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Author’s Note: I appreciate flirtation, build-up, and character development, so I don’t jump right into action. If you enjoy stories brewed slowly like cups of coffee or tea, I’m interested in knowing what you think.
A friend, a poster in online forums of creative nude, often artistic, photography, inspired this. Looking at a photo of her sitting before a sunny window, I daydreamed her husband not being able to resist feeling her Sun-warmed back, lightly caress her side, and play with her proud nipple, and this story developed. As we in the forums enjoy her creativity, this is the spark I imagine they could share.
I know little of him besides that he currently knows she posts and very occasionally helps her take photos. I used my children’s personalities where they come into the story (nothing to do with sex). Besides references to inspirational photos, the rest is my overactive imagination.
All characters who are involved in anything resembling a sexual situation are over 18 years old.
I placed the soldering iron on the stand and unplugged it, then replaced the screws in the case one by one. After squinting and mildly cursing at the last two screws, I realized I still had my safety glasses on. Placing them on the table, I looked around the room and rubbed my eyes. The iron could use a few more minutes to cool down, but I could clean up everything else in the meantime. I rinsed the sponge under the sink, squeezed it out, and placed it on the corner of the drying rack to air out. My son would be happy I managed to get his Bluetooth speaker working again. It turned out the electrical connection to the driver had broken, probably when it was knocked off his desk at his last sleepover. Maybe he would think I was a hero for fixing it (or, at fourteen, maybe not — fewer things impressed him these days), but I probably had shoddy workmanship and poor quality control to thank for making something break in a manner that was so easy for me to fix.
Picking up the speaker, I glanced toward the living room and realized I hadn’t heard my wife in awhile. With the kids away with friends until late afternoon, I expected to see her basking in the armchair by the window with a book and a mug of coffee. She always looked so content like that, I sometimes just gazed at her from the doorway until she noticed me. After we cleaned the kitchen this morning, I had heard the soft padding of her feet moving across the floor as she danced to music, but that was almost two hours ago. Had I really spent so much time on this? There was still faint music from down the hall, but no other sounds in the apartment.
My daughter’s room was fairly tidy. She must have cleaned before she left. I couldn’t say the same for her brother. Stacking the books from his desk in a pile on the corner, I made room for him to notice the speaker when he came home. Sighing, I picked up a bowl and a glass from his desk. We didn’t allow food in their rooms, but we didn’t explicitly prohibit it either. Really, I should have made him take them to the kitchen himself, but I was a caring Dad (or sometimes a pushover) and I wanted his desk to be as clear as possible. If I were being honest, it would be disappointing if he didn’t notice the speaker amid a mess. Dads have feelings too.
After rinsing the bowl and glass and dropping them in the dishwasher, I listened again for my wife. I decided she must be reading and would be thirsty by now. It was after noon, so I didn’t think she needed another coffee (I sometimes worried she drank a little too much of it) and poured two lemonades. Glasses in hand, I started down the hall in search of her. The music was coming from our bedroom, but just before I reached the door at the end of the hall, I caught a glimpse of motion through the door of the study. Changing course, I had just placed my shoulder against the door to push it open when my eyes cleared the edge of the door and I stopped, catching my breath.
Stella was draped on the seat under the window, completely naked. The sunlight streaming through the glass highlighted her curves, and I could see her back and most of her right side, her nipple barely visible from my angle, but so erect I couldn’t help but think it made the most beautiful sundial I had ever seen. She was turned at a 45º angle to the window and door and hadn’t seen me yet. As I watched, she lifted her phone with her right arm and I could see her take a photo of herself in profile. I didn’t really follow her Reddit account, but I knew she posted there, and this would surely end up on the site. It was rare that I saw her taking photos, although I had helped her a time or two, like when I took a photo of her through the window at her parents’ house one night. Did I expect to be so transfixed? The glasses in my hands meant I couldn’t even easily tug up on my belt — anything to adjust the tension developing in my pants. As I watched, she looked at her phone for a moment, then raised her arm and took another photo.
I held the glass isvecbahis steady as I pushed the door open with my shoulder just as she raised her arm again (how many photos did she need to take to post one?). Her eye caught the movement and she startled slightly as she turned her head and caught my eye. The phone wavered in her hand as her brow creased. Was she worried what I would think? I smiled.
“Are you thirsty?”
“No.” She glanced down and saw the glasses in my hand. “Oh. Thank you.”
“You’re beautiful. Would you like help?”
“No.” She paused. “Thank you. Do you want me to stop?”
Out of habit, I nudged the door with my foot, but I didn’t want to lose my balance, and I pushed it too softly for it to close completely. I crossed the room and handed her a glass. She shifted her weight so she wasn’t leaning on the window stool and took the lemonade with her left hand. I noticed she kept the phone in the hand on her thigh. After taking a sip, she handed the glass back and I placed it on a coaster on the table next to the window seat. The way the sun caught the colors in her grandmother’s quilt on the seat was lovely. The reds, blues, greens, and yellows somehow seemed more alive in the light coming through the window and reflected off the yellow walls.
She looked up at me again. “Are you sure?”
“Please. I want to stay, though. Pretend I’m not here.”
Her brow creased, then relaxed. “Okay.” She leaned her left arm on the window stool again.
I took a sip from my lemonade as I placed my right hand on the side of my neck. My mind was working feverishly, and a cold hand wouldn’t do at all for what I was imagining. She took a few more photos, but she seemed to spend longer and longer looking at each she took. Was she stalling? Was she uncomfortable? I quietly placed my glass down on a few folded tissues on the bookshelf and unbuttoned my shirt. Folding it in half lengthwise, then widthwise, I dropped it on the floor beside the window seat and removed my shoes and socks. My keys made noise as I shuffled my pants into my hands. Damn those keys. She started to turn her head.
I could see her start a bit. My tone must have been too curt, too loud. Her arm started to drop and she kept turning her head.
“No, don’t turn around. Continue. Remember, I’m not here.”
She stopped turning, but her arm remained on her thigh.
Her arm rose again, but she wasn’t taking a profile photo this time. Was she self-conscious? Her elbow was pulled into her body, so all her phone camera could “see” was her chest. After a few seconds, it looked like she was taking a photo of her breasts. Placing my underwear on the pile on the floor, I looked up at her hip and her cheeks resting on the quilt. I lifted the pile and removed my shirt with my left hand. My knee slid over the corner of the seat to the back and my gaze dropped from her brunette tresses to her hip, where the sun highlighted the skin her bathing suit had covered. I really needed to take her swimming without the kids sometime. Without the kids and without her swimsuit. As I looked at her hip and her incredible rear, I realized the skin wasn’t completely white, and I smiled as I remembered our hike in the mountains upstate. Oh yeah, I had helped her with a few photos there too.
My right knee joined the left on the quilt and I placed my shirt about 2 feet behind her, against the wall. I dropped my weight onto my ankles and paused, placing both hands on my neck as I watched her. After a minute, I crossed my arms, gripping each bicep in a hand, but it felt like my arms were cooler than my hands were now. Leaning forward, I started the short crawl to reach her. She started lifting her phone higher.
“No. You were shooting yourself in profile. Don’t look behind you.”
She wavered. Her arm dropped for a moment, then rose beside her. Even from this vantage, I could see how the motion lifted her breast. Lovely.
“Stella, keep going.”
“You’re not here?”
Her thumb fumbled as she turned the screen back on. I could hear her breath become slightly ragged as she turned the view back to the front camera. She tilted the screen back and forth slightly, searching for a good angle, perhaps. I couldn’t see how there could be any bad angles. The quilt bunched slightly under my knees as I edged closer to her.
“So you don’t want me to include you?”
“No. I’m not here.”
Stella cleared her throat. The waver disappeared as she spoke.
“I can feel your breath. You kind of are. Or someone is. If whomever is here doesn’t want to be in my photo, then I can’t take profiles much longer. Does my gentleman caller want to make an appearance?”
“No. But how do you know it’s a gentleman caller? You look excited. Would you kick out a lady?”
“No. You’re still going to be in a photo if you keep getting closer.”
“No. You’re right. Move from a profile.”
Reaching past isveçbahis giriş her shoulder, I took her elbow in my hand and guided it down, then slid my hand down to her forearm, bending it toward her body. I slid my hand back up her arm to her shoulder, then down her side, to her leg. Up and down, I caressed her leg.
“There’s nothing to see here but my belly. I don’t think anyone wants to see my belly.”
“No. That’s not true. I love to see your belly.”
She snapped a photo, then pulled it up. She held it up so I could see over her shoulder.
“See, not that great.”
“No, it’s beautiful. Keep taking photos.”
Her arm dropped. I caressed her thigh, leaning down to the side to extend the touch to her knee. Up her side, then down to her knee. This time up her side, I followed her rib cage to the front and briefly hefted her right breast before moving up to her collar bone. I traced her collar bone to her throat and leaned in to kiss her shoulder. I swear I could feel her pulse quicken as I traced the side of her throat with the back of my hand.
“I think that’s enough of my belly. Should I stop?”
My hand traced from her throat, across her chest, down her side, until I opened my palm on top of her thigh. Sidling slightly closer to her, I pulled her right leg back further and further, until it was hanging sideways off the bench seat. I left my hand on her thigh. Neither of us moved for fifteen, maybe twenty seconds. I spoke first.
“Don’t you know what I want?”
I slid my hand back up her side, up her rib cage, enveloping her breast, spreading my fingers out and moving my hand slowly enough over her breast that each of my fingers took two or three seconds to move across her nipple, with a brief pause before the next finger took up the relay. Her chest heaved as her breath quickened. Once I moved up her chest, I realized I was stuck. My hand was on the wrong side of her shoulder. I caressed back and forth between her shoulder and her throat, finally wrapping my hand softly around her throat. Her breath caught. I was surprised. Did I really know her as well as I thought?
“Do you like that?”
She didn’t respond. I caressed her throat. An image came to mind. After I had discovered she was posting to Reddit and she deleted her account, we had a long discussion. Several, in fact. She showed me some of the photos she had taken and saved to her laptop. I didn’t really feel comfortable with her posting the photos of things inside of her, but I could see this was a creative outlet she needed. She made a new account with a slightly different name that also made it clear she was “taken.” With that condition, she was free to carry on. I didn’t look at many of her new photos, but there was one of the original ones she showed me “that week” that I thought of now. She was leaning against a tree, her head arched back, her tank top pulled down to expose her breasts, with a hand gripping her throat.
I marveled at how she did it. One couldn’t see much of her right arm to be sure she had taken it herself. I actually had to look at it closer to make sure another man hadn’t taken the photo with her, but I finally noticed that the skin tone of the left hand and arm matched the rest of her skin in the photo, and although they weren’t in focus, I could tell there were two rings instead of just one. The shape and light hair on the arm were definitely feminine. Somehow, she had taken it herself, but how? Why?
“Do you like that?”
Her quickened breath and soft music from our bedroom were the only sounds breaking the silence of the study. I gently tightened my fingers on the sides of her throat. I knew enough to avoid pressure on her Adam’s apple and trachea, and concentrated on the sides of her throat. There were arteries here somewhere.
“Should I stop?”
Her chest heaved, and she exhaled quickly.
With my right hand occupied on her throat, I couldn’t do much else from where I was. I closed the last few inches to her, placing my right leg behind hers on the floor and spreading my left knee to the side of her hip. As I rubbed my right hand slowly up and down her throat with the slightest pressure, I reached my left hand to her knee. Embracing her like this, the center of my body touched her for the first time. Her back felt cool against the heat of my groin and I heard and felt her sharp intake of breath. She slowly exhaled, almost whimpering. I could feel her vocal cords vibrating in my hand as she spoke.
“I was right.”
“That’s no lady. I definitely have a gentleman caller.”
Her hair exploded around my face as my breath burst out against her neck. Still chuckling, I murmured, “Okay. You caught me. I almost forgot, though. You’re not done yet.”
I released her throat and traced my hand across her chest to the outside of her shoulder, then down her arm, pulling it until her hand was below her hip. Using isveçbahis yeni giriş my left hand to pull her hip closer, I felt her skin start to moisten with sweat where I touched her. The heat from the sunny window kept our skin from becoming clammy as my right hand reached down to her fingers to turn her phone. I grabbed her phone almost as much as her hand as I angled it toward her.
I exhaled into her neck. “What?”
“The screen’s off.”
I lifted myself on my haunches to peer over her shoulder. I took the phone from her hand and held it in front of her.
She pressed her thumb down. Again. Again. Why didn’t it ever work the first time when you really needed it to? I tilted the top of the phone away from her a little bit and raised it. We finally got it. I pressed it back into her hand.
She fumbled to the camera and flipped to the front. I could see her on the screen. I reached down and pushed her hand further below herself, adjusting the angle. She whimpered.
“It’s not too much for you? I thought…”
I interrupted her. “No. Take the photo.”
She pressed. The screen winked and a thumbnail appeared in the corner. I traced my hand along her arm, over her shoulder and down her side, then over her belly. I embraced her warmth. No, her heat. She was actually opening in my hand. I rubbed my entire hand up and down slowly, and felt her moisten. As my hand moved, I realized she had trimmed to a tiny triangle. At least, I thought it was a triangle. A landing strip? When did she do this? Whatever this tuft was, it was delightful. I liked when she kept a fuller patch too, but this was interesting. And new. Her crease parted slightly around my finger. She leaned her head back against my shoulder as I tracked my lips up and down the side of her neck, pausing only to peer down at the screen. I moved my hand from her, and I could see her spread, like petals opening for the sun streaming in the window. Stella opened her eyes and followed my gaze down to the phone.
“It’s really not too much?”
Bracing my left hand on the window stool, I took her wrist in my arm and pressed my weight against her back until we could reach the end table. I pushed the phone from between her fingers, then pushed her head down to the quilt. Pulling myself back up, I gazed down at her. We didn’t do this nearly enough. My god, she was magnificent! Bent before me, her sides curved from her strong shoulders to her incredible hips. She was the perfect illustration of why women were described as having “heart-shaped bottoms.” Femininity was personified before me. I gripped her hips and moved my hands up her sides. Leaned forward to massage her shoulders, then down her back. I rubbed my thumbs in circles at the base of her back. As I repeated the cycle, she started moving slightly against my hands, so I slowed and deepened the strokes. Used my fingers and thumbs to press into her muscles. The sixth or seventh time around, she bent her knees to push against me and reached for me between her legs. For some reason, I backed away. I think I wanted to tell her when.
“Put your hands beside your head.”
After a pause and pushing back to search for me, she did. I restarted the massage, but when I reached her shoulders, I pushed harder to drive them into the quilt. I could feel her wetness coating me as I leaned over, and it was so tempting, but I resisted. Maybe I wanted to control her? I continued working from hips to shoulders, but I started moving lower and lower, rubbing her buttocks as well. Eventually, I started pressing deeper into the meat of her bottom, and then I started rubbing from the center outward. As I did, her cheeks spread, and I started rubbing lower and spreading further. I leaned back so I could see her. Beautiful. We really didn’t do this enough.
I leaned into her again, using my hand to guide myself under her, between her thighs. What the hell was that? A grunt? A whimper? I smiled. She must be going crazy, and something about it did something to me.
“You don’t take those photos for me, do you?”
I could hear her exhale into the quilt. There was a pregnant pause.
My hands moved down her back again, and I kneaded my hands up the sides of her spine again.
“I mean yes. I mean, you can see them. If you want. You know that.”
The muscles of her shoulders and neck were so sinewy. I kneaded deeply as I leaned into her. Leaned over her.
“Do you take them for other men?”
“No. Well, yes.” She groaned as I dug into a knot near her shoulder blade. “Men and women. For whomever.” Another knot, another groan. “We share. It’s a community.”
“Is there anyone else… anyone you take them for in particular?”
“Sometimes. We exchange poses.”
“Do you ever imagine meeting any of these men?”
She hesitated. I pressed both knots at once, rubbing in deep, tight circles. The sound coming out of her was half groan, half whimper. It may have been a bit of a squeal at the end. Her back heaved as her breathing became labored. A word was barely audible in the groan.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
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