content warning: sexual content
summary: sheās never taken or sent a nude image before. sheās trying it now
āāāāāāāāāāāāāāāāāāāā-
The reflection in the mirror sends her body trembling. Itās equal parts thrilling and nerve wracking and disgusting. Her fingertips trail along the freckles on her arms, the stretch marks on her thighs, the hair around her bellybutton. A hard swallow presses onto her throat.
It shouldnāt be such a big deal. Heās seen her naked in person before ā heās touched her, licked her, told her over and over again how good she tastes ā so why does sending him a photo terrify her?
The clock on the wall reads 11:39AM. Heās at work now. Probably at his desk, counting down the minutes until his lunch break. Her eyes close against her naked form in the mirror and instead she imagines him there, at his desk. Fingers raking through his hair. The veins pop in his arms. Sometimes, he rubs the back of his neck. It reminds her of the sensation of his fingers against her own neck. The featherlight touches that induce goosebumps and remind her how soft love can be. The hard grips that smother the oxygen from her lungs, telling her without words how painful ā how gloriously painful ā love can be.
Her hand caresses her neck. She follows its curves, the bumps, the slopes. She pretends itās his hand. In her fantasy, sheās already taken the picture, sent it. Delivered. The vibration of his phone pulls him away from the figures on his computer screen. He reads her name, notes the image attachment. Smiling already because itās her, but curious why sheās texting him right now. Then he opens it. The lighting is perfect, the angling Instagram worthy ā not a single edit needed.
And his jaw drops. Before he hastily realizes exactly what stares at him from his phone. He hides the screen, protecting it from any wandering eyes. Curled around his phone like itās a secret treasure, his eyes rake the image there. He drinks in the swells of her breasts, nipples erect, begging for his mouth to suck and pull on them. The curves at her waist encourage his eyes lower. To her waiting womanhood. He imagines the feel, the taste. If only she had taken a close-up, he muses, then I could see if sheās dripping ā for me. At last, he gazes at her face. Her eyes seduce him, asking him if he likes it, demanding that he want it. Her lips are parted ever so slightly. And he imagines sliding his penis into her waiting mouth. Her lips clasp around the sensitive tip, her tongue drags over it. Saliva coats him. Sheās tight and wet and a groan vibrates at the back of her throat ā
And heās moaning out loud at his work desk. Too late ā the soundās out ā he realizes heās in public. At work, no less. But the image flickering on his phone taunts him, entices him, excites him. He adjusts in his chair. He rakes his fingers through his hair in an attempt to distract from his growing erection. It doesnāt work. Not when sheās there, naked, on his phone. The first nude sheās ever sent. The first one sheās ever taken.
She snaps out of the reverie, her breathing more labored than before, her hand wandering her body. Her eyes land on the mirror again. She canāt help but wince slightly. But with another deep breath, she relaxes. Perhaps there is something worth worshipping among the folds of her skin. He certainly worships her.
Straightening her shoulders, she grips her phone and opens the camera. Through the mirrorās reflection and her phone camera lens, sheās ā well, sheās no Instagram model. The lighting is wrong, and she cannot, for the life of her, figure out the angle. Every pose looks unnatural. It highlights some new flaw that makes her unbearably self-conscious.
Sighing, her body sinks to the ground. Maybe she should give up. Thereās a reason sheās never taken a nude photo of herself. Maybe she should stick to tradition.
Until she looks up and sees herself sprawled on the floor in front of the mirror. It offers a glimpse of her womanhood, still wet from her previous daydream. It boasts her breasts. Before she can think twice, she raises her camera and snaps a photo.
Eager, she practically pushes her face against the screen to scrutinize the image. She doesnāt instantly hate it. And she figures heāll love it (she couldāve sent the worst nude ever, and heād love it simply for the fact that she was naked). And so, holding her breath, she sends it to him. She captions it, āthinking of you ā”ā
And still nestled on the floor, she vanishes into reverie again, of him touching himself to the image of her. To the first nude sheās ever sent. The first sheās ever taken.
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