Page 89 of For a Goode Time Call…
Only a week had gone by, but I missed the shit out of her.
And here she was…in my bathroom, in my house. So. She’d taken photos of herself, hidden them in a secret album, and not told me.
Hoping, probably, that I’d find them when I least expected to, as a fun, sort of kinky little surprise.
You little minx, you.
God, I loved her.
Whoops. That was unexpected.
But true.
I swiped right: the next one was of her clothed, again, but a different angle. Ripped tight light wash blue jeans, the ones she’d been wearing the last night I saw her.
I swiped through, slowly, savoring.
The next one was of her in jeans and a black bra. Oof—the hard-on seeing that was instant and painful. And it only got worse when I got to the topless shots. Shit, she was perfect. I wanted her, so badly. God, I wanted her.
Those delicate, dainty, pink little breasts, darker pink areolae, brownish nipples. Perfectly round breasts, tight and high, the tips pointing just slightly toward the sky. Plump, pert.
Fuck.
I kept scrolling. Topless again, but without the jeans. Just those lovely little tits and her in a pair of light gray briefs, the kind where the leg holes are cut way up high past her hipbones. God.
Then, ohhhh lordy.
In the last few she was totally nude. In the first, she was tastefully turned to one side, showing me the outside of her thigh, the phone, her breasts, eyes on the camera, platinum hair loose and draped around her shoulders.
The next was less tasteful and more scandalous. Hot. God, so hot. Facing the mirror, hiding nothing. A small smile on her lips. Looking in the mirror and at the camera—atme—as if begging me to come through the photo and make her feel good.
God, if only I could.
In another shot she showed me her ass, high and round and taut. Toned, muscular, with just enough delicacy and softness to make me nuts.
I knew why she’d done this.
It was for me.
Because she wanted me to embrace my sexuality.
Giving me clear and undeniable permission to use her as fodder for my imagination. For my needs.
It wasn’t as good as the real thing, in my hands, but god did I need release. I’d spent the last week in agony, waking up thinking of her. Dreaming of her. Remembering her. Wishing she was here, yet still refusing to let myself think of her like that.
Even though she’d told me to, that I could, that Ishould, old habits die hard; ingrained resistance is difficult to overcome.
The visual stimuli helped.
A lot. Alot,a lot.
Instead of giving in and letting myself use her as release, I turned to art for expression.
There was only one medium for this—my oil paints. I stretched half a dozen canvasses, chose my palette of paint colors, and went to work.
In the first one I reproduced a photo as directly as I could, going for photorealistic—I started simple, her in those faded ripped jeans, pale skin showing in tantalizing glimpses, shirtless, wearing just the black bra, a full coverage functional piece, showing just enough cleavage to make me hard, make me imagine what lay beneath.
I set that one aside and kept going. Another photorealistic transcription of a photo; in this one, I allowed myself to represent her topless, in just those high-cut briefs.
