Photos for my Valentine

It was the first Valentine's Day we would actually spend together, and I wanted everything to be perfect.

When our relationship began, it was all pictures and emails. It had to be; we lived so far apart that actual visits were few and far between. Back in those days, we longed for physicality—for touch. We'd stay up late at night chatting about our desires: skin against skin, flesh beneath nails, tensed muscles, sweat.

But, for going on 10 months now, flesh had become commonplace. Not that we were tired of it—we still loved each other's bodies to bits, but we lost some of that fire we'd once had. Not only was the creativity noticeably deficient since we stopped communicating our desires with only words and photos to aid us, but something else had changed, too. We no longer grasped.

So, I sent him a note at work:

Dear Lover,

I want to do something spectacular for us this Valentine's Day, but it will take the whole first part of the month to plan. Think you can get by without me?

It will be worth it, I promise.

XO

P.S. Keep the 14th open for me.

He agreed, his curiosity getting the better of his reluctance, and on January 31st, I moved into a hotel.

* * * * *

The first day's photos were beautiful, but pretty innocuous. I went to the salon, had my long, light brown hair shaped and highlighted, got a manicure, pedicure, facial—the works. I even had my makeup done professionally.

I bought some new lingerie—white and sheer and flowing—and a pair of hot red stilettos, throwing a little naughty in with the nice. I even hired a professional photographer to ensure I looked amazing.

On February 1st, he woke up and found a photo of me, standing with my stockinged legs spread wide, and my ass popped up to the camera showing off the lacy panties I'd chosen. The heels made my legs look long and lean, and my face, turned back toward the camera, wore a smirk somewhere between come and get it, baby and you wish you could have this.

On the back, was a note:

Dear Lover,

On the first day of love and sex, I give to thee...

Well, you'll just have to get online and see for yourself.

XO

As the site scribbled below the signature loaded, he saw the banner of my nude body in profile, pale and brightly illuminated against a dark backdrop.

(I was stretched across a counter top, and I remember, feeling a little ridiculous trying to look sexy, but when the photographer showed me the proof, I had to admit, he knew what he was doing. After seeing that shot, I invited him to stay on for the duration of the project. Dan was his name. He remained very professional when I offered him the job, seeming pleased just to have that much guaranteed work.)

When the site was finally up, he read the header, "Photos for my Valentine: 14 Days of Love & Sex," and knew he was in for a long two weeks. He opened the first gallery, clicking on the date, below the digital version of the photo I'd left, and scrolled through the images. Each row revealed more of my body as I gradually removed piece after piece of trimming for the photos. As he got close to the end, he lingered on a photo of me slowly pulling the strap of my g-string down to remove it, breasts pressed together slightly by my forearms, face looking turned on as he's ever seen me, and a thought occurred to him: someone is taking these photos! He couldn't decide if he was more jealous or turned on.

He scrolled to the bottom of the page and found a box, labeled, "Comments?"

"You are beautiful," he wrote, "and your body is amazing! I've never wanted you more than I want you right now... "

I'd been waiting for his reaction, so my reply went up immediately: "Just you wait, baby. <3"

"Oh, I knew I shouldn't have looked at this before going to work," he said to himself, reaching down and adjusting the bulge in his pants.

* * * * *

The next few days elapsed as you might expect, each day a new gallery was posted to the site, each filed under the date. The photos varied from day to day—different costumes, different poses. There was one day of nothing but different style coats with lingerie underneath. Another was leather themed, a very classic dominatrix-y look. There was a geek day, where I dressed in nothing but sexy cosplays of our most beloved characters. (My favorite was Zhaan, the blue alien woman from Farscape. I never thought I'd look good without hair, but I have to say, I pulled the look and attitude off perfectly.)

They got a bit racier as time went on, too. One day featured about 40 images of me using different toys on myself. My favorites were the ones where Dan had managed to capture me at the instant of orgasm (which I'd had more than a few of during that shoot!).

Each evening (he'd learned better than to check in the mornings—though it was hard not to get on just for a peek), my lover would get on and write me messages about the photos. What turned him on about them, which were his favorites, what he wanted to do to me in different outfits, how hard he got just thinking about what was in store for him at night.

I loved the way he described in detail exactly how he wanted to touch me. The way he wanted to run his fingers up those stockinged legs, then tear them apart with his teeth. How he wanted to ravish me, forcing me into the wall I was posing beside and pounding hard and fast until we were both too exhausted to go on.

It was definitely a challenge to keep up the barrier I'd established, but I managed to restrict my communications to one-line teasers and photos. It seemed to make him want me all the more.

* * * * *

Then, on February 10th, a different gallery heading appeared. This one was called, My Fantasy, and the cover photo didn't feature me at all. Instead, it showed an artistically shot, almost to the point of being abstract, bit of coiled rope.

When he opened the gallery, the first image showed my arms, intricately bound in elaborately tied knots. The pictures that followed, showed a man's hands, thick and rough, wrapping and tying, wrapping and tying, working toward the finished product that the first image had shown.

The sight of the man's hands—where for ten days, he had only seen me—was jarring. He scrolled quickly through the images, checking for traces of the man and how and where he touched me. Deeper into the gallery, more of the man was revealed, his arms, shoulders, back, but never his face.

This wasn't out of bounds for us, he had to finally admit to himself. We'd always talked about being open to pursuing other sexual contact if we felt our needs weren't being met, and I did ask him on the way out the door if he wanted to set any rules. "I trust you," he told me, and then kissed me deeply, pulling my body against his. It was a kiss that said, I don't know when I'll be able to do this again, so I'd better make it good. And it was.

After collecting himself, he went back through the images, more slowly this time, paying attention, remembering this gallery was called, My Fantasy, and watching for the elements that made it so. There was one shot early on where Dan had managed to catch a look of pleasure on my face just as one of the ropes around my arm was pulled taut, and in that moment, my lover understood. He watched the expressions on my face, the tension building in my body as I sat on my knees, my legs spread wide, the most sensitive parts of myself exposed to the camera, and held fast by rope.

The last photos captured just how wet I had become, strings of thick juices running down my legs, and he thought of how he wanted to be there with me in that pleasure. How he wanted his tongue between my legs, tasting and swallowing every drop that escaped me. How he wanted to feel his cock, harder than ever, gliding into me with ease. He wanted to take me like that, my body immobilized, feeling me strain against the ropes as he thrust.

And then he saw the next row of pictures. Fingers, a man's fingers, pushing inside of me, the muscles of my legs tight, straining against the rope. My face in ecstasy. The last image was a perfectly captured penis the moment before it slipped inside.

* * * * *

So much was running through his mind. He had to work really hard to collect himself before sending me anything. He wasn't expecting this, and he was jealous, but at the same time he was so very turned on. And not just by the images of me. He was turned on by the thought of me taking control of the situation, of me pursuing my fantasy, seeking sexual gratification. And the photos, he realized, were a way for me to share it with him.

His first comments were practical—addressing safety and STI testing and the like. This was the only time I broke character the entire 14 days. I wanted him to know that everything was my doing, that everything was safe, that I had thought through all the details and there was nothing he needed to worry about. Still a little shaken, but seeming to accept the situation, he finally asked,

"So, did you have fun?"

I gave him a teasing, emoticon smile, and told him, "Check back tomorrow and see."

The next day's images were more graphic and intense and beautiful than anything he'd ever seen. Dan was a through-and-through professional, keeping the focus of every single image on me and my experience of the encounter.

My lover was astounded by the pictures he received, amazed at how stunning I looked as I gave completely in to the pleasure being inflicted upon me. Tongue, dick, fingers, toys, all were used tirelessly, filling and covering every part of my body until I was sore and exhausted. This session had produced more images than any so far, over 50 photos in all. The final image, and the one that he thought it odd he was most drawn to, was of me, red marks across my skin where ropes had lain, naked on the bed, my right hand resting on my stomach. I was asleep, but the look on my face still had the faintest trace of the pleasure.

That evening, he told me only that he wished, he could be the one giving me that pleasure. My answer: "I promise, you will be."

* * * * *

Day 12 brought another new heading: Your Fantasy.

At this, he was intrigued. We had talked about so many possibilities, so many things that would be unbearably arousing to him, but then again, we'd done most of them, so he was stumped as to what this gallery might hold. The image was no help either—slender fingers, brushing gently against reddened lips. It could have been anything involving me, my fingers, or my lips, the way he saw it.

Opening the gallery, he almost didn't believe the images spread before him. It was me, yes, but I wasn't alone. A dark-haired beauty with full lips and tanned skin shared the spotlight with me. Her breasts were large compared with the small mounds that occupied my chest, and her hips and legs were full like mine. She was something to behold! (In fact, one of my favorite images from the whole project was of me sitting back and beholding her, just taking in every curve of her body, the way her hair fell and cast a shadow across her face, her deep, dark, seductive eyes.)

We took turns taking charge. One image would be me pushing her back against the wall while I sucked one of her nipples into my mouth, and the next would be her kissing down my goose bump dotted stomach. One photo that he particularly liked, captured us holding each other as we kissed, my fingers gently caressing her arm, her hand in my hair, pulling it away from my face, framing the place where our lips met, and the tip of her tongue found mine.

By the end of the gallery, I had taken the role as aggressor. The final row captured a look of wonder on my face as my fingers thrust into and against her at the final moment of an extended orgasm. My lips parted, as I inhaled, my eyes trained on her face, measuring her expression as her body contorted beneath me. When she finished, I removed my fingers, and crouched down to kiss her. Her body shivered in delight at the contact, still buzzing from the intensity of preceding moments.

I still remember the smell of her, her taste—it was intoxicating.

* * * * *

February 13th bore no photos. Instead the gallery opened to an invitation to join me at the hotel suite where I'd been staying. It specified that my guest arrive in formal attire, "looking hot," but that nothing else was required.

He brought flowers anyway. A dozen red roses, which I must say looking back was a smart move—they popped against his black suit like sparks carried away on the wind in the night. A note on the outside of the door warned him that Dan was inside.

He's been very professional, I assure you. Trust me, and try to act natural. - XO

Inside, my lover was immediately greeted with camera flashes, and he did his best to ignore Dan as he looked around for me. He noticed a trail of clothing leading from the doorway around the corner. Upon inspection, the first item was a gorgeous black dress he'd always wanted to see me in. On top of it lay a photo of me slipping it off of my shoulders. He followed the trail of garments, undergarments, heels, stockings, and the photos of me removing each item one by one down the hall. Dan kept up with him, recording every moment in perfect detail, like the one where my lover lifted my dress off the ground, examining it, and then held it to his face, inhaling, flooding his senses with the smell of me that had been so long absent.

As he made it closer to the door where the garments stopped, it occurred to him to remove his clothing to match me. He threw his jacket over the sofa, loosened and pulled off his tie, and then unable to bring himself to wait a moment more, he opened the door.

Inside, I was half submerged in a deep claw foot bathtub, much wider than my narrow body required. My hair was pulled back exposing the long, slender line of my neck and its intersection with my shoulders. I was blindfolded, and had headphones in my ears, their cord trailing back to an MP3 player on a table nearby. My lover's left hand brushed against a table covered in toys and tools—ropes, lubes, oils, outfits, the works, and in front of them all, another note.

It read, simply: I'm yours.

* * * * *

I'll let him tell you the story of what he did to me and how. Suffice it to say his creativity was back in full force after thirteen days of imagining what he would do to me.

At first having Dan there threw him off. He pulled one head phone from my ear and began to whisper what he was going to do to me, and then stopped abruptly, asking, "Does he have to be here?"

I reached up, cupping my dripping hand around his neck and pulling his face to my lips for a kiss. I whispered in his ear, "It will all be worth it. Trust me."

Then with a bit of a grin, I added aloud, "Actually, it's kind of hot, once you get used to it...knowing he's watching you."

* * * * *

Many, many hours of unrestrained pleasure later, we finally drifted off to sleep, our naked bodies entwined.

Dan snuck out while we slept, but not before leaving us a Valentine's Day gift of his own. Projected on the wall when we woke up, we found a slide show of our night together. My laptop on the bedside table was open to the page I'd been updating that month. The last gallery spot was filled. It held 359 photos, more than all the other galleries combined.

Photo after photo gave life to our bodies against each other, hands clasped tightly together, exchanged glances and pleasures. Looking in our faces as we scrolled through the gallery, it became clear: our longing for flesh was renewed.

Every Valentine's Day since, we've held our own photo shoots (no Dans involved), each year adding a new gallery to our collection.

But at the end of the evening, when there's simply no more sex to be had, we open up the photos of our first Valentine's Day together. We click through them one by one, remembering the year we had 14 days' worth of love and sex, and how it came all at once.