The photographs
The builders were at work early. The morning was sunny and already warm, and I was watching them idly from our bedroom window. I had slept late. because the bedroom was cleared for decorating and it had taken me time to get to sleep last night in the less comfortable spare room bed.
They were certainly hard workers: wheeling barrow loads of sand without slacking.
I realised with a slight embarrassment that my eyes were rather glued to Karl, the youngest, who had taken off his shirt and was actually quite a sight in his shorts - his muscled body glistening with a light sweat in the sun, his thighs well muscled - everything about him looked fit, strong, powerful. I lowered my eyes guiltily, and that is when I saw the neat stack of card on the windowsill. They were arranged in a neat pile: five or six sheets of thin card, the only thing in the otherwise empty room.
Curious, I picked them up, turned them over.
They were photographs. Photographs of me. Pictures of me, naked. I recognized them - two I had taken for my husband when he was away, three he had taken of me. I had no idea my husband had printed them out, or kept them. I supposed he hid them under his bedside cabinet, and the builders must have found them there when they moved it. I told myself they must have simply found the pile an dmoved it to the windowsill without looking: but I knew that could not be so - the stack was so neat, so carefully placed, face down. They must have looked - but then why would they place the photographs so neatly here, where I was likely to find them and realize?
In the picture I held in my hand now, I was not fully naked: I wore the same bath robe I did now - a light towelling robe, creamy white with faint blue and pink detailing, knee length, clasped by a loose belt. In the picture the robe was not clasped by its belt: I had my hands at my shoulders, holding the robe fully open - exposing myself, showing my otherwise nude body. It was a good photograph, actually - flattering, showing my body well, making me look trim and well shaped. My small breasts looked pert and firm, my legs looked slim, my bush of dark curly cunt hair drew the gaze. But I wasn't just part naked in the photograph: my smile said I was happy to be exposing myself, and my pose was that of a woman who had not finsihed stripping - it was evident that I was in the act of stripping off the robe, not just holding it open but part way to dropping it to the floor to reveal myself totally naked. More than that: my eyes were intense - gazing straight at the observer: dark, sensual - the eyes of a woman who was not just going to strip naked but who wanted to be fucked: who needed to be fucked: who would be fucked. The invitation in my eyes was blatant: more than an invitation - a demand, almost begging, to be fucked.
The crunch of a boot on the carpetless floor startled me from my reverie.
Karl's body, up close, was like that of a statue - one of those male statues, a Greek god, musclar, fit, strong, athletic, He was shirtless, as he had been when I gazed down into the garden: the light sheen of sweat still on him, serving only to enhance his masculinity as the light from the window fell on him and sculpted the shadows on his body.
His gaze was not on me, but lowered, to a point a little away from my right side. I turned my head, following the line of his gaze, and saw the photograph, in my hand, my almost naked body clearly visible to his line of sight. I felt frozen to the spot: only minutes before I had been ogling his body from my vantage point at the window - idly ogling, yes, but ogling all the same. And now his gaze returned the favor, even though only to my bared body printed on photographic card.
His fingers took the photograoh from me, propped it carefully at the window, facing into the room: me, in the same bath robe I wore now, posed, in the picture, beside me as I stood, very still, here and now,
The belt of my robe loosened easily to his fingers.
His hands took mine, lightly but firmly, raising them carefully so that my fingers rested at the neck of the robe: and instinctively I took hold of the robe there as he moved my hands apart, at shoulder level: so that the robe parted, opened, and the pose in which he placed me - the real me, the here and now, live me - positioned me, posed me, so that my real body mirrored the body in the picture: exposed, brazenly - all of my body bared - my breasts, my thighs, my cunt hairs - exposed. And I knew that my eyes mirroed the eyes in the picture - sensual, dark, intense, looking straight into the gaze of the observer - into Karl's eyes as he took in all of me, all of my bared body - my eyes that said, clearly, blatantly, that I needed to be fucked.
It was I who raised my hands further, pushing the robe up and over my shoulders, letting it lip and fall to the floor, baring me fully. His cock when he straightneed up from pushing his shorts down was huge - so very erect, so very rigid, like a pillar of rock. His hands were so strong on my waist, lifting me so easily onto my toes. The cock was so hot, so shiny hard, nudging up as he positioned me - positioned my cunt at the raging hard tip of his swollen cock.
He lifted me so easily - off my toes, so that my legs wrapped around his thighs and he lowered me, wetly, onto the raging erection. It impaled me so completeley - I was filled so full of cock. I could feel my cunt clasping at it, rippling already in first orgasm: which he rode out, holding me while I shuddered and shook on his skewering shaft. Then his hands raised me, and lowered me, and raised me again - fucking me on his cock - fucking my cunt on his hard shaft: it was like being a rag dolll: as if he was using me, using my slight body, to masturbate his cock, ramming me up and down on himself, fucking me on him. The wave of my next orgasm gathered, so powerful, so strong: my hands slipped to his shoulders, my petite bare body arching back, my cunt impaled securely on the raging cock, my head back, my tits jiggling as he began to thrust, up so deep into me, answering my cunt's sucking clutching with a hard upwards pumping, plunging up to fuck himself up so deep into me, his hands on my hips, hauling me down onto his raging hammering shaft.
The orgasmic waves washed through me, over and again, fuelled by the relentless merciless hammering fucking of me. I felt myself lost utterly to it - surrendered so completely to the orgasm, to the fucking. My head was back so that my eyes looked up at the ceiling. The first flash, on the white ceiling, I thought was the sheer intensity of orgasming: but with the seond, I knew that we were not alone - and I knew that tonight the builders would have their own photographs. There would be no building work done today...