Under His Lens

The click of the camera echoed softly through the bedroom. Every corner was familiar, yet tonight it felt heavy with anticipation. I knelt where he placed me, the cool floor kissing my knees. My hands rested on my thighs, my back straight, chest lifted, eyes down.

"Good girl," he said, voice smooth.

I exhaled slowly. Those two words always set my nerves alight.

From behind the lens, he studied me. I could hear the soft whirr of focus, then another click. He was in no rush. He never was. His pleasure was in the build-up--in watching me unravel under the weight of his attention.

"Do you know what I see when I look through this lens?" he asked, setting the camera down on the tripod.

"No, Sir," I whispered.

"I see my art. My masterpiece." He walked toward me. "And I want to add something new to the canvas."

I felt the plug he'd slid inside my ass earlier. It pulsed inside me with every breath now, a constant reminder that I belonged to him, that even untouched, I was never untouched.

He lifted my chin. His eyes, fierce, met mine.

His fingers dragged a silk blindfold down over my eyes. My world narrowed, sharpened. He always said I was more honest in the dark.

Leather kissed my back next--the tails of the flogger. Gentle at first, a teasing whisper.

Thud. Thud.

Each strike landed with practiced rhythm. The heat bloomed slowly across my back and thighs, pain riding that fine edge into pleasure. I gasped. He knew how to build it, to push just far enough to make me tremble, then pull me back with a whispered, "You're doing so well for me."

Click. The shutter again. He was photographing me between strokes--capturing the arc of my spine, the shiver of my skin, the marks of the flogger. I wanted to be beautiful for him in every shot.

Then, the flogger stopped. The silence was a tease in itself.

"I want to see how candlelight looks on you," he murmured.

The first drop of wax hit my shoulder--hot, shocking, then dulling into a deep, delicious burn. I moaned, arching instinctively, the wax hardening against my skin in perfect trails. He traced patterns down my back, over the curve of my hips. Each drop made me more his, set me more alight.

"You're glowing," he said. "Just wait until you see the photos."

My breath hitched. I loved knowing he would look at them later, remembering every sound I made.

He crouched beside me again, brushing my hair back. "You want more, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir." My voice was trembling, not from fear--but from how deeply I needed him.

"And you trust me?"

"With everything."

He pressed a kiss to my temple. "That's my good girl."

The plug shifted inside me again as I moved slightly, aching.

But in that moment, with wax cooling on my skin, leather heat still lingering, and the echo of the camera clicking once more--I had never felt more beautiful.

More his.

I heard the door open.

It was subtle, just a shift in air, a quiet creak--but enough to lift the fine hairs on my arms. My body tensed.

"Easy, little one." He says, calmly.

I relaxed at once, trained to trust the warmth behind his command.

"He's here," he said. "Exactly when I asked him to be."

He? My breath caught. I wasn't surprised--not entirely. We'd spoken of this before. Of me being watched. Of being touched under his direction. Of what it would feel like to be completely on display... not just for his camera, but for another man.

But talking was one thing. Hearing the sound of unfamiliar shoes on the floor? That was real.

"I told him you're beautiful," he whispered near my ear. "I told him you're obedient. But he doesn't get to touch without permission. Not from me--and not from you."

I shivered. "Yes, Sir."

"Do you want him to watch?"

A pause. My heart thundered.

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you want him to touch, if I say he can?"

A longer pause.

"... Yes, Sir."

"Good girl."

He stood, and I heard their voices low and close. Male tones, deep and smooth. No threat. He was still the one in control. Of me. Of him. Of everything.

Then: silence.

I felt the camera click again. Then the familiar touch of His hands, trailing down my back, outlining the wax trails that had cooled, hardened, and cracked. He pulled gently at one edge, peeling it off in delicate flakes. It felt like being unwrapped.

"You're going to stay just like this," he said. "Still, obedient."

"Yes, Sir."

Then I felt it--another set of hands. Not his. Warmer. Rougher. Curious.

My breath caught, but I didn't move.

"Only where I tell you," he said to the other man. "Start with her shoulders."

Those hands moved lightly. The pressure was firmer than my Dom's--less familiar, less safe, which made it more exciting. Every nerve in my body was a live wire.

"She's perfect," the stranger said.

"She is," he agreed, knowing that I wanted to protest, knowing that I don't like that word! "She's mine. Every sound she makes, every twitch of her hips--that's for me. You're just here to help me paint the picture."

The flogger returned then-- His rhythm again, strong and confident. But this time, the stranger's hands were there too--touching the fresh heat after every strike. Soothing. Exploring. I moaned.

"Louder," He said. "Let him hear what I hear."

I obeyed, moaning louder and louder.

The plug inside me pulsed with every motion, every blow, every slow glide of the stranger's hands down the curve of my thighs. I was shaking--overstimulated, under control. The tension built beautifully, unbearably.

He was close again. "You've never looked more alive than you do right now," he whispered.

"Please, Sir," I gasped.

He tilted my chin up, and finally--the blindfold slipped free.

I blinked into the dim candlelight. The other man stood a few feet away, shirtless, broad, eyes kind but dark with intent.

"Say it," Sir said.

"I want him to touch me, Sir."

"Good girl."

He nodded once, giving the man permission.

And I knew--whatever happened next, I would be seen. Photographed. Praised. Possessed.

Claimed.

The other man stepped forward slowly, his eyes flicking once to Him for final, silent confirmation. When it came, he touched me like I was something sacred.

Pulling me up onto the edge of the bed.

His fingers were broad and hot on my hips, and I gasped at the difference. My Dom's touch was known, expected. This was foreign, unpredictable. The plug inside me pulsed as I squirmed against the bed, legs trembling slightly, my breath growing shallow.

I heard His voice... "Open for him."

I parted my thighs on command, baring myself completely. The cool air, the heat of their attention--it made me dizzy.

The stranger's hand dipped between my thighs, teasing, not yet touching where I ached. I felt the trail of his knuckles down the inner crease of my thigh, stopping just shy of everything I wanted. I whimpered.

My Dom knelt behind me, whispering near my ear, "Let him learn you. Let him see how responsive you are..."

Then I felt it--his hands steadying my hips, while the other man's fingers brushed lightly against the plug. My body jolted, a cry escaping before I could catch it.

The stranger's fingers pressed deeper, teasing the plug, tugging slightly, while my Dom unrolled a new candle. I didn't even have time to beg before another drop of wax hit my lower back--hot, sharp, perfect pain. I cried out again.

The stranger was still touching me, now slipping two fingers around the plug's edge, coaxing a new layer of sensation while my Dom marked me with wax.

I felt exposed, filled, flooded--and adored.

"Look at her," the stranger said, awe in his voice.

"She's beautiful when she suffers for me," my Dom said, and I heard the camera click once more.

They moved in rhythm--my Dom's wax, the stranger's fingers, their eyes drinking me in like a living sculpture. I was helpless. Floating.

And then everything changed.

My Dom's hand slid into my hair, anchoring me. "You're ready now," he whispered, low and dark.

I didn't know what "ready" meant. But I trusted him.

He gave no specific instructions this time. Just silence and breath and presence. His hand didn't leave my hair, didn't stop grounding me. The stranger moved behind me again--closer this time. My knees were nudged wider.

I felt them both now, each taking a space around me like shadows wrapping around

light. I didn't know whose hand was where. Didn't care. I was being offered. Not as an object--but as a gift.

Hands holding my hips, others on my face.

A cock sliding into my soaking wet pussy, another in my mouth.

Their rhythm grew heavier.

Pressure. Stretching. Possession.

The breath left my lungs as my Dom whispered praise in one ear, while the stranger braced me from behind. My body burned, filled, surrounded. Every edge of my skin was lit with sensation--pain and pleasure folding in on each other.

I was being shared. I was being taken. I wanted it.

He directed every motion, every pause. "Slower," he would say. The stranger would slow his movements and glide in and out of my wet pussy.

Or "Now. She can take more." The stranger moved faster, harder, deeper.

Sometimes he didn't speak at all--just a look, a nod, a possessive hand gripping my throat lightly to remind me who I belonged to.

At one point, I reached for him and he caught my wrist, pinning it to the floor beside my head.

"No," he murmured. "Don't move."

And I didn't.

It wasn't just bodies. It was a filthy kind of worship. I was filled --and yet I wanted more.