you stand as well as you are able. your wrists attached to the bar that also holds your ankles spread wide, uncomfortably far apart. if you tip, you’ll bash your face on the floor. except he’s anticipated that. you feel the tethers around your thighs, see them disappearing behind as you look between your wantonly splayed legs. you assume he has fastened them to the bedpost.
you also see his feet, his legs, the fold of his lap.
he sits in the chair behind you, staring at you.
looking at your round bottom, displayed and ready for whatever implement he chooses to mark you with.
it is embarrassing to be so vulnerable. embarrassing and humbling to be so turned on by thinking of him sitting there, looking at every exposed inch of you.
are his eyes even now caressing where you want his hand to be? are they moving over and around your plump pussy, the lips spread open, the deep pink slick with your desire to be fucked? can he see the sweet wet swelling of your clit as it thrusts forward for his caress?
your nipples rise as you shiver, your body attenuated to his presence behind you, begging wordlessly for his attention.
“You have a big ass.”
his words make you squirm; a blush blooms on your cheeks. the heat of it spreads down your throat, over your breasts.
“A really big ass.”
what you may have said is lost in the flush of humiliation and embarrassment when you hear the click/whirr of his camera, capturing this moment for all time. he says the words that make you quiver with the need to cum, a sordid mixture of awkward self-consciousness and jubilant adoration.
“this is bloggable.”
there is a pause, and you open eyes you hadn’t realized you’d shut in your chagrin. he has risen, moved out of your viewpoint. the toy closet opens with a foreboding squeak.
his feet reappear, but his next words suffuse you once more with that rush of adrenaline born of mortification.
“be sure to include the picture, slut”