I like when my photographer offers me oily physique therapeutic massage 2

The solar tiptoed by the curtains, bathing the room in a heat, golden gentle. I stirred from my slumber, the occasions of the earlier evening coming again to me in hazy fragments. There was the candlelight dinner, the bottle of wine, after which…him. My photographer, the person with the digicam, his eyes as darkish and inscrutable because the evening sky.

I rose from the mattress, the crisp sheets slipping away from my bare physique. The room was a large number, clothes strewn about haphazardly, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and intercourse. I gathered my issues, padding silently throughout the hardwood flooring to the toilet.

In the mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself. My hair was a wild mess, my face flushed, my lips swollen. There have been marks on my pores and skin, bruises like tattoos, talking of our ardour. I touched them evenly, remembering the best way his fingers had dug into my flesh, the best way he had claimed me.

I turned on the bathe, letting the recent water cascade over my physique. It was then that I seen the invitation tucked into the mirror. A easy white card, embossed with the phrases “Second Session”. I smile, my arousal already starting to stir.

Two days later, I discover myself again within the studio. The room is very like I bear in mind it, with its excessive ceilings and mushy lighting. But there’s one thing totally different this time. A desk within the heart of the room, coated in a white material. And on it, a bottle of oil.

He enters the room, his eyes instantly drawn to me. “Welcome back,” he says, his voice low and alluring. I nod, my heartbeat quickening in anticipation.

He gestures to the desk, and I perceive. I take away my garments, letting them fall to the ground in a mushy heap. Then I climb onto the desk, mendacity on my abdomen, my face turned to the facet.

I hear him transferring round, the clicking of the digicam as he units it up. Then his arms are on me, heat and slick with oil. He begins at my shoulders, his fingers digging into my muscle mass, kneading them like dough. His contact is agency, however not painful, every stroke sending shivers down my backbone.

He works his means down my again, his arms gliding over my pores and skin, leaving a path of warmth of their wake. I can really feel his eyes on me, ingesting in each curve, each inch of my physique. It’s intoxicating, realizing that I’m the main target of his consideration, the topic of his want.

He reaches my hips, his arms slipping decrease, skimming over the swell of my ass. He takes his time there, his thumbs urgent into the flesh, his fingers curling round, teasing, taunting. I can really feel my arousal constructing, my physique beginning to tremble with want.

He strikes decrease nonetheless, his arms sliding down my thighs, my calves. He takes every foot in flip, massaging it, his fingers working magic on the tight muscle mass. I’ve by no means felt so relaxed, so content material. It’s as if each inch of my physique is being worshipped, appreciated.

Finally, he turns me over, his arms by no means leaving my pores and skin. He begins at my neck, his fingers tracing the road of my collarbone, dipping into the valley of my breasts. He takes his time there, teasing my nipples into stiff peaks, his contact rising bolder, extra daring.

He slides decrease, his arms smoothing over my abdomen, my hips. He pauses on the juncture of my thighs, his fingers tracing the fragile pores and skin, teasing the delicate flesh beneath. I’m panting now, my physique aching for his contact, my want a bodily ache.

He would not disappoint. His fingers slip between my folds, stroking, caressing. He finds my clit, his thumb circling it, urgent it, till I’m arching off the desk, my hips bucking towards his hand. He slides a finger inside me, then two, pumping them out and in, matching the rhythm of his thumb.

The pleasure is intense, overwhelming, my physique wound tight like a coil, able to snap at any second. He works me nearer and nearer to the sting, his contact rising tougher, sooner. Just once I suppose I can not take anymore, he stops, his hand stilling.

I open my eyes, confused and pissed off. But then I see it. The digicam. He’s captured each second, each contact, each expression. He needs to immortalize this, to bottle up this pleasure and maintain it perpetually.

And I perceive. I need that too. I need to bear in mind this sense, this connection, this entire and utter give up. I need to look again on this second and really feel the identical thrill, the identical rush of endorphins.

So I smile, my physique glistening with oil, my pores and skin flushed with want. I give him a nod, a silent consent. And he picks up the digicam, able to freeze this good, fleeting second in time.