The year was 1988. The world was different, slower, more intimate, and letters still held power.
My husband was away from home a lot. He worked for a large corporation, and his job often required him to travel around the world. Our relationship had started passionate and hot, but the long distance had gradually turned it cold and distant. The calls were usually short and perfunctory, filled with business talk.
I wanted to get his attention back. To remind him of what was waiting for him at home. But how? An idea formed—bold, a little desperate, and, to my surprise, arousing.
I was lying in bed, the heavy receiver of the landline in my hand. On the other end, thousands of miles away, his voice crackled—that dry, businessman’s voice, explaining spreadsheets and meetings. I wasn’t listening. I had slipped my free hand into my pants, and my fingers were already slick. I buried my face in his pillow and inhaled. Sweat and that familiar aftershave. His ghost lingered there, heavy with his scent.
While he talked about numbers, my fingers found it: the hard, throbbing point. This was no longer simple longing. His distant, tame voice was like gasoline on a fire, incinerating the ache of loneliness and leaving behind only a raw, animal hunger. I rubbed myself slowly, rhythmically. The familiar build-up of pressure deep inside me was irresistible.
“Are you even listening?” he asked, slightly annoyed.
“Mmm,” I mumbled. I slammed the receiver down into its cradle just before the floodgates broke. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Not yet.
I got out of bed, my pussy swollen and ready to flood. I walked to his closet and pulled out his worn-out t-shirt. I pressed it to my face and inhaled deeply—sweat and that deceptively wonderful aftershave. Then I pushed the fabric into my pants, pressing it against my skin.
From the back of the closet, I dug out a Polaroid camera. From the dresser, I took a black lace bra and pulled it on. It squeezed my tits together, the fabric straining, making them feel ready to explode. I was ready.
I climbed onto the bed on my knees. The first picture—it was a threat. I raised the camera, looking straight into the lens. The flash burned the moment onto my retinas: I wasn’t beautiful, I was a demand.
The machine spat the picture out. But it wasn’t enough. I needed proof.
The second picture would be the explosion. I placed the camera on a pillow, aimed it straight at my crotch, and set the self-timer. Ten seconds. I slid my fingers back where they belonged.
Ten. Eyes closed, I thought of his hands on my hips.
Nine. His name, a whisper on my lips.
Eight. That pressure, that damned familiar pressure.
Seven. I fingered myself harder, faster.
Six. My back arched.
Five. I couldn’t hold back anymore.
Four. My hips were fucking the air.
Three. Fuck.
Two. One.
The flash went off in the split second of the explosion—a perfect, uncontrollable release. A hot flood gushed from me in an arc, and the Polaroid captured it all: my tensed thighs, my fingers buried inside myself, and the spray of it caught in mid-air.
The machine spat out the second picture. I watched, heart still pounding, as the chemical-scented paper began to reveal the truth. It wasn’t pretty. It was ugly, messy, blurry, and the most arousing thing I had ever seen. It was a masterpiece. The chaos of pleasure, frozen in time.
I took the second picture—the explosion. I put on some dark red lipstick, pressed a kiss onto the bottom corner of the Polaroid. I turned it over and wrote on the back in thick marker, just three words:
“You did this.”
I slipped both pictures—the threat and the proof—into a thick, white envelope. I licked it shut. The taste was bitter, but final.
I walked out into the dark night, wearing only a thin coat, feeling the cold air on my bare thighs. I dropped the letter into the mailbox. Its metallic KLONK sounded like a gunshot in the dark.
It wasn’t a picture anymore. It was a leash. An invitation, a threat, a promise. My weapon in this game.
