CLICK! the shutter goes, eternalizing a brief glimpse of time burnt into the photodetector of my Nikon.

Any other day, I’d be afraid that the prominent clattering of the mirror making way for the light and homing in on its idle position would spoil the moment. In this case, though, I as well am too absorbed by the action I am capturing—by the buzzing of your Hitachi, driving you to blissful heights voiced in a wailing aria—to perceive any of my surroundings.

Just as it is your first time exposing yourself in this way, it is my first time forgetting all professionalism face to someone’s acting—despite having more years of experience in the field than you’re old. And yet, your show drives my most primal urges mad with the need to do your acting justice. No, not acting, as you so jaw-droppingly prove; you truly are just casually displaying your self-indulgent gratification and not wasting any thought on the viewer. Or the salacious pervert you make me feel like.

There’s enough tension to make my colleague, who’s maneuvering the video camera, gulp audibly in recognition of your sheer talent. Just like I am squirming in the little constricted misery emerging in my trousers, her face tells volumes about a dampness descending into her undergarments.

Never have I doubted my ability to separate work from emotion; not even when I chatted you up on the street, impressed by the confident aura you wore with such ease, knowing you would make a perfect model for the agency I work for. Upon your remark, albeit a joyful one, that you were, at that time, only seventeen, I politely and soberly apologized for my indecent request but still slipped you my card, should you be interested once you’d come of age.

Against all expectations, I saw your eyes light up in a flash rivaling my camera's despite the protest of your same-aged friends that showered me with insults—not an uncommon risk while scouting. I knew from immeasurable time spent hardening my skin against foul comments that your smile was earnest, flooding my heart with comforting warmth.

Still, great was the surprise when you called me only a few months later, asking me if I had received your application letter and if it would be possible to arrange a shoot on the day you’d turn eighteen. Talking to you over the phone, I was, in fact, holding the letter in my hand, along with the chaste and demure yet intriguing selfie that radiated a mysterious kindness, begging the viewer to scratch open the surface and find the person—the proud slut—hidden underneath.

It’s the only time I ever saw you look directly into the camera—no, the spectator’s eyes. Unlike most models, you’re not trying to flirt with either of the lenses, you’re not even seeking eye contact—just one of the details that make your show so uniquely genuine. Instinctively, you know that establishing visual contact would break the sensual bliss I’m watching you revel in, that it would make you snap out of the moment by adding an unsolicited participant to it.

You understand that it’s the true, natural you I want to capture, not a projection of you that the watcher might want to see, just the distilled essence of your lust—far more than just vulgar wank fodder. I see it in the way you sensuously lick the vibrating bulb clean like a melting ice cream cone after you’ve driven it into your depths. I hear it in the ache for release your love-cries drip with every time you hit the spot but refuse yourself the culmination of your craving.

Entranced, I follow and try to preserve your every move, every vocal emanation. From merely watching you, I know the silent stills will scream your lust just as loudly as unmuted revelatory speakers in a full college lecture hall.

It is in how you present yourself to both cameras with your air of innate elegance, lost in your moment, seeking nothing but your own apogee as if you were in the intimacy of your own blankets, sheltered from the outside world. Even if you’re aware of the feelings you’re evoking, you’re not showing it. I know that what I’m witnessing is the unaltered quest for pure bliss, a fleeting moment of cataclysmic unleashing that threatens to crash down on you before you’re willing to yield.

So many times, I see you tense up at your own caress, hear your starved moans crying for relief, and yet you torture yourself through this ordeal of deprivation to reward yourself with a mind-smelting climax—or maybe me too? Regardless of your intentions, it cannot leave any observer unmoved; it gives watching you the taboo thrill of voyeurism.

The way your hands enticingly slide over your body, emphasizing the rocking of your hips, slowly saturating the thin fabric that only partly covers you with the mixture of your own lubricant, the bottled one and your sweat... It’s not that it could protect any of your modesty anymore—not even if it were covering your more intimate places. It clings to your skin in a far-too-revelatory way, despite its total opacity. I see it in the way it prints the topology of your one still-clad nipple and how it digs into your jiggling belly button, stretching and collapsing with every labored breath you draw, orgasm approaching at a painfully creeping pace.

You take me with you, make me suffer with you through the delirious self-inflicted agony, making me wince every time you procrasturbate your high anew with your dexterously probing fingers. I wince in commiseration as, with every renewed self-refusal, it feels more and more like you are drawing me into the sweet torture of your delayed pleasure, imposing your growing need on me too.

Every few breaths, I must remind myself that I should do what I’m being paid for and keep mashing the trigger to catch brief glimpses of your me-time. I know there could not be a worse instant for any instructions as you are so lost in your little world that I don’t even know whether you remember you’re being recorded.

And just as I am about to lose all control and whip out my steel-hard blue-balled discomfort, I see through the lens that your eyes open wide as if in shock. I can almost see the lightning bolt bursting through you as your whole body stiffens like a salt pillar. Without any further warning, you start thrashing, mind visibly melting into the pool of your own fluids as your body suffers calamitous contractions. Your voice reminds me of a beast unleashed from endless soul-blunting torture—pain and pleasure alike competing for dominance as your sanity dissolves in the inundating tsunami of withheld dopamine.

In your voice, turned into a dissonant staccato of agonizing shrieks, I hear the discharge of pent-up passion and pain akin. Barely in control of yourself, you try to keep pushing the droning bulb into your stretched orifice, legs cramping in trembling jolts along with your enchanting cries.

Your orgasm, in itself, much like a classic play, comes as a build-up, a climax and, finally, a catharsis that washes over you like a tidal wave as you implode into a gasping heap of afterglow. Should we keep rolling? The unspoken question hanging in the air, I throw my co-worker a questioning glance. Tacitly, we continue.

The cameras obediently keep recording as you start stirring again, tear-streaked make-up smeared over your cheeks, testifying to the sheer intensity of your mind-shattering peak. You surge once more, arising from the ashes of your drug-like trip, wearing the kohl stains like a tattooed Venetian half-mask giving your facial features a mysterious magic poise by partly concealing them.

Kneeling, you put the wand aside, take your rabbit from the puddle that has precipitated under you, and hold it in front of your face. Softly, you kiss the tip of the faux, abstracted phallus, trace your tongue from its base to its head where you press your puckered lips to it, sucking it as if it were a real frenulum. Spellbound by you, I can sense how it is not only the viewer you’re teasing but, in reality, my cock you’re playing with through your sensual display of voodoo magic.

The moment you part your lips to slide it deep into your mouth, I swear I can feel it wrapped around my shaft, sliding me deeper down your throat. I hear your moans reverberate but not in the room, more like a resonance through my body spreading from my loins, bringing me dangerously close to my own messy wardrobe malfunction.

Not even uncounted emerging shooting stars and starlets whose kneeling in front of me—not to beg, notably—I’ve rejected with my notorious sobriety, have been able to prepare me for how easily you’re seducing me; no, inviting me to just surrender and cast away my honed professional distance within the matter of a hand reaching out.

Just as a deeper invasion of your mouth is hindered by the hilt of the toy, your hand slides between your legs that part again. You overtly expose your gluttonously swollen labia glistening with the promise of a slippery warmth that would engulf any guest with a loving embrace.

You let your petals slide between your fingers, spreading the stringy dew between them. The alluring cunt play forces your erect clit to protrude from between its generously engorged embedding. Your squirms guide your fingertips over your pubic hair you cling to and pull while your moans have turned to guttural gargling on the dildo still firmly sheathed in your lips.

As I see your throat slime emerge from the corners of your mouth, bubbling, and black-stained tears roll down your sullied cheeks, I mechanically keep clicking the button while a familiar blankness slowly clouds my mind. The moment a thick strand of phlegm detaches from your chin in a thread nearly reaching the floor before it snaps, your body jerks suddenly, projecting the dildo out of your mouth, followed by a sheer flood of saliva.

Just in time with your renewed orgasm, I feel how muscle memory keeps hammering the trigger on my camera while I fight a near-overwhelming urge to lose consciousness. Autopilot prevents me from losing my focus on you as I will myself to capture every millisecond of your condensed intimacy, devoted to fulfilling my end of the deal.

Finally, you look into the camera, knowingly breaking the scenery, yet rewarding the spectator with a satisfied and knowing smile. Mouth agape, I barely even notice that I’m sullying myself like a hair-triggered teenager and yet my labored gasping becomes panting and finally exhausted shortness of breath as I lose my footing and find myself almost passing out.

Exhausted, I manage a tired half-smile as you joyfully skip toward me to take me into a tight, squishy hug. When you press your lips against my cheek, I chuckle contently from your affectionate embrace.

Almost inaudibly, you mouth a ‘thank you’ and smile happily at me. Somewhat delighted—no, ecstatic!—from the outcome of my talent search, I smile back, still unable to process what I have just observed.

The camerawoman and I both follow the sway of your hips into the dressing rooms. As soon as the latch clanks into position, she and I exchange glances that declare an unsatisfied hunger, a thirst that yearns for quenching, and decades of work rapport that beg to be neglected for a fleeting glimpse of ardent passion.