Her eyes are full of tears. She grasps one last blurred look at you before giving up. Her world darkened, she abandons herself to the ramming of your member past her teeth, deep into her thoat. She can feel every beat of your heart, pulsing against her palate.

Your hand clenches in her hair, pulling her away. She offers herself with a smile. She knows what you like. A warm cascade of cum falls over her face. She reaches to clean herself. 

"Don't!"

You catch her arm inches away from her face, one of her nails skimming the surface of the puddle of your sperm shot over her eyes. She freezes, her mouth a surprised O, broken by a sticky silver filament falling between her lips.

"I beg of you. Don't move."

In an instant of eternity, she is art, beauty, a statue of flesh. Engulfed by the light of the setting sun pouring through the only window. Her knees against the hardwood floor, her arm suspended in the air, the cascade of her hair, contrasting against her white skin. Her dark red, erect nipples. The juices of her man shutting her eyes, dripping from her face. She is perfect.

Beauty is a bitch fleeting fast. Men get but one chance to rein her in. You grab the Rolleiflex on your bedstand. A sturdy, twin-lens 4x4, a slow but unrelenting hunting hound. Your most powerful flash is still attached to it. There is no time to be gentle, no time for soft lighting and silky white skin.

You flood the bitch with brutal wattage. You shoot at her with the cruel, inhuman speed of the shutter. What you seek is truth. In a thousandth of a second, the nitrate film shackles her. It captures every flaw of her pale skin, the birth mark in the valley of her breasts, the flesh folding in the curve of her hips, the print of your cock on her lipstick, a stream of tears on her cheeks. The sperm on her face will turn into bright quicksilver.

The truth. 

The beauty of a woman soiled...

Click.

You got the bitch.

Dazzled by the flash, she trips, falls off her knees, stumbles into a pile of books. Her legs fall wide open, her sex ripe for the taking. The hunt continues. The small black box goes between her knees and a flash again. It reveals a thousand tiny black points over her pubis, too hastily shaven. Her pussy is gushing wet, the cyprine will make it shine from mid-thighs. 

Click. The burning bulb of the flash explodes over your head. You step on the broken glass. Who cares?

There is nowhere she can go. She cannot see you, hawking around her like a whirling dervish, leaving bloody prints on the hardwood. The Rolleiflex gets closer and closer, softer and softer.

A drop of your sperm shines like a pearl in her dark hair, the crowning jewel for the queen of whores.

Click, the shadow of a nipple. Click, The tension of her skin. Click. Her tongue presses against the keystone of her lips. Click, the arches of her hips offered. Click, the cleft of her pussy reveals the cover of Les Fleurs du Mal.

Sometimes you just get lucky. Only one frame left when she opens her eyes. Deep and dark pupils looking into the lens. Surprise turns to fear turns to lust, filaments of cum and mascara drip from her eyelashes.

You press a finger on her lips. Don't break the moment dear. She licks it with a defiant lust. Such a raging fire in these obsidian eyes.

The Rolleiflex has done its part. You change it for a small Olympus. 24x36, easier to handle. A playful companion.

She passes a finger under her eyes, wiping a tear of salt and cum. Her tongue darts away to lick it, agressive, suggestive. It swirls around to gather every drop still clinging to her lips. Your eyes are locked to hers through the sight. The shutter blinks again and again. 

It's not you she's playing for. She is hypnotized by the dark hole of the camera. There is fascination in her eyes. Adoration for herself. She kneels. Offers her throat to the sunlight, hides her breasts behind her hands. Her nipples dart between her nails. 

She lowers herself, spreading her legs to expose her bright pink pussy. Her right hand slides along her hips, hovers over her bellybutton. It stops. For the first time, her eyes avoid the lens.

"Rien n'est interdit." Nothing is forbidden.

You catch a mad smile as she turns away from the camera.

She does not know shame anymore. She is just a slave to the shutter speed. She reaches for the cleft of her gushing wet pussy, moans in bliss. You keep shooting. There is no need for sound. Looking at this picture, every man, every woman will see the pleasure on her face.

Her left hand reaches for her throat. It claws around it, she chokes herself as a finger opens her sex. She looks like a doll paralyzed in pleasure, enslaved. A complete submission to her own lust, to the image of her degradation.

Puppet of the lens.

Both her hands rip away. One slides on her cheek, collecting your juices between her fingers. The other goes deep inside her pussy. She fucks herself hard, licks the sperm off her hand. This is no teasing. It's the voracious appetite of a famined little cumslut.

Get closer. Closer! Inches away from her face, a gorgeous wasteland of smeared cum, tears, make-up, her own saliva...Her nails are scraping her skin of silk. Plowing off your thick sperm, harvesting what she craves.

She swallows every single drop of what you left. It's not enough. There are so many frames left. The Olympus casts on her an unquenchable thirst. She falls down, her breasts grinding against wood, nails and books. She brings her right hand to her mouth, gulping her own juices now. Her left hands crawls under her to reach her sex again.

You're dancing around her again. There is nothing you could do but follow her into slavery.

She fucks herself. You shoot her.

Click-click-click. Rewind. Reload. Click-click-click. That's all you're good for.

Puppets of the lens.

She is obedient to the last second. Turning over, spreading her legs, crawling into the light to offer you the best picture. The most vulgar shot of her orgasm. The convulsions ripping her apart. Her ass grinding the hardwood. Her teeth clenching. A manic scream, forever held in silence.

Her juices gush all over Baudelaire and Vian. They would've loved it. Dirty fuckers.

The last frame captures her smile. Innocent and delighted. Liberated.

You unload the Olympus one last time. Gather the fistful of films that hold the soul of your Cécile. Without a word and barely a thought, you throw them out the window, one by one. A dangerous libation to the beautiful Paris.

The films will probably get caught in the gutter or crushed on the pavement, exposing the silver nitrate to the light. Veiling debauchery.

Then again...They might not.

Looking down at her body, you start stroking your hard cock over her.

"Rien n'est interdit". She says with a cute little giggle.