I wiped the moisture from around my nose. It had been a very hot day and both of us were even sweatier than usual. “Seriously,” I said. “Who even sells polaroid cameras anymore?” I suddenly realized what he probably wanted and I shook my head. “Wait, no way.”
“You get to keep the photos,” he said peacefully. He took my hand and started to lead me upstairs. I sighed and went with him. When we got to my room he took his shoes off and set them next to the bed. Then he pulled five crisp hundreds from his wallet and set them on the dresser.
He flipped the camera open and wandered to my nightstand. He walked towards the mirror, and then he turned. I was still standing by my doorway.
“Take your clothes off,” he said.
I gave him a sidelong look while he peered through the camera.
He smiled. “Do it. You can count the money first.”
I pulled my shirt up over my head and threw it down on the floor. I was wearing a black sports bra and the fabric was almost soaked completely through. “Actually,” he said, taking a step back against the mirror, “yeah, count it now.”
I tried to give him the look that I thought this was stupid but he ignored it. “Take your shorts off,” he said. “Do it in the bra and panties.”
I hooked my thumbs into my waistband and wiggled out of my shorts. I bent low to hook them off my ankles and get my socks off too. “Stand up and count it,” he said.
I rose up and stepped to my dresser. The bills slid off the wood and into my hands and I started to count. 1… 2… The camera flashed. The thing let out a loud mechanical whirr and the picture popped out of the mouth. I licked my thumb and slipped the third bill down. I counted the fourth. And when I folded the last one the camera flashed again and the first picture fluttered to the ground and the second followed it down.
Tom reached down to the floor and took the two pictures. He laid them on my nightstand and turned around to face me.
Half of him was in the mirror. In the other half I could see myself standing in front of my doorway. Tom held the camera up to his face.
“Guy walks up to a girl,” he said, “they’re in a bar. He goes up to her and he says, ‘Hey, let me drink beer off your tits. I’ll buy you a beer and let me drink it off your tits.'”
I made a face and put my hands on my hips. “What are you doing?”
Tom continued. “The girl’s disgusted. She turns away and he stays on her. He goes, ‘Hey, hey, let me drink beer out your bellybutton. We can go back to my place and I’ll lay you down and do shots out your bellybutton.'”
I shook my head.
“The girl’s totally grossed out, she’s looking to anyone to help her out. She goes, ‘My boyfriend’s in the bathroom. He’s gonna kick your ass.’ The guy doesn’t care, he keeps on her, finally he goes, ‘Hey, hey, baby, let me flip you upside down, I’ll drink beer out your snatch.’ The girl stalks over to the bathroom right as her boyfriend’s coming out. She goes, ‘Hey, John, kick this guy’s ass, he was hitting on me.’ Boyfriend’s furious. He goes, ‘What the fuck? Where is he?’ He starts marching down the bar. His girlfriend goes, ‘He said he wanted to drink beer off my nipples!’ The boyfriend goes, ‘This guy’s dead!’ She goes, ‘Then he said he wanted to drink shots out of my bellybutton!’ The boyfriend goes, ‘I’m gonna kill this guy!’ Then she says, ‘He said he wanted to flip me upside down and drink beer out of my pussy!’ And the boyfriend stops dead in his tracks and says, ‘Hold on, baby. I can’t fuck with a guy who can pound that much beer.'”
Tom poked his face from behind the camera and raised his eyebrows.
I laughed. I wasn’t laughing at the stupid joke, I was laughing at how stupid it was, laughing at Tom. Tom ducked back behind the camera and it suddenly flashed. He’d taken a picture of me laughing.
I’d never heard Tom even try to be funny, and the joke was so stupid. There were more. He told me to take off my bra and my panties. And I did. I stepped out of the panties while he told me another dumb one, something about birds, and then I giggled (I can’t believe it), and he took the picture. Then I got myself out of the bra and he took another one; I might have been smiling. He chased me around the room then. He had all his clothes on and I was naked. I was bouncing all over the place, holding my breasts up; the camera flashed at my ass, at my naked pussy. He told me another dirty joke, this one really filthy about some farmer and his old wife and I told him to stop. It was a combination of the ridiculous; Tom chasing me around my room, over my bed, taking the pictures, trying so hard to get me to laugh and me hating it, running from him, trying to not look like a fool bare ass naked. I avoided myself in the mirror but he kept herding me back to it, getting me to see myself laughing, or blushing.
When it was finally over he told me to stand in front of the mirror and he took one last picture. This time he told me to touch myself, and to watch myself in the mirror while I touched myself. I was pretty worked up by this time; I guessed he wanted to have sex after this but I really didn’t know what was going on in his head, so I was in this weird half-aroused half-rambunctious mindset. So I fingered myself. I stood in front of the mirror and I closed my eyes initially but he told me to keep them open. So I looked at myself while I did it. Tom was kneeling with me at about the level of my stomach and I had been sticking my fingers up my pussy for a good minute before he took the picture. It didn’t feel dirty it felt… new.
He told me I could stop if I wanted to. I stopped and watched him pick up all the photos. They were all developed by this point, all of me in different stages of laughter or blurry motion. There were less than I thought, but probably between ten and fifteen.
From these Tom chose four. He took the one of me counting the money, me standing there in my bra and panties, in front of my doorway, with my hair over my eyes and my lips set; he took the one right after he told the first joke: my opened mouth and wide eyes, almost aghast that he’d told that stupid story, just about to laugh; he took one of me trying to keep my tits from bouncing while he chased me over the bed; and he took the last one of me fingering myself. I hate to say this, but even I thought I looked pretty damn hot in that last one. I don’t remember looking at him when he took that picture but it looked like I wanted to fuck the shit out of the camera.
The other polaroids he scattered over my nightstand table. He asked me for some tape and I pulled a roll from one of the drawers. He taped the four he’d chosen to the edge of the nightstand so that they were about level with his belt. Then he set the camera on the nightstand and reached down to take off his socks. After he’d balled them and tossed them in the corner he looked at me in the mirror. He pulled his shirt over his head.
“Take my pants off.”
I was behind him. Naked, I approached his back and, without going around him, unbuckled his belt and undid his button. The button was tight so I had to get close to him. My nipples grazed his back, and my stomach too. I pressed my body against his as I pulled down his zipper and pushed his pants down his hips. That’s right, Tom didn’t wear underwear.
I pulled down his pants and he stepped out of them. His long dick sprang out, bobbing in front of the nightstand. It was red, as usual, and hard, very hard. It pointed straight at the third photo, the one of me covering my tits. Tom looked from me, in the mirror, down to the photos, then at the four lined up on the nightstand.
“Jerk me off,” he said.
I felt my eyes go wide. He’d never asked me to do that before. I didn’t quite understand but I brushed up against him and slid my left hand down his hip. I ran my right hand down his stomach and softly slid my fingers into his pubic hair… and over the top of his shaft. He let out a long sigh.
He gave me one last knowing look in the mirror and then trained his eyes on my pictures. He pressed my left hand against his hip and then he gripped the edge of the nightstand. I reached out further and gripped his manhood with my right hand. I squeezed. He pushed his hips forward.
“Jerk me off on your picture,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say so I actually didn’t say anything. I just grabbed him. I ran my fist back and forth over his dick. I squeezed the shaft and started to jerk my hand back and forth. His penis was already sticky, I thought. The skin was hot, his flesh thick and hard, and while I leaned forward to run my palm up and down the full length of it the base and his hair kept rubbing against my wrist. I looked up at his face and he was focused on my pictures.
I looked at those pictures, all the while conscious that I was aiming his dick (which was already clear with precum) at my face. I stared at myself. There I was, completely naked. I gazed over the other photographs, the ones on my nightstand. Me running, me laughing, me shaking my head. I looked at my shoulders, the way they shined from the sunlight or the camera flash. I looked at my chest, the way the softness of my breasts sloped beneath my neck, the way my breasts stuck out from my sides when I was turned around. I looked at my dark pubic hair, at the muscles in my legs. And I stroked Tom. He made little sound, just a deep (very deep) breathing, and his dick moved back and forth in my hand.
I squeezed right at the base of his head and he gave a nice, appreciative groan. I pressed my boobs right up against him and pushed my left hand down his thigh and underneath him to cup his balls. God, they felt tight.
Had he fantasized about this? He had me behind him; he could fuck me if he wanted. He had fucked me. He’d fucked me a handful of times. He paid me. He paid me to fuck him. And he was making me do this, making me masturbate him, making me make him cum, cum all over my photographs.
Photographs I’d let him take. Photographs of me naked and laughing. Photographs of me being silly with him. Photographs of me, beautiful me.