Pictures

Your fingers are still wet when you sit up. The sheets cling to your ass, damp cotton sticking to May's skin, and you peel yourself off the mattress with a wince that turns into a laugh. The mirror catches the motion—blonde hair swinging, tits settling, the pink flush still spreading down May's sternum. You look wrecked. You look like someone who just came hard and isn't sorry about it.

The phone is on the nightstand. You reach for it and stop.

Right. May's thumb isn't your thumb.

The lock screen glows up at you—fingerprint icon pulsing, waiting for a print that doesn't exist anymore. You stare at it for a second, then tap the icon twice and swipe up. The passcode request appears. Six digits.

2-7-0-1-1-4.

The home screen blooms.

You swipe past all of it and open the camera.

The app loads and the front-facing lens does its thing—autofocus, that little square hunting, catching on May's face and locking. You hold the phone up, arm extended, and watch May watch you. The preview window is small and bright, and in it your own face is a stranger's face, familiar from a hundred hallway glances and now yours to move.

The first shot is clumsy. You angle the phone wrong and the light from the lamp catches the wrong side of your jaw, throwing a shadow across your cheek. Her memories tell you it's ugly, unflattering, the kind of photo she'd delete immediately. You delete it.

The second attempt is better. You turn toward the lamp, angle the phone down just a bit. The V of your collarbone catches the light. Your tits are still flushed from the orgasm, nipples gone soft, the skin around them faintly pink. You don't pose. You just sit the way May would sit, one leg tucked under you, the other knee up, arm draped over it. Casual. Effortless. Except her memories are whispering the whole time—chin down, shoulder back, elbow bent just so—a hundred tiny corrections you'd never see on your own.

There. That's the angle. That's the one.

You take it.

The shutter clicks. You look at the preview and something cold runs down your spine.

It's May. Really May. Not the version you've seen from across the quad, not the version you'd imagined in the dark of your own room. This is the version she sees in her own bathroom mirror at two in the morning, hair a mess, face bare, body real, and it's on your phone now. In your hands. Yours.

You take another one. Then another.

The third shot is May lying back against the pillows, one arm above her head, tits falling slightly to the sides, stomach flat and relaxed. The fourth is May on her stomach, chin propped on her folded arms, ass rising gently behind her, the arch of her lower back catching the light. The fifth is May standing in front of the mirror, phone held low, hips cocked to one side, one hand resting on her own thigh, the faint shadow of her pussy lips visible between the tops of her legs.

You're not posing anymore. You're following the memories. They know exactly how May looks best. Which side of her face is stronger. Which way to turn her hips so the light skims her waist instead of flattening it. How to hold the phone so her tits look full instead of long. Every shot is a tiny masterclass in self-portraiture, and May has never done this, not once, not even for the guy she almost liked—but she's thought about it. God, she's thought about it. Standing in front of a mirror, wondering what she'd look like through a lens, and never daring.

You're daring for her.

The sixth shot is the one that makes you pause.

You're on your knees on the bed, back arched, tits pushed forward, phone held above and slightly behind so your face is turned over one shoulder. Ass high, thighs spread just enough to show the shine of wetness still gathering at your entrance. The mirror behind you catches the other side—your back, your shoulder blades, the curve of your spine down into the swell of your ass.

You look at it for a long time.

Then you take one more. The seventh. And it's the real one, the one that makes your chest tight. You've set the phone on the nightstand, propped against a book, ten-second timer running. You kneel on the bed facing away from the camera, legs spread, one hand reaching back between your thighs, two fingers slick and just pressing against your entrance. Head turned, profile visible, mouth open on a breath you didn't quite catch in time.

The timer counts down. You watch the tiny red dot in the corner of the screen.

Three.

Two.

One.

The shutter sounds. You reach forward, pick up the phone, and open the photo.

May is on her knees with two fingers inside her own pussy, looking over her shoulder at the camera like she's been caught doing something she shouldn't be, and the expression on her face is not performance. It's real. Your breath catches in your throat just looking at it.

She would kill me.

The thought is absurd and immediate and you know it's true. May would kill you if she ever found these. She's never sent a nude in her life. She knows better. She's told herself, more than once, that the fastest way to lose control of your own image is to let it exist somewhere you can't delete it from. And here you are, standing in her body, holding seven of them in her camera roll, each one good enough to ruin her.

You should delete them.

You don't.

More. You want more. The wetness between your thighs is back, worse than before, and you realize with a small, ugly thrill that you've been leaking onto your own heels this entire time.

You take the eighth shot zoomed in. Just the pussy—lips parted, clit hood visible, slick catching the light, one finger pulling the left lip back so the pink inside shows. It's obscene. It's the kind of shot that would end May's social life in a single screenshot, and you take it anyway, and it's beautiful, and you save it too.

The ninth is your face, close, mouth slightly open, eyes hooded, the tip of your own tongue touching your upper lip. May's instagram face, but ruined. Bedroom face.

The tenth is from behind, bending over the edge of the bed, hands gripping the mattress, legs straight, ass framed by the mirror behind you—the pucker of your asshole small and pink and visible between your cheeks, and below it the wet shine of your pussy lips, and above it the arch of your lower back. You hold the pose for the timer, arms trembling with the effort, and the shutter sounds just as your legs start to go.

You save all ten.

Then you drop the phone onto the pillow and sit back on your heels, breathing hard, and the mirror shows May again—flushed, wet, hair falling loose, one hand resting flat on her own stomach like she's trying to hold something in.

You can't keep these.

The phone is right there. You could delete them from your phone. You could dissolve the suit in the tub and forget tonight ever happened.

You pick up the phone instead and scroll back through them, slowly, one after another, and your pussy aches at every single one.

You save them to a locked folder. The kind that needs a passcode to open.

The rain starts outside, soft on the window, and May's reflection in the mirror tilts her head at you and waits.