He picked up the digital camera and suggested nude photos. She gave him an eyeful.
Showing posts with label cameras. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cameras. Show all posts
STRIKE A POSE
He picked up the digital camera and suggested nude photos. She gave him an eyeful.
ON LOCATION
I have no idea what prompted this shoot, but I'm glad someone had the sense to step back and make a quick snapshot. Who wouldn't love to be able to have been "on location" with this lovely crew.
I have no idea what prompted this shoot, but I'm glad someone had the sense to step back and make a quick snapshot. Who wouldn't love to be able to have been "on location" with this lovely crew.
ONE WAY TO GET A PROPOSAL
Emily and I started as a long-distance relationship. We'd met when I went to Boston to visit friends, and we hit it off. We stayed in touch, exchanged letters and photos. She'd fly to the West Coast to see me in SF, and I returned to Boston for a second visit. Things were moving forward, but the week of intense non-stop sex separated by total withdrawal was hard on us both. Many of our letters become more sexually charged to compensate for the total lack of any physical contact.
At first, she sent me some cool photos of herself in the bathroom of her little apartment. In the first shot, she's pointing the camera into the mirror and covering herself, as if pretending to be modest. Another showed her in her bath, her hand suggestively between her legs. She confessed that taking self-snapshots was a turn on. As she thought of me, she'd touched herself.
She'd joke that she'd go online to and have to order a toy to "keep her company" while we were apart. The thought of her, naked after her bath, at her laptop, looking at various models of vibrators and dildos was a huge turn on for me. I wondered if she touched herself, thinking of her her toy.
I cautioned her that if she got one of those 12" dildos that she'd never be satisfied with the real thing. "Don't worry," she assured me. She said she'd pick out something perfectly sized, something that would do the trick until we were reunited.
Weeks passed and she built up the anticipation of her new purchase. In emails she'd send short updates. Like: searched tonight, many possibilities. Then came: Found one, perfect. And then: waiting for mail, horny as hell. And at last: Arrived, expect photo soon.
I couldn't believe it. She'd built it up more than a kid looking forward to Christmas. I couldn't wait to see what image she'd capture. What color was it, how big? A pocket rocket or a torpedo vibe? The famous rabbit?
At last the email appeared in my inbox. I saw that it was from her and had an attachment. I waited to open it until night, right before bed. When I finally looked at it, I was naked, hard, and ready. When I opened it, I instantly saw that she'd shaved since we were together last. Her toy was purple and hard plastic. A vibrator, I guessed. Her pussy was wet and looked like she'd already been using her toy. She lay on her back, and shot into a mirror.
Then I realized the obvious. I had completely assumed that she'd masturbated with the toy and taken a shot ust as she had finished. I took it for granted that she'd use the toy on her swollen clit and in her pussy. When I finally stopped taking in her puffy, wet, shaven labia as I beat off furiously to her image, I realized the toy was not, in fact, in her vagina, but rather stuffed in her tight backdoor. I had no idea how freaky she was! I came instantly at the sight.
Right then and there I knew I could not let this girl get away. The next day, I wrote her back my response, and an invitation to move in together and start our lives together, on the same coast. In one way, it would be the end of our long-distance. The image her last self-snap from Boston. But now, she's here. We're married, and my view is even better.
SHOWER SELF SNAPS
Here is one of the best series of self-snaps. How fun, how spontaneous. She takes a mirror from the bathroom wall and sets it in the tub. She turns on the water. Then she climbs in, still in her panties and bra. She offers a front view, knees apart. Hair just starting to get damp from the spray.
A second shot, she turns, points the camera back, gets her ass framed in the mirror. Her panties are getting soaked in the shower--and transparent.
Next shot, she strips. Full view, she sits on the edge of the tub. Her hair now totally wet, her body gleaming as water drops run down her chest
And finally, a perfect good-bye: She moves to the mirror for a close up self portrait, and sticks out her tongue. How playful. Creative and adventurous, two qualities that this beauty displays. If she's this original and seductive in the shower with a mirror, I can only imagine what she brings to the bedroom...
LIVING WITH THE NEWLYWEDS
This is probably not a good story to admit, but I find it sexy, and have to share.
Over the years of college, I had several odd and interesting roommates. At first it was the dorms, and dudes who stacked their empty beer cans into pyramids. I joined a group house of hippies for sophomore year. Another dorm, a crappy apartment with my friend Mark, a small house with a German exchange student, and at the end, perhaps weirdest of all to me: a condo with a newlywed couple, John and Isabelle.
It was a brand new condo complex, part of the large state university, built for married graduate students and families. Each condo was two bedrooms, bath, livingroom/kitchen. Pretty simple, and the rent, for the university town, was almost affordable. John and Isabelle were both grad students, John was going to become a city planner, or environmental engineer or something related to cities, policy and all that. Isabelle was getting her Masters of Education, studying early childhood development and dong student teaching at a local arts magnate school. They'd been married less than a year, and naturally really wanted to live alone, but the mounting school debt made them sublet one of their two bedrooms to help cover their rent and utilities.
I thought they were both nice enough folks, and honestly, getting out of the dorms and at least living somewhere decent was a real appeal. John and Isabelle had gotten some furniture and kitchen ware as wedding gifts. So the condo--as homogenized as it was, was still pretty comfortable living for a poor college kid like me.
The only divide was our age and relationship status. They were both in their late 20s and married, which seemed an entirely different world than me, age 22, and single. They had a sofa. I had a backpack. They had a complete set of dishware. I had a stack of library books. So we mostly kept to ourselves. It was fine, because we all had a full load of courses and I had a part-time job. I'd have to practically sneak in when it was late, so as not to wake them. John was sort of passive-aggressive, always "suggesting" ways I could help make the living situation better, like keeping my food on only one shelf in "their" fridge. Like not bringing my friends into the house, but doing "socializing" in other areas. I tolerated his controlling house rules, because the rent, the walking-distance to classes, and Isabelle. I have to admit, she was gorgeous. She was part Columbian, I believe, dark skin, sleek black hair, and the deepest eyes you'd ever seen. She was almost always gone, but we'd cross paths now and then, as she went out for a jog, or the gym. Even in spandex running shorts, jogging bra and loose-fitting t-shirt, she looked really hot. Even though the jogging bras compressed her chest, I could tell she had large, natural breasts. Sometimes in the early mornings, I'd hear her turn on the shower, which was only a thin wall between us and try to imagine how she looked naked.
I never heard her and John take a shower together. I never heard them having sex. It was weird. I just didn't get it. How could John marry such an amazingly beautiful Latina and not have sex with her every single night?
It wasn't my business, so I tried not to dwell on it. Of course, the more I tried not to think of their sex lives, the more I did. When they were away, I started searching the house for any trace of anything sexy. I admit, I even peeked under their bed, under the mattress, their sock drawers. The condo was absolutely immaculate. Under the bed had been vacuumed. The socks and underwear neatly folded. No box of toys, no bottle of lube, not even a package of condoms. This drove me crazy. How could a young, newlywed couple have no trace, whatsoever, of a sex life?
It was a mystery then, and in many ways, still a mystery. But it all changed one evening when I cam back from my job earlier than usual. It wasn't that late--maybe 11pm--but I knew that John and Isabelle usually turned in no later than 9pm, so I quietly turned my key in the door. I slipped off my shoes (one of John's house rules), and walked in by habit without flipping the kitchen light. I stopped suddenly. John and Isabelle looked up from the sofa as shocked to see me as I was to see them. To startled to move or say a word, my eyes quickly took in the scene. John and Isabelle were both on the sofa, fully clothed. There was a bottle of wine on the coffee table, two glasses, half full, and the bottle half empty. They'd been sitting close, but not embracing, or kissing, just sitting, like any couple talking together. Everything was totally normal--except they'd both jumped, startled, as if caught doing something incriminating. And they were.....sort of. On the table was three or four small plastic bottles of finger paint like you'd find in a kindergarten. Isabelle had been finger painting stripes of orange, yellow, and green on John's face, much like Native American war paint. It was all very innocent, but also very bizarre.
You see--I'd lived in a student collective house of hippies. Face-painting there would have been totally part of that scene. But John and Isabelle, they were the pristine picture of suburban America, with all new furniture, a new car, both getting good educations, both destined for the model showroom lifestyle, gym membership, and lattes at Starbucks. The face painting seemed as out of place and a awkward as if I'd walked in on an S&M session. John, completely caught off gaurd, quickly gathered the paints and the wine, and grumbled something about "barging in." He retreated to his room, Isabelle following.
I stood, still frozen, now looking at the empty couch. Had I really seen that? What the hell had happened?
Whatever..... I went to bed.
When I woke up, John and Isabelle had left for their day. I peeked into the living room: it was as usual, the carpet perfectly vacuumed. The coffee table bare and polished. The chairs at just the right angles. In the kitchen, the dishes all clean and put away. The bathroom, clean as always, and tidy. Their bedroom: the bed made, the pillows propped up on the headboard. The dresser drawers all closed, and neat. I almost turned and walked away. I almost resolved that my married roommates were such neat-freaks that they simply did not have sex.
Still, I couldn't figure out how to make sense of the face painting. It wasn't kinky at all--but it was messy. And that is what made it so incongruous. As a teacher, Isabelle probably had a playful side. But John? Ha.
I was perplexed. Curiosity is often the byproduct of confusion. I couldn't help it. I entered their room and began to snoop. In the drawer by the bedside, I found a digital camera. On it were a couple photos. Apparently, the finger painting session had continued behind the closed door. I felt relieved and reaffirmed that a good-looking newlywed couple did actually have a sex life. And the funny irony is that of all the couples and all the things a couple could share, I never would have imagined finger painting being the foreplay of John and Isabelle. But se la vie. To each his own.
I know it was wrong, but I quickly copied the photos onto my laptop when I had the chance. I had finally gotten my wish, and Isabelle was even prettier than I could have ever imagined.
THE PROJECT
When I started dating Rachel, she'd keep her pubes very neatly trimmed. As we were apart for months at a time, she decided to give up the daily chore of shaving. She was curious to see her hair grow back and how it would look. She'd write to me about the progress of her "project." And, if I was really lucky, she'd take a snap shot to send me as her report.
When I started dating Rachel, she'd keep her pubes very neatly trimmed. As we were apart for months at a time, she decided to give up the daily chore of shaving. She was curious to see her hair grow back and how it would look. She'd write to me about the progress of her "project." And, if I was really lucky, she'd take a snap shot to send me as her report.
THE PHOTOGRAPHER
One of the things my ex-girlfriend and I shared was a love of photography. She always had her camera in hand. In the mornings, she'd take photos of light through her window. She'd take pictures of me, and I took pictures of her, like this one. The relationship is gone, much like the morning light. Temporary, passing even as we felt it slide across skin, and golden. Warm and golden.
One of the things my ex-girlfriend and I shared was a love of photography. She always had her camera in hand. In the mornings, she'd take photos of light through her window. She'd take pictures of me, and I took pictures of her, like this one. The relationship is gone, much like the morning light. Temporary, passing even as we felt it slide across skin, and golden. Warm and golden.
MESSY ROOM, MIRROR
Her dorm room was a mess, a total disaster. Laundry piled everywhere. Textbooks, homework, music lessons buried in the mix. It was finally the weekend, and she figured, maybe she should pack up a load and take it to the laundry room. When she'd returned from the shower, she saw a text message from her boyfriend. He was going to school in another state. Whats up? he'd written. Feeling silly, sexy, and lonely from missing him, she dropped her towel, and stood in front of her mirror, lit by the desk lamp. She snapped a photo with her cel and hit send.
HAVE CAMERA, WILL TRAVEL
They'd packed their camcorder for the trip, to shoot, you know, the usual tourist stuff.
The driving was long, monotonous across Wisconsin. Bored, horney, she reached over and began to stroke him through his pants. She felt him respond to her touch. And after a mile or so, he'd tugged down his pants, released his erection. She gripped it, and stroked slowly. She knew every ridge, every ripple of flesh. She knew his smell, and the taste of his pre-cum. She grew wet, and longed to wrap her lips around his shaft. He grew thicker in her grasp. The miles passed. She began fantasizing about taking him in her mouth and sucking him until she was rewarded with the blast of salty cum. She couldn't stand it, and from his cock straining in her hand, she knew he wanted it, too.
So she scanned the highway for turnouts, rest stops, state parks, and farm service roads. Eventually, she found one, and turned off. It was a secluded farm road, with a small brown sign pointing toward a wetland. A mile or so off the main highway, they came to the wetland. It was an empty gravel parking lot, with an outhouse, a garbage can, and a interpretive sign about birds. She took all of this info in as she scanned the scene, making sure it was perfect for her plan. Once she switched off the ignition, she could have gotten him off then and there. But the anticipation had built up too much. She wasn't going to just do it same-old-same-old. She'd been teasing him and herself for the last hour, it seemed, and here they were, in a secluded, but potentially public place. The sun was warm, the bird chirps filled the air. It smeeled of summer and trees and bushes and nature. She felt ALIVE. She felt DARING.
She looked at him with a grin. "Take off your clothes," she instructed, as she wiggled out of hers. They set up the camcorder on the tripod. And pressed record. "Let's make a real vacation movie," she said.
They'd packed their camcorder for the trip, to shoot, you know, the usual tourist stuff.
The driving was long, monotonous across Wisconsin. Bored, horney, she reached over and began to stroke him through his pants. She felt him respond to her touch. And after a mile or so, he'd tugged down his pants, released his erection. She gripped it, and stroked slowly. She knew every ridge, every ripple of flesh. She knew his smell, and the taste of his pre-cum. She grew wet, and longed to wrap her lips around his shaft. He grew thicker in her grasp. The miles passed. She began fantasizing about taking him in her mouth and sucking him until she was rewarded with the blast of salty cum. She couldn't stand it, and from his cock straining in her hand, she knew he wanted it, too.
So she scanned the highway for turnouts, rest stops, state parks, and farm service roads. Eventually, she found one, and turned off. It was a secluded farm road, with a small brown sign pointing toward a wetland. A mile or so off the main highway, they came to the wetland. It was an empty gravel parking lot, with an outhouse, a garbage can, and a interpretive sign about birds. She took all of this info in as she scanned the scene, making sure it was perfect for her plan. Once she switched off the ignition, she could have gotten him off then and there. But the anticipation had built up too much. She wasn't going to just do it same-old-same-old. She'd been teasing him and herself for the last hour, it seemed, and here they were, in a secluded, but potentially public place. The sun was warm, the bird chirps filled the air. It smeeled of summer and trees and bushes and nature. She felt ALIVE. She felt DARING.
She looked at him with a grin. "Take off your clothes," she instructed, as she wiggled out of hers. They set up the camcorder on the tripod. And pressed record. "Let's make a real vacation movie," she said.
BE A STAR
When I bought my boyfriend a digital camcorder for Christmas, I knew exactly how I wanted him to use it. I have always had a creative eye, I must say. To inspire him, I lay back naked and began to touch myself. He quickly moved up for a closer look.
Then, when he was good and hard from me teasing myself, and him, I climbed on top of him.
I took the camera into my own hands. I wanted him to see it from my point of view.
Then for the final act, I climbed off him, and positioned the camera on the tripod. I lay back and rolled him on top of me. "What do you want?" he asked.
"In the ass," I said, feeling bolder and dirtier than I ever had. I knew it was the camera, the permission of it, not to be my usual self, but someone else, the woman on the screen, the digital flicker of pixels. "Yes," I screamed out for the camera mic. "In my ass. Fuck my ass."
Excited even more, he began to pound. Driving deep, slapping me with his balls.
"Yes," I screamed again. "Cum in my ass. For the camera!"
I was ready for my close up.
When I bought my boyfriend a digital camcorder for Christmas, I knew exactly how I wanted him to use it. I have always had a creative eye, I must say. To inspire him, I lay back naked and began to touch myself. He quickly moved up for a closer look.
Then, when he was good and hard from me teasing myself, and him, I climbed on top of him.
I took the camera into my own hands. I wanted him to see it from my point of view.
Then for the final act, I climbed off him, and positioned the camera on the tripod. I lay back and rolled him on top of me. "What do you want?" he asked.
"In the ass," I said, feeling bolder and dirtier than I ever had. I knew it was the camera, the permission of it, not to be my usual self, but someone else, the woman on the screen, the digital flicker of pixels. "Yes," I screamed out for the camera mic. "In my ass. Fuck my ass."
Excited even more, he began to pound. Driving deep, slapping me with his balls.
"Yes," I screamed again. "Cum in my ass. For the camera!"
I was ready for my close up.
