She is naked, kneeling above him, straddling his legs while he strokes his cock, trying not to come.
She wants to photograph him.
She wants his widening eyes, the flash of his teeth, the sinking into himself. Small transformations, complex and quick, moving under his skin. They are who he is when he is with her like this. Deep water currents. She wants to capture them.
She picks up her lens and frames his face. Just his face, not his body, chest up. She knows his body, his salted scent; touching his skin is like touching her own. It’s his face that changes. His face holds a world, a fluid, changing landscape she cannot fully know.
She sways above him and angles the lens. She wants his face when he thrusts, when he tries to stop, when she tells him not to come; the serrated edge when he starts again, the veins in his neck, the strain of his jaw, the throb and pulse of who he is now, and now, and now. She cannot get enough.
She hates impermanence. She would freeze time if she could; catch slivers in an icy sphere and hold it in her palm—magic for when reality beats too hot against her skin. But there are no spheres or magic. Only now, and now, and now. She cannot take it in. Not everything at once. But freezing him in glass and pixels and plates brings something like permanence close.
She’s wet and getting wetter, flushed and hot – too hot for frozen spheres. Her hips move like he’s fucking her. Like she’s fucking him. Her lens captures what it can. They are close, so close his knuckles brush her damp, trembling thigh. She pants like he’s panting and burns through film.
“I can’t,” he says. “I have to come.”
She doesn’t know how many times he’s said that, or how many times she’s said no. She’s captured his face every single time with her icy, clinical lens. But she cannot capture this—the rolling, feverish fullness of where they are now.
“Wait. Just wait,” she says.
Her cunt brushes his cock as she sets the camera down. She can’t hear through her pulse, the rushing, liquid heat of the blood beneath her skin. The heat drips out of her, onto him, into them. She leans down and strokes his face with her burning fingertips.
“Look at me,” she says.
He does, and she sinks down. She keeps her eyes open, though god they want to close. She wants to see his face, caught between her hands. She is still taking pictures. She wants to memorize his face. Now and now and now. She watches and he comes. That one, that picture, is hers alone.
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