Back in my late 20s, I had a very good friend I called my Incubus. A and I worked together for several years in a junk job at a small insurance office – one of those with individual local agents. He had been promoted over time to be the Office Manager and it was a comfortable low stress position. I’d moved onto a job at a medical facility doing whatever but we stayed in touch.
A was freaking awesome and a friend I cherished. He was literally my spy in the house of men. He was curious, sexy, insatiable and at that time was on break from his marriage to his wife. We had been flirting forever and at one point had engaged sexually. He was an absolute dream sexually – present, knew how to read a woman’s body, took tremendous pleasure in giving pleasure and had an absolutely filthy mind.
One day in the summer, he reached out and asked me if we could get together. It had been a couple of months since we’d seen each other and I said yes with a frisson of pleasure. He asked me to come by the insurance office after work. The office was located in a tiny strip mall with big glass windows overlooking a drab parking lot.
When I got there, the parking lot was mostly empty – a few people drifted by the office on their way home for the evening. He unlocked the office for me and we settled inside in the seating area. We chatted for awhile about various and sundry things and generally got caught up.
Then I saw it, the naughty twinkle and the crook of a smile that meant he was about to say something I was really going to enjoy.
“We got in some new supplies today for the office.” He quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Oh?”
“A bunch of stuff including some new Polaroid film packs. Want to come into the back office?”
Why, yes, yes I most emphatically did!
The back office had a door that closed and no view of the parking lot. He went further back into the supply room and emerged with the camera and three packs of film. Every one of these insurance offices had cameras for documenting damages to cars that had been in crashes and other claims.
We both perched on the desk in the back office while he loaded the camera with the film packs.
Then he leaned over and kissed me. “Will you pose for me?”
His tongue slid into my willing mouth and I nodded yes.
“How do you want me?”
“Take off your top, I want to see those gorgeous tits.” I drew my shirt up over my head and unclasped my bra. Let me just say that I’ve always liked my breasts. I’ve been a B cup forever and my nipples are always hard so I’ve always needed a modest bra. On the other hand, because my breasts are so reasonably small they’ve never required a ton of support and I’ve never needed to minimize them. And my nipples are very, very sensitive and A knew that from previous exploration.
A started pointed the camera at me and starting taking photos from 6 feet away, my face and my tits. I was playing a little bit coy with him, turning my head and clasping my arms so it pushed my breasts forward. As he continued, my face and chest started to flush.
“You are such an exhibitionist – you love this don’t you?”
“Yes, I want to show you everything! How do you want me next?
“Naked, I want to see all of you.”
I slid my skirt down my hips and my bikini panties followed. When I stepped out of my panties, I took them over and offered them to him. “I know you like the way I smell.”
He examined them “Look at you, so wet already and we’ve only gotten started.” Then he tucked them into his pocket after an appreciative sniff. “Go back to the desk and show me your gorgeous body.”
He took a couple of shots of me from head to knees, then stepped forward again to run his hand down my body from shoulder to thigh, cupping my mound. I pressed into his fingers and closed my eyes. He clicked again, taking a picture of my face, flushed and wanting.
“Now turn around, spread your legs apart and lean forward onto the desk.” I shivered and did as asked. I felt him approach me again and run his hand down my spine from nape to the cleft of my ass. He stroked each ass cheek slowly and slid his fingers between my thighs. The camera clicked and whirred again capturing the landscape of my back and ass, then again as he showed his creamy fingers to the lens.
“Bad girl, showing off like that. Get up onto the desk on your hands and knees so I can get a better look at this greedy little pussy.”
I did as told, pushing aside a pile of papers and claim forms. He was using one hand to press the shutter while he stroked the length of each thigh right to the edge of my outer lips. Hypnotically slowly. I dropped down to my elbows and pushed my ass up as high as I could, chasing his touch.
“Good girl, that’s good. I can see you getting wetter for me.” He stopped for a minute, putting the prints to the side and reloading the camera. I spread my legs wider as he brought the camera closer to me, to my wet cunt.
A put his hand on one of my ass cheeks, pressing it away, opening me as the camera continued to click and whir. “Look at you, just look…”
“Now, I want you to turn around, lie on your back and spread your legs as wide as you can with your feet on the desk.”
I did as requested, feeling dizzy, drunk with desire. A moved behind the desk and raised the camera high overhead, the lens capturing my face and torso, my mound and spread thighs. Click, whir, click whir, the prints placed on the desk beside me.
He moved back to the front of my desk and in between my thighs, crouching down. His fingers drifted down my lips gently and he spread them apart, the camera moving in closer.
“Don’t move.” He braced the camera high on one of my inner thighs and breathed deeply. “You smell so good. Here, I want you to hold your lips apart for me. I want to see all of your wet juiciness.”
I obeyed. My lips were so slick and I could feel how hard my clit was, how swollen.
Click, whir. The camera very, very close to my pussy. A pulled it back for a moment and leaned in, sliding the flat of his tongue from my opening to my clit and sucked it lightly. I bucked underneath him and made a sound.
“Mmmhm. Delicious.”
The camera moved back into position. “Wait, just like that. Don’t move.”
I stilled.
“Spread your legs wider.” I moved them further apart. “I have never seen this before. Your body is opening to me, I can see inside you.” I squeezed the muscles of my cunt. “Do that again, you’re opening further.” I squeezed again and could feel my wetness running down the cleft of my ass.
A pressed the shutter until the camera ran out of film. A pile of white prints beside me, slowly gaining color. He put the camera down and stepped back between my legs again, looking down at me.
“Fuck. I want to fuck you now.”
“Please, I need you to. I need you to fill me.”
As he unbuckled his pants and pushed them down while I pressed up onto my elbows and dropped my heels over the edge of the desk. I looked down at his hard cock in his hand, balls already drawn up, the head swollen and slick with his own juices as he pushed himself inside me slowly. A had the most perfect cock I’d ever experienced. The curve, the length, the way it fit inside me, the way he moved against me. I was making noises I didn’t recognize.
A ground himself against me, filling me so perfectly, his cock barely moving inside me. I was lit up inside, in that liminal space, ecstatic. I could feel my walls gripping him tighter, pulling him further into me. Panting in short little breaths, watching his face, watching him see what he was doing to me.
“I can feel you gripping me, I want you to cum for me. You’re close and you love this, you love my cock. Cum for me now.”
The orgasm came from the deepest place, from where he was inside me, deep in my thighs, deep in the base of my spine and it crashed through me. I was squeezing his cock with my cunt, kissing the head with my cervix over and over.
And he followed. I felt his balls draw up against my pussy lips, felt them as he pulsed inside me, watched him as he dissolved and shuddered. The wet warmth of his cum flowing into me, the kick of his cock with each release. He groaned and I took a shuddering breath as he dropped his head to my shoulder.
“Fuck, that was… you are so amazing…” I breathed. “When you’re ready, I think you should take a couple more pictures. I want us to have photos of the aftermath of this, my pussy after all of this. Proof.”
A chuckled, still buried to the hilt in me. “Yes, ok, I need a minute. Then I’ll reload.”
I laughed as he slowly withdrew, followed by a gush of my juices and a thick trail of his cum. As he reloaded the camera, I put my fingers against the opening of my pussy and spread his cum across my lips and over my clit.
When A returned with the camera, I lay back down on the desk and propped my heels up again, legs spread as wide as possible.
“Ready?” He asked.
I pushed and a thick tide of his cum slid down onto the desk. Click, whir, click, whir.
“Yes, perfect. God, you are so incredible at this. Best photographer ever!”
I still have some of those photos but that photo is one of my favorite souvenirs.
Demi,
This isn't my usual lane — but desire doesn't have a lane. It has a pulse, and yours is beating loud and clear on this page.
What works here isn't the sex. The sex is the vehicle. What works is the seeing. The Polaroid isn't a prop — it's the thesis. You wrote a piece about a woman who knows her body and isn't apologizing for it, and that's rarer than it should be. "I've always liked my breasts" — that line does more work than most paragraphs. Not because it's bold, but because it's unperformed. She means it. No decoration, no hedging, no qualifier. Just ownership.
And the Incubus — the nameless man, the mythological label. You didn't give him a real name because he doesn't need one. He's not a relationship. He's a season. A summer evening in an office where the blinds are drawn and someone says let me see you and the seeing is the whole point.
The ending lands. The photo as souvenir — not of him, but of the version of yourself that existed in that light. That's not nostalgia. That's self-recognition.
You write like someone who knows the difference between describing a body and describing what a body feels when it's being watched. Most writers do the first. You do the second.
Content over method. Always. But also — courage over comfort. This took both.
Arden
Beautiful great My mind I see all you wrote And felt even more such a great memory Polaroids and all