Page 83 of Lovefool

“I told you to take a picture earlier. I think you should follow through with it.”

Her weighted suggestion slices through the tension like lightning rending apart a storm cloud, and for someone who was, in fact, very ungentlemanly the last time I had my way with her, this fantasy never seemed to pop up in my head.

Hummingbird heartbeat playing off tempo, my lungs begin a laborious heave while I try to untangle the words clogging my throat.

“Are you sure?” I ask hesitantly, hating how quick my cock hardens at the thought of jerking off to gritty, porn-adjacent pictures of Lake in suggestive positions with minimal clothing on.

Lake waves me off, waiting for the Polaroid to develop, a small smile overtaking her lips as she stares at whatever amusing expression of mine she caught on camera. She doesn’t let me see it, though—just nestles it safely into the pocket of her duffel bag before pursuing me with the certainty of a woman who knows what she wants.

She doesn’t respond to my worry, instead hurriedly yanking her hoodie off with no qualms about how vulnerable she’s about to be in point two seconds. No double-checking that the door is locked, no dimming of the lights, no scouring the back balcony for Peeping Toms. She shimmies out of her sweatpants next with calculated urgency.

Lake always tends to catch me off guard (in a good way), and I genuinely don’t expect her to unveil the Holy Grail of all lingerie sets.

Simple red lace shrinks over her perky tits and sculpted ass, causing spillage that leaves little to the imagination. Her dusky nipples poke at the thin, semi-see-through material, and my stupid, giddy cock chooses the inopportune moment to leak like a faucet with a broken seal, pre-cum seeping through the front of my very light pants.

Jesus. At this rate, I might not even get to fuck her before I blow my load.

When Lake struts over to me—camera equipped in her hand—her hips sway from side to side, emphasizing the muscular outline of her abdominal muscles. She’s a walking wet dream, with mile-long legs that are suspiciously always soft, and my body is on a mission to mortify me because I start to salivate like a starving dog.

She pulls me forcefully to my feet with one arm, then leads me over to the mattress, fully aware of how good her butt looks in that cheeky, nearly nonexistent thong of hers. My eyes never leave her hourglass figure, the temperature inside me rising to funeral pyre-levels of hot, so much so that any slight movement has me seeing dots.

I knew Lake had a dominant side—I could just tell from the way she commands a room—but I had no idea I would get to see it this soon. She’s like a completely different person from the shy girl I rammed my cock into in the locker room. She’s taking full control, just as she should.

Once we end our pilgrimage, she shoves the camera into my chest, proceeding to climb onto the bed and kneel in front of me in all her half-naked glory. My chest is tighter than a tourniquet around a hemorrhaging leg.

As much as I love this lingerie set, nothing could ever beat the smooth, natural, rolling hills of her curves—the fullness of her breasts, her plump backside. I want my girl spit-slick and kiss-bitten by the time we use up all the film in this camera.

Anxiety banished from her disposition, she grabs two handfuls of her boobs, squeezing them together, looking up at me as if she’s waiting for my approval.

Fucking hell.

She poses with the mastery of a goddamn model, pouting her lips, fondling the fat of her tits and entrancing me without saying so much as a word. My hands shake when I take the first picture, and it’s as if I just opened a Pandora’s box inside of my head, rationality and delusion waging a war over already-pulverized land.

The subsequent click and shutter soak into the walls of the room, the little film sliding out of its corresponding slot for my fingers to take. The waiting is going to kill me—you know, if Lake doesn’t get to it first.

I don’t bother with shaking it. I toss it onto the bed, unwilling to miss even a second of the gorgeous display the girl of my dreams is putting on for me. None of this feels real. I’d seriously wonder if I was hallucinating if it wasn’t for my one-sided tussle with the television stand.

I don’t know how she tops the first pose, but she does, repositioning onto her hands and knees. Her body is horizontal to the camera’s lens, breasts hanging, a sexy-as-hell arch to her back that jumpstarts the animalistic desire ensnaring my heart. The unfed chasm in the bottom of my belly opens with every look I level her way, and I snap another picture.

Every photo is different from its predecessor—she’s spreadeagle on the mattress, she’s pulling down the strap of her thong, she has her fingers in her mouth.

It hurts to fucking stand. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. There’s no mistaking the hard-on stretching out the crotch of my sweats, nor the unashamed flood of pre-cum that saturates the cotton. I can’t think straight.

“Pull your pants down,” she commands, the words landing rough and hard as opposed to her usual metered patience.

There’s some flimsy response queued behind my teeth, but I never vocalize it. It’s like my whole body is trying to troubleshoot the blue balls I’ve got going on, and that’s somehow making the pain worse. Spine locked up, vision grainy, stomach tossed into permanent upset.

I do as she says, pulling the hem down to rest just below my knees, and I’d be embarrassed at how quickly my cock springs out and slaps against my stomach if my social awareness wasn’t…incapacitated.

Lake doesn’t throw around one of her famous quips. No, determination strews over her expression, matching her unhurried movements. There’s no urgency—no wild hunger. She stalks me like a predator that’s already secured its next meal. A predator that loves to sweeten its food with the sour threat of fear.

She bends down to kiss my heavy dick, and at this point, I’m afraid any contact will drastically cut my latency in half. It was never long to begin with when it came to Lake.

Her lips press against a particularly sensitive spot—right over a snake-like vein—and she allocates little energy to expel her next set of directions. Her breath is ironically cool on my overheating appendage as a keening noise sits in my throat.

“Take a picture.”

I’ve…never taken a nude before. Which sounds crazy, considering it’s a currency in this unfortunate hookup culture that’s metaphysically transformed romantic relationships as we know them.