-fuck-me look. You are an inadverent agent of your own depiction. To pose, to stick your ass in the air is to create meaning and text beyond the subtext.
You were no longer sending me a picture of yourself, potentially naked and pontentially available, you were actually offering yourself, visually and physically (by agency) to me. Your ass to the mirror, and to the camera, pointed at you and therefore at me.
Capturing my gaze as I look upon your and your sexual poise. Vulnerable and offering, not hiding. This was no casual self-portraiture. This was an invitation to gaze upon and engage your fucking wishes and fantasies.
In other words, you want it. You look upon yourself and move emotionally and physically beyond the mere regarding of your sexual body, your casual and seductive... enticing... nudity. You have pointed the creature at yourself which will encapsulate your soul, take grip upon the gaze that you let fall upon yourself and freeze it to be shown to me.
To confront me with my own gaze upon you - the camera looking right into my eyes that captures the image of you, naked and smiling, hand on hip, legs slightly open, hair on pussy and clitoris moist. Breasts hanging but nipples assertively erect.
Flash at the ready. Window open. Exhibitionism for yourself, a self-satisfied circle.
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