She stands, back to me.
Her feet sit in minimal black leather flats.
Her legs are in black tights, not opaque, not transparent. Both revealing and obscuring in that incredibly sexy way tights can do. They’re shapely, toned, muscular. Not slender, but full, curvy, enticing.
Her thighs, meaty but toned, rise until they are interrupted by a very short pleated black skirt – a skirt that suggests, but doesn’t show, the delicious shape of her ass. The skirt rises, and ends at its top in a simple black leather jacket (not too different, actually, from the one I wear).
Her hair, straight, in a bob, is jet black. I can’t see her face but I know – from the shape of her head, from the color and texture of her hair – that she is Asian. Or, perhaps more accurately, that many of her ancestors are/were.
I’m hypnotized by the space between the top of her thighs. It’s inches below her cunt, daring me to stare.
I find myself musing about creep shots. As I’ve described in the past, I’ve settled into a willinness not to grab the image to preserve it for posterity, but I feel sad about the unfairness of it. I’m allowed to stare (within reason), and to burn the image into my brain – which I try to do. But I can’t press a button on my phone and facilitate that.
And of course, if I did press that button, then what? Would I, actually, revisit it? Would I jerk off to the grabbed image? In the period in which I was collecting creep shots, I didn’t do that. I didn’t actually use the pictures as masturbation fodder. Rather, I used the taking of the pictures as a sort of short-term thrill, a jolt of dopamine, making me feel especially alive for just that moment.
Anyway – I don’t take the picture. I just drink in her pretty, pretty shape from behind.