Page 57 of Dirty Shots

He didn’t say any of the things that went through his head.

She turned to face him and ran her hands down the sides of her body, starting at the sides of her breasts, sliding lower, to the dip of her waist, and then over her hips. Eric’s dick stirred in his pants.

“Do you like it? I figured I deserved to buy myself something pretty, considering ... everything.”

“Yes, you do. But I would have bought you new clothes if you wanted them.”

Her blue eyes blazed. “I can buy my own clothes, Eric. Neither you, nor my father, own me. I do what I want.”

His heart caught in his chest. So that was what this was about. She was stamping her own mark in the world. “I would never suggest anything else.”

She spotted the mess he’d made and raised her eyebrows. She walked over to the broken glass and, facing away from him, slowly bent at the waist to pick a shard up between her fingertips. Eric caught his breath. Not only was the dress so short it rode right up, exposing the creases between her bottom and thighs, but it also revealed she wasn’t wearing panties.

“Are you doing that on purpose, Anya?” he said, his voice hoarse.

She didn’t bother to straighten up, but looked back over her shoulder. “What do you think?”

He crossed the apartment, his cock straining against his pants.

“I want you to photograph me,” she said, still bending over. “I want you to fill my pussy with cum and then photograph it dripping out of me.”

Eric gave a low moan in the back of his throat, his hand automatically reaching down to his crotch to apply pressure to his throbbing erection. His camera still sat on his desk, waiting for him. The space had been handily cleared, perfect for him to bend Anya over and fuck.

But first he wanted to explore the body she’d so beautifully put on display for him. Shattered pieces of glass were right beneath her. If he pushed her too far forward, or she dropped to her knees, it would cut her beautiful skin. For some reason, the idea of danger only heightened the eroticism in his mind.

She dropped the piece of glass she held, and it tinkled to the floor.

“Hold onto your shins,” he told her, sliding back into the role of photographer and director as easily as changing clothes. “And don’t move. If you move, you’ll get cut.”

She glanced at him again, and slowly licked her lips. “Yes, Sir.”

A thrill went through him. To think that only last night he’d thought their relationship and his career were at an end. Who was this version of Anya? He’d gotten glimpses of her before, but the sweet, almost demure persona seemed to have vanished. He tried not to think about the connection it had with her meeting with her father last night. He didn’t want to worry that she was working out her daddy issues by fucking him.

Anya took hold of her shins. The position kept her bent at the waist, her bottom pushed out toward him. The high heels gave her legs extra length. The dress rode up further, the pale globes of her bottom peeping from beneath.

“Widen your legs,” he told her.

She did as he instructed, shifting her ankles farther apart. The sole of her shoe crunched on a piece of glass. The position made her more wobbly, more likely to fall.

Eric placed a hand on her lower back, steadying her. With his other hand, he reached between her thighs. Her pussy lips, puffy, swollen, and already slick with juices peeped from between her thighs.

As soon as his fingers touched her soft, wet flesh, she took a shuddery intake of breath. He sensed the emotion from her. Her cool aloofness was an act. She was masking how she really felt with this sexy, determined version of herself. He would give her what she wanted and more. He would make her come so hard, so many times, that she broke down the mask and cried into his chest and told him how she really felt.

He slicked a finger between her pussy folds, and used her juice to slip his digit into her hot, tight channel. She moaned, her body shuddering.

“Don’t move, Anya,” he warned. “You don’t want to topple over.”

He fingered her a couple of times, and then added another digit to her pussy. She squirmed and pushed back on him, asking him for more with her body. Putting his fingers together, he added a third, stretching her pussy around his digits. Could he add another and get all four fingers inside her? Maybe even his thumb. Could she stretch far enough to get his whole fist inside her? Would she cry with pain as her pussy engulfed his whole hand?

The thought almost made him shoot his load inside his pants. Fuck. What was he thinking? Why was the thought of hurting her turning him on so much? Did he feel resentful for what she was putting him through?

“Oh, fuck, Eric,” she cried, the grip on her shins tightening, her knuckles white. Her palms had begun to slip, her skin slippery with sweat. He removed his hand from her lower back and reached around to support the front of her body with his other hand. He wouldn’t let her fall. The threat of pain might be there, but he wouldn’t let her get hurt.

Eric slipped a finger down to flick her clit, while he fingered her hard, pumping into her so her cream slicked his hand right down to the knuckles. Her body trembled, and her pussy started to clamp around his hand as wave after wave of pulsating orgasm took her in its grip and shuddered its way through her body. When she was done, she went limp in his hands, trusting him enough to hold her up above the glass.

He pulled her upright, held her against the front of his body. His erection was so hard he thought it would leave a bruise as he pressed it against her lower back. He leaned forward and spoke into her ear, “You’re not done yet.”

He wanted to take the photographs she had suggested. The moment she put the idea into his head, it was all he wanted. Of course, he’d need to supply the cum.

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