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Shard 504.2: Click

She loved dressing up for him, making herself into a fuck doll, a sex toy.

Picture it: her nipple, glistening with cum.

She loved dressing up for him, wearing anything he asked, making herself into a fuck doll, a sex toy. Anything he asked. Fishnet thigh highs, fishnet gloves. Collars and leashes. Thick, whorish makeup. He didn’t ask every time, but he did often. He found his mind took a series of photographs when she dressed like this, snapping away as he climbed her, rolled her, fucked her, used her: click, click, click.

He wondered what part of his mind was taking those photographs: the porn-y, objective part that loved seeing her dressed as his perfect fantasy woman, the part that worshiped thigh highs and chains and nipple clamps, or the emotive part of his mind that loved her for wanting to be the vehicle for all his desires, for taking on whatever role he requested. He’d switch back and forth, one moment fully immersed in the experience, the next slightly distanced as he watched her transform herself into his literal fantasies, mirroring his inner sexual life with uncanny, shape-shifting skill.

They had tried documenting their fucking with a cellphone a few times, and while taking the pictures was hot, the result was flat and insubstantial. Looking at them afterward was arousing only because the images were a talisman from the moment, taken while the moment was actual and happening. They were not the same as the pictures he took with his mind while they were fucking; those pictures were living breathing things, fully fleshed the instant they breached his waking mind.

Click: her laid out on the bed, wrists tied to the headboard, fishnet-clad legs spread of her own volition, black mesh top tight across her tits, looking at him with pleading innocent eyes, whimpering. He asks her to beg for cock, she whispers her desires to him, so overcome as to be barely able to speak.

Click: him kneeling between her legs, her wet eager pussy winking at him as he reaches down with both hands to take handfuls of fishnet into his hands, fingers digging into the holes, driven senseless by the ripping sound as he forces her legs apart and pushes them to her shoulders.

Click: fucking her hard with one of her legs in his arms, fishnet right up in his eyes and taking up most of his eye’s frame, in some sex position that doesn’t even have a name as far as either of them know, just one they have found fits their raw needs well. Her tits rear from behind the fishnet as she arches her back and cums; he rips the fishnet anew, wraps it around her leg tightly, pulls on it to bind her in place as he fucks her even harder while her body spasms.

Click: her blissed out face in the background, mouth agog and eyelids fluttering, while in the extreme foreground the expanse of leg and ruined stocking, and in the perfect center of the picture are her tits encased in black mesh, flesh pressed against the weave, straining to break free. He grabs at the material encasing her to bring it tighter against her flushed skin, her hard nipples pokes through the fishnet and it is a shockwave travelling straight to his spine: his balls clench, his cock pulses.

Click: him straddling her chest, jerking off, her tits presented before him like spoils of war. His cum erupts in thick white jets onto the sight that had so inflamed him. He aims one last spurt and hits his mark; her nipple glistens with cum, the black weave of the mesh surrounding it darkening as it absorbs the thick gooey rope.

Picture it.

He pictures it, often, the vision stays with him, her nipple encased in a warm sheath of his cum. He will examine all of the other snapshots of the evening in his mind’s eye as well, when time and memory allow, thumbing through them like a deck of cards.

There are so many mental pictures of her, each one emblematic of a moment together. When she is not with him, he browses through them. It is a way to pass the time apart. He imagines the pictures in a closet, kept in neatly lined shoeboxes, and when he has a spare moment he sometimes takes down a box, and thumbs his way through the contents.

Some pictures are nearly untouched. Some are not, some are well-worn, they have been looked at so many times, held close to his yearning skin, cherished and adored.

He misses her.


The Shard series is a collection of flash fiction pieces that focus on short scenes from the experiences, memories, fantasies and dreams of the narrator. Think of them as shards of a broken mirror.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © 2018 Verbal P. Incandenza | Yeah, not my real name, but I still wrote this. Be cool. Please don't steal it.

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