The box shook, a hand lifted the cardboard lid and the rays of light penetrated the cramped space... I still couldn't see what was happening outside, several layers of crumpled paper separated my photo from the exterior. A male voice asked about the price for the complete package at the same time as his agile fingers passed one by one through the photographs. He stopped on mine in my prison, in that small rectangle where I had been condemned to live enclosed almost a century ago for disobeying the rules.
The man, looking at me fixedly, barely haggled with the antique dealer and walked away from the stall carrying the box under his arm, wandered around the fair for a while longer. And I, pressed between his arm and torso, could feel the warmth of his body, the blood flowing, the life emanating from him that needed to be caught.
We arrived at his house, where he sat at the desk and proceeded to examine each photo with a magnifying glass, set mine aside and carefully ran his finger over every contour of my image, followed my arm until it reached the hat in his hand and smiled at me.
The ink and paper reacted to the warm contact, I felt life returning to me, intensely desiring those fingers to continue tracing my body.
The man walked away and left me on the desk, pulsating, begging for him to return. Once my consciousness was awakened and through it my sensuality, I couldn't stop the powerful process that had been unleashed.
After a while he came back and examined the reverse of the cardboard, barely reading Lily 1934, don't touch He turned the photo over in response to this warning, his expression of curiosity evident. Inevitably his hands disobeyed the warning, with soft intensity two fingers caressed my body, the shoulders that barely showed between loose hair, my breasts inflating at contact.
Life seemed to be returning to me, but I needed a little more of his energy. I noticed his gaze changing, his blood accumulating in his cheeks, his breathing was agitated... His fingers were now twisting my belt, my hips and that burned, burned my ink and my paper prison. The man threw himself onto a couch and without letting me go pulled out his cock from his pants, shook it once or twice in front of my photo. Guided by my thoughts he rubbed the glans slowly with saliva mixing with its moisture which was barely showing. He would stop every now and then, take his eyes off mine and look at his work, squeeze the trunk closing his fist, his fingers rubbing against the testicles adding to the ritual. He breathed in a stuttering manner, something murmured, my image didn't care, I just wanted to keep absorbing that energy flowing towards me. I noticed it was almost over, he wasn't going to resist much more, threw his torso back and the overflowing cock let out its soul, in two or three movements felt the final thrust. Before the man could react or realize what had happened I looked at him from the photo confused, smiled gratefully for the disobedience. I took the cardboard, a pencil, crossed out my name and wrote 'Collector 2017, don't touch' burying it again in the narrow box. I left quickly from the house, feeling the cold air on my face for the first time since 1937.
23 comentários - La Foto
gracias por compartirlo
Encontre esta foto, menos mal que lei su cuento!
Un inmenso placer esta lectura mágica.
Gracias por compartir 👍
Yo comenté y dejé puntos en tu post.
La mejor manera de agradecer es hacer lo mismo en alguno de los míos.
Por cierto, el coleccionista imprudente no siguió las instrucciones y tuvo consecuencias 😬
Como sea, otro regalo de Lady G a sus lectores 👍
gracias por pasar!
http://m.poringa.net/posts/relatos/3065250/El-trio-de-las-hermanas.html
intrigante y sensual
para cuando otro?
Saludos!!