Dive Deep into Creativity: Discover, Share, Inspire
The door swings open and closed as she is pushed through and into the room.
The hand of her friend rests in the space between her chest and her shoulder, forcing her backwards and backwards and down.
Her back meets the lip of the bed, but the pressure does not relent.
Sure, she could resist and stay standing and put an end to this fun, but she chooses not to.
She continues backwards, falling onto the bed.
The hand is removed from her body.
She stays still.
Her limbs are strewn about around her. Her hair fans out where her head met the bed. Her eyes, looking so so empty, stare emptily and needily upwards.
A click.
Her eyes regain focus for a second, and she looks up at her friend, standing there with a camera and looking at her through the viewfinder of her camera. A smile plays at her lips, disguised by the plastic and metal and electronics that serve to immortalise this moment. The aperture moves and refocuses on her.
Another click.
The shutter opens and closes.
The smile on her friend’s face widens. This must have been a good photo, she thinks.
Her friend reaches down towards her.
Her eyes flicker open and closed.
Her hand is on her clothes. Her friend relinquishes the camera for a moment, pulling her limp arms above her head before she smoothly pulls her top off of her.
She shivers, suddenly exposed to the cold air.
Her friend giggles, and she stills once more.
The lens moves backwards and forwards.
Another click.
This time her friend does not let go of the camera. Her hand caresses her chest, then moves around to her back, and undoes the clasps of her bra before deftly removing it, throwing it into the corner of the room.
She takes her time with this one, getting the perfect angle and lighting and focus.
The subject is already perfect, she thinks.
Another click.
Her friend moves again, and pushes her skirt upwards.
Another click.
Her friend stretches out, and brings her skirt down, discarding it onto the floor.
Another click.
Her tights are removed. She can hear them breaking and she does not care.
Another click.
Her underwear goes next.
Another click.
…
Her friend pauses, and looks down at her, a slight frown on her face.
She turns.
She throws a pillow down before her, intent clear.
Her subject is so lovely, but she wants more.
Why not see such a lovely thing in action and movement?
She stirs, and takes the pillow between her legs.
She moves, repeated movements backwards and forwards and so on.
Another click.
Her friend’s hand is on her hair.
It rests there for a moment.
It pulls, short and sharp and painful.
Another click.
The hand moves down to her mouth.
She opens her mouth, and her friend drives her thumb inside, pulling on her cheek.
Another click.
Their hand is removes and placed on her chin, forcing her upwards to look at her.
Another click.
Another click.
Another click.
She comes undone. She writhes and begs and whimpers and moans and shakes. Her mouth moves, making no coherent sounds, only noise. Her eyes roll back in her head and then return, glassy and vacant.
Another click.
She is released, and falls back down onto the bed.
Another click.
Her friend lies down beside her, and brings her camera up, showing her the screen.
There are so many photographs of her, exposed and limp and moving and broken, and her friend delights in showing her empty and exhausted eyes each and every last one of them.
What little of her mind remains drifts into the embrace of sleep.
One last click, for good measure.