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When did the obsession start? She’d started sending pictures out of the blue. A friend, but not a close friend, who was kept indoors because of the plague, suddenly decided that I needed to see her naked.

She was polite about it, of course, she was a very nice girl after all. Though many of my friends were also lovers from time to time, she wasn’t one of those. She had a partner, though I didn’t really know their rules. There was an implication they didn’t mess around that way. Thus it was a bit surprising when she messaged me, “I took some somewhat naughty pictures that I thought you specifically would appreciate. Would you like me to send them to you?”

“Yes, of course! That would be wonderful. I’d love to see any photos you’d like to show me,” I started. It’s important to show the proper enthusiasm for these things. 

It was all very pretty and a little shocking. She looked younger when she was nude. Perhaps it was the quarantine as well. Very little makeup, bathed in sunlight, hair longer and wilder than I remembered. It all seemed very intimate, in the pale white of her bathroom. Her white robe open a bit at first, then open a bit more.

The obsession started, I think, with her lips. Cupid bow. Beestung with a natural rose color. She didn’t wear lipstick very often in our photographic correspondences. She bit her lips in many of the pictures, and it made me want to suck on her bottom lip, bite it a little, feel it between my teeth.

In the first pictures, her eyes looked out at me, at the camera, from under thick batted lashes. The seven pictures she sent me, that first time, had a simple little narrative that hit all my buttons. The shy girl, her desire to show off for me slowly overcoming her modesty. That’s what I wanted. Shyness, but only as an aesthetic and an obstacle.

The obsession took full hold of me at photo number five. As base and objectifying as it was, her round puffy nipples made me groan with need. Soft, swollen perfection. Large compared to her slight breasts. The same shade as her lips. I zoomed in and zoomed in until there was nothing but pixels and whimpered for more.

Maybe it was the light or her pose or the way the robe fell off her shoulders, and her breast just peeked out. My fingers itched to touch her. My lips ached to kiss the softness on the screen.

In photo six, the robe was completely open and only held on the crooks of her elbows. Both breasts exposed, both puffy nipples etched into my memory.

In a lovely denouement, she was confidently nude, the camera farther away showing the robe pooled at her feet. Eyes holding a hint of daring. Arms behind her back in submission to my gaze. Presenting herself.

Between her legs, a soft short natural triangle of brown hair. The line of her pussy, just visible, like an arrow pointing to what I wanted. The goal, though certainly on par with her puffy nipples. 

It all drove me crazy.

Then came the messages where we figured out how the game would go. Asking for more pictures, trying not to be pushy or demanding. Figuring out that she was eager to send more, greedy to be lusted after, hungry to be adored. The pictures would come if I replied with the appropriate awe and covetousness.

As submissive as she was, the knowledge of how much I enjoyed her pictures made her bold. She couldn’t help herself but tease me. When I asked for more, she always asked what I wanted to see, specifically.

I tried to skirt around it at first, but it didn’t take very long for me to admit, “I know it’s silly, but your lips and your nipples are stuck in my head. So plump, and pretty, and puffy, and soft looking. Is it strange that I’m a little obsessed with them?”

She said she didn’t mind. “I like that. I like having things that you are obsessed with.”

When I asked for more pictures, she would always oblige, but there would always be three pictures of buildup, almost showing, half-covering with her fingers or her blouse or even a flower, before she finally gave me what I wanted. Her lips were always in every shot, even if it was a closeup between her legs, the angle was so that in the somewhat blurry distance, her mouth was ever-present.

The videos came later, after a month of back and forth. As much as I enjoyed watching her tease and play with and even hurt her own nipples, I wanted to see more. I wanted to watch how she played with herself. I wanted to hear what it sounded like when she came.

At every boundary we passed, I was surprised at her lack of reticence. There seemed to be nothing I could ask her for that she wouldn’t give me, eventually, in her own teasing and drawn-out way.

I found myself getting more daring, more specific, more perverse. I told her I wanted her to edge every day, twice a day, and to always show me. A picture, a video, even a little snippet of audio.

She was always prompt and always obedient. Her open thighs and wet fingers became familiar. The sounds of her neediness were like opium. By the fourth day of edging, she would beg, plead, offer me her every hole and every delight.

I should have made her wait longer to come, but I was helpless when she begged. After a week, when she came, it was a violent delight to watch. Her high-pitched little yelps as her body was trampled by her orgasm.

But the quarantine was long and complicated. In time the pictures waned, though when they came, they were like little surprise gifts. Our games could not weather the sadness that came in time.

When things started to break, when the world started opening up again, we were too busy for our games. I looked up one day, and it had been two months without a picture.

Then, suddenly, shockingly really, I was in the same room as her.

A little gathering, a brunch at someone’s new apartment. I didn’t know she would be there. I was mixing up mimosas for everyone, and there she was at the door. She kissed people’s cheeks and passed around her crooked grin and then saw me and paused for a moment. A secret smile spread over her lips, and she nodded but didn’t come over to me. Not yet.

I passing out mimosas and made around, chatting a little with everyone, slowly making my way to her. When she saw me again, she walked over to an empty corner and sat down, waiting for me.

“If it isn’t my pen pal,” I said, delivering a drink to her.

She looked down for a moment, a smile and a flutter of red in her cheeks. “Is that what we are?” She asked shyly.

“Lovely friends who found interesting support strategies during the pandemic.”

“Two friends who made a hobby out of mutual obsession,” she said, sipping her drink and gifting me with an in-person lip bite.

“I thought I was the one obsessed,” I said, my eyes on her dress, hunting for any sign of her nipples, then feeling like a creep. She was wearing a wrap dress made of a thin pale blue fabric. Her eyes followed mine, and then she looked up and smiled.

“You weren’t the only one. I’ve been obsessed with sending you pictures, your reactions. I literally had an alarm set for when the light would be best in my bathroom and bedroom. I bought new lingerie. You were getting media with real production value. It was nice to have a reason to take a shower and put on makeup,” she said with a laugh that she covered with her hand.

As she got closer, I noticed her scent for the first time. It was a perfume I remembered, one that she always wore, but being so close to it flooded my memories and awakened my body. It was floral, pretty, with an intense vanilla note. It was delicate and sweet, but it made my blood boil with desire.

I took a deep breath and looked around the room. “Look, quiche. I guess we should mingle.” 

She didn’t look at the quiche. Her eyes stayed on me. 

“Would it be bad if we went somewhere?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

She raised an eyebrow. “Why? So you can finally touch all the parts of me you are so obsessed with?” She straightened her back and pushed out her chest.

“I thought so you can finally show off in person since you’re so obsessed with it.”

She cut her eyes, but her smile didn’t waver.

“Maybe we can go somewhere. I wasn’t sure how it would be seeing you. I didn’t know if things would go back to the way they were. Did I tell you I’ve always had a crush on you?” She said, though she was looking around the room, seeing a bit distracted.

“I didn’t know that. That’s honestly one of the sweetest things I’ve ever heard. I’ve never been able to get a read on you. We’ve always had fun, teasing, joking, but we’re very different people with very different lives. Your email seemed so out of the blue, and after those first pictures, I think I went back and tried to remember every interaction we had before.”

She shrugged. “I’m hard to read. I think I like it that way. I don’t want to be read, I want to decide how much information someone gets.”

I took a sip of my drink and then put it down, my hand brushing her knee. Her breath caught a little. Her dress was so thin, so billowy, the way she sat made it gather, and her knee was just barely exposed. I traced a little circle with my finger, and she very suddenly grabbed my hand and held it there. She didn’t push it away, but she wouldn’t let me move it either.

“I was pretty sure you would be here. It’s pretty much the only reason I came. I’ve been re-reading some of our more graphic emails. All those rules you gave me. It’s been a while since I thought of them. The world has been so chaotic and stressful. Still, I couldn’t get those games out of my head.”

Looking at her, I was suddenly aware of the language of her body, her fidgeting, her nearness to me. How she seemed to be aching to be touched, to be closer.

“It’s interesting, how much brattier you are in person. In emails, you are so respectful and pliant,” I said with another smile.

People were opening housewarming presents, and we were mostly ignored. Her hand was still on mine, but I opened my fingers and squeezed her inner thigh a little. When she looked up, her eyes were surprisingly sad. 

“I’m afraid I have to be good today. Well, somewhat good. As much as I’d like to leave this boring party with you. I mean, I’d really like that. Still, what if we just slipped into the bathroom, just for a second?”

I considered that. I took my hand off her thigh. I didn’t know her whole story. I didn’t know about the construction of her relationships. I didn’t know a great many things.

“Go into the bathroom with you? That sounds very sordid. I don’t want to get you into any trouble.”

She whimpered a little, and I nearly swooned. “Please,” she whined. 

“Please. That’s a good word. You said that a lot in your videos,” I laughed. She went a little red. She leaned over and kissed my neck and then whispered into my ear. “Can we please go to the bathroom, please? I’ll open up my dress, and I’ll show you anything you want, and you can finally touch me. You can finally put your lips on me.” 

She took my hand and put it back on her thigh. She looked up at me through her thick lashes. The smell of her perfume seemed to be all around me.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you more,” she said softly.

Seemingly out of nowhere, there was a spike somewhere near my heart–some sharp memory pain. The quarantine and all that was lost, and all that was hurt. We were standing after all of that. We were fulfilling a fraction of the contract we wrote in midnight selfies and idle sexting. It was profoundly unsettling for some reason.

I stretched, stepping away from her, then I turned and put on as much of a smile as I could. I held out my hand, and she took it.

We walked as casually as we could, smiling here and there, past the party-goers, past the bathroom in the hall, through the large master bedroom and the other bathroom that laid past it.

Rows of bottles, wet towels, the detritus of other people’s lives. I closed the door and walked over to the toilet, closing the cover and sitting on it.

“Here we are. Back in a bathroom, right where we started. Now, where were we?” I asked.

Her eyes were bashful. She fidgeted and her feet when pigeon-toed. She giggled and looked down at the floor, her hair falling over her face.

“A shy girl? That’s not what I’ve found.” When she looked up, those eyes were violently vulnerable. She was panting.

“Why don’t you show me your pretty legs?” I said, knowing her game, helping her play it. Teasing myself.

She found the bow that held her belt closed. She opened it the way she opened her robe, that first time, those first pictures. She bent one leg and touched her knee. She dragged one finger up from her ankle to her knee, to her thigh, higher.

She wasn’t wearing a bra. I knew she often didn’t. The naked space between her covered breasts was hypnotic. As she showed off her legs, she let her dress open a bit more. The pictures come to life. Her shy eyes were the same and her bitten lip.

She moved forward, and I slipped my hand onto her little belly. She closed her eyes as I moved it up. She let go of her dress, and it fell open, just barely covering her nipples. I saw their hardening peaks under the soft cotton. Then, with some slight movement, the dress was a puddle on the floor, and she was only in her panties. All that skin exposed to me, finally.

My hand moved slowly across her chest, thumb and fingers spread, framing the bottom of her breast but not quite touching it. Heat radiated from her feverlike. Her body tensed, pushed out to meet my hand, pressing into my palm.

That nipple, burned into my memory. Fantasies and daydreams and wet dreams and prayers. I looked down at my thumb, edging nearer to the corona of her fat nipple. Her body pushing out, needy. Her breath catching and in little whimpers begging.

“I can touch them?” I asked, more to prolong the moment than anything else. She nodded vigorously, making her hair fall over her eyes. She looked wild, animal, desperate.

Both my hands came up and covered her small breasts. Like a key turning in a lock, some internal click, some unknown level of satisfaction. A desire sated.

My mouth was on them before I knew what I was doing, and my arms were around her. She held me to her breasts, gasping and moaning as my lips tasted her skin, my tongue slipped across the soft sweetness.

It was silly, really, how much pleasure I got from such a simple act. It was like being a teenager, getting that first taste. I had regressed. We had become virgins, rushing to see how far we could go.

When I pulled back, she surprised me by leaning down quickly and kissing me. Her lips were even softer. Thrust into a kiss, the intimacy was shocking. Her hands-on my face as we deepened, playing that initial little game of getting to know someone’s kiss, understanding their angles and their pressure and their taste.

Then we parted. She was still cradling my face in her hands.

“I wish you could-” she started, but I kissed her again. “No wishing. We get what we get. We fulfill our top obsessions, and that’s more than most people get,” I said into her neck.

She nodded. Her lip was trembling. I felt it too. This wave of emotions coming. A tidal wave. It made us both panic.

She reached down and pulled her dress back on, skillfully tying in a quick motion. I stood and tried to will my cock to soften. I shook my head.

“I should go. Before I can’t,” she said with a weak smile.

I was panting. “I’ll go first. I should leave anyhow. I mean, I need to leave. Before I start babbling.”

I wanted to say things I probably didn’t fully mean. It was intense. I turned, and she grabbed my shirt and pulled me in for another kiss. I felt my chest swell and tighten. 

“Go,” she said, and her voice cracked.

I went. I left the bathroom and coughed as I cross the bedroom and the crowded living room, and I didn’t say goodbye. I just left. Down the stairs and out the door and into the too-bright sun. Down the block and around the corner, and then a quick mile right to my door.

There were no more emails. No more texts. When I saw her again, she was with her partner. They were very attractive and seemed like they were always touching. I got a smile and a little hug. The kind of hug where you only get someone’s side.

Life went on, there were other obsessions, but sometimes I looked at those pictures on my phone and wondered what could have been.

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