Vespertine Erotica

The camera sat on the dresser where Jon had left it. Beth carefully moved her arm from under his head and held her breath until he settled back into his dreams.

She rolled away from him, onto her back, to stare at the ceiling and consider the images now locked inside that camera… her most private faces, exposed, the longing inside her eyes that she had never seen.

She wondered at how her body would look as it arched and struggled at his command, how her wetness would glisten in black and white, how the light would play with the flexing muscles of her inner thighs when he demanded that she spread herself open for him.

She wondered if he would hold up his end of the bargain and give her copies of all the prints as he’d promised to. She wondered what it was about him that convinced her to do it.

She glanced at the clock then back at Jon and finally at the shadowy form that was the camera. Even in the dark, she could feel that lens still staring at her.

. . .

The next morning, after Beth had left, Jon mixed himself a gin and tonic and locked himself in his darkroom to develop the film. Memories of the night before made him catch his breath in anticipation.

Soon those scenes would begin to appear in his magic trays, but first, he took a long, slow swallow of his drink, savoring the wait. He loved this part almost more than he loved convincing women to do things like this. But Beth, he never thought he’d ever get her to do it. As soon as he clicked the camera door open, his cock began to harden.

Under his careful attention, one by one, each frame began its grainy reveal. He could see each scene in his memory’s eye, even before it appeared: her beautiful ass spread just for him, the way she looked away from the camera at the last moment, her creamy skin in that perfect light, her graceful fingers opening herself for him…

But instead of all those pieces of her he thought he had captured forever, he saw something else entirely, something even his own expert eye could not have imagined though any lens: twenty-four perfectly framed squares of himself, sleeping, in ghostly clouds of long-exposure blank and white.