Snapshot (One)

One picture from many we took over the course of an evening. Her favourite, she later tells me. In it she is on her knees and I am standing. She is sucking my cock. We are in front of a mirror, and so the picture is actually of our reflection. I am holding the camera in one hand, the strap dangling. The other hand disappears into her hair. I remember looking directly into the reflected eye of the lens as I took the picture, but here my gaze is slightly off – almost disinterested.

In the picture you cannot see her face. She is up on her knees, my cock in her mouth. Her arms are tucked in close to her ribs, her hands cupping my balls and holding the shaft of my cock. She is slender, self-contained, drawn into a small and narrow shape between my legs, while I occupy the rest of the frame. Her shoulders are rounded, her back straight but head bowed. I recognise this posture in her: she is caught in a moment of attempting not to gag.

We are both naked. The picture highlights the different shades of our skin: hers lighter, mine darker. We see only the back of her head, the swirl of her hair in my fist. She is very slightly blurred. Anonymised. I am clear and in focus, the lines of my body sharp compared to her. She looks, in the image, as soft and pliant as I know her to be.

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