He comes back from his break. He refastens the cuffs behind your back and tosses you onto your front on the bed. He removes the robe, and starts shooting. The camera is so close to you that you can hear the autofocus motor whining. You think you can feel the shutter. He moves around you photographing your naked ass.

The movement of him around you drives you to beg him to take you. He takes what he wants, unfastens the cuffs, and walks out with the camera.

Three days later you receive an unmarked DVD in the post documenting your desperate desire for him.

You know that nagging feeling you have been having about not knowing what he’s thinking, where he’s going with all this? Perhaps that’s partially sated when he speaks one word…

a woman’s name…

not yours…

and she slips out from behind a screen…

and you are so fascinated by her naked figure carrying the specific tools (some would say “toys”) that she carries that you barely hear him say “Happy Birthday, my little one. She is your present, and we will share her like we would share cake.”

I’m sure you can take it from there.

From there it doesn’t take much for his words to encourage your hands to touch your own skin, to show off for the camera. At first it’s all artifice, but the more you touch, the more you want to touch, until you’re bringing yourself off at his command, the blank stare of the camera lense capturing every moment, the curve of your body as you push into your hands, the arch of your back as you grind down against your fingers, the toss of your head as you come, shaking, every moment captured.

It isn’t enough, but it’s something. He sends you home satisfied and yet deeply unsatisfied.

When he sends you the proofs your face burns but your pussy moistens.

He offers you another shoot.

Mia x