The Photos My Boyfriend Sent While I Slept

I’m Lucía, and Wednesdays carry a different weight for me than the rest of the days. They’ve become a ritual, first shared, then secret. When Mateo first suggested taking photos at home, he framed it like a joke over dinner. He had just bought a new camera, a DSLR he lugged around proudly every weekend, and complained that he had no one to practice with.

—I wouldn’t ask you for anything weird —he said, laughing against my neck—. Just portraits, light tests, that sort of thing.

I agreed because it touched me, and because the idea of having his full attention for an entire afternoon seemed, in a way, like a caress.

The first Wednesday I posed in the bedroom in a short cotton nightdress, barefoot on the bedspread. Mateo gave me quiet instructions, almost in a whisper: look at the wall, let a strap fall, close your eyes for a second. I obeyed with that new clumsiness of someone who has never felt watched like that. Every click of the camera was a heartbeat. When he asked me to turn toward him, I felt the blush travel down my neck and settle somewhere between my navel and my thighs.

That night, when he set the camera on the table, he came to the bed with his eyes still in lens mode, measuring me. He yanked the nightdress off over my head without ceremony and laid me on my back. He knelt between my legs and spread my thighs with his palms, looking at my pussy as if he were still focusing. “Look at how you are,” he said, and ran two fingers through my already soaked lips. He lowered his mouth without warning. He licked my clit with a flat tongue, long, insistent, and then slid in two fingers and started curling them against a spot that made my back arch and writhe. I grabbed his hair, dug my heels into his shoulders, begged him not to stop. He made me come like that, with his tongue working me relentlessly and his fingers inside, until I screamed into the pillow. Then he stood at the edge of the bed, pulled out his cock, already rock hard, and made me turn my face toward him. “Suck it.” I took it into my mouth to the throat, with my hand on his ass, pushing him toward me. I kept sucking him like that, looking up at him, until he jerked me away, flipped me over, and slammed into me from behind. He fucked me against the mattress, holding my hair, with his other arm under my stomach to lift my ass. His balls knocked against my clit with every thrust. I came a second time around his cock, and he held out a few seconds longer before emptying himself inside me with a hoarse growl. He stayed on top of me, sweaty, breathing into my nape, and kept brushing the hair from my face as if he were still focusing on me, as if he still had the camera in his hands.

From that Wednesday on, the session became routine. We tried the living room in the evening light, the kitchen with the cold countertop against my thighs, the bathroom with condensation fogging the mirror. I started choosing my clothes with a new care: lingerie I hadn’t worn since we moved in together, T-shirts I let get wet on purpose. “Like this okay?” I’d ask, knowing perfectly well it wasn’t an innocent question. His eyes behind the lens devoured me, and that hunger of his made me feel more body, more woman, more alive. What came after, in bed, was almost a consequence. As if the camera’s click were the necessary prelude for him to rip my panties off with his teeth, pry my cunt open with his thumbs, and fuck me while counting each moan like someone counting shots fired.

I found the folder by accident. I was looking for a document he had downloaded from my bank account and, among the desktop files, I saw a folder titled with my name misspelled on purpose. “Luzía.” As if he had baptized it that way so I would never open it. I opened it. And my heart dropped to the soles of my feet.

There were hundreds. Some were from the Wednesday sessions; I recognized those immediately. But most were photos I had never known existed. Me asleep, the sheet twisted around my legs. Me face down, completely naked, cheek pressed into the pillow and my ass offered to the lens. Me in the shower, seen through the steamed-up glass, one hand braced on the tiles and my nipples hard. Some had an almost deliberate composition, as if he had taken the time to find the light. Others were direct, brutal, close shots of my tits, of my pussy half-open, of the curve of my hip and the cleft of my ass. I felt nauseous. I felt the heat of tears. And down below, I felt an unexpected pulse that made me shut the laptop with a bang, as if the screen might be able to read my face.

That night I didn’t sleep a wink. Mateo slept beside me with his calm breathing, oblivious to everything. I tossed and turned and imagined him looking at those photos in his office, the laptop between his legs, his cock hard in his fist, touching himself slowly with my image while I kept sleeping in the next room. The filthiest thing about the night wasn’t imagining him. It was realizing the idea burned me. That the kink ran down my thighs and left my panties soaked. I slipped one hand under the sheet carefully so as not to wake him, slid two fingers between my already slick lips and rubbed my clit very slowly, biting my lip so I wouldn’t moan. I came in silence, my hips trembling against the mattress, face turned toward him, watching him sleep.

I hated myself for that. But not enough to turn it off.

***

The next morning I said nothing. I kept making breakfast, kept making coffee, kept laughing at his stupid jokes. But inside, something had started to change. That afternoon I opened the folder again, alone, on the sofa. And this time I didn’t close it. I kept looking at myself. The skin he had framed while I slept. My own back, my own parted mouth, my own pink pussy in a close-up I had never seen of myself. I pulled my pants down to my knees and spread my legs on the sofa. At first I touched myself over my panties, feeling the fabric stick to my lips. Then I slid them aside and pushed two fingers in to the knuckle, looking at the screen, imagining Mateo’s hand lifting the sheet carefully to frame me. With my other hand I worked my clit in quick circles. I came brutally, biting my forearm, my pelvis lifted off the sofa and my fingers buried inside. When I finished, I stayed breathing into the cushion, one hand glossy and a strange smile on my face that I didn’t recognize.

The following Wednesday I asked him to take photos in the kitchen. I put on a short silk robe and didn’t bother to tie it shut.

—And underneath? —he asked, with that voice I already knew.

—Guess.

I climbed onto the countertop, let the hem of the robe fall open, and he started shooting. Five, ten, fifteen photos. I could feel him looking through the lens, and for the first time I didn’t just obey. I spread my legs until everything showed, licked my fingers and brought my hand down to stroke my pussy without taking my eyes off the lens. I posed with intention, with the certainty that those photos would not stay on his hard drive alone. And that, against all odds, didn’t offend me. It turned me on. A little later I tossed the camera aside, grabbed his belt, and pulled his pants down right there. I knelt on the kitchen floor, took his cock out, and swallowed it to the tears, looking up at him. Then he lifted me, set me back on the cold countertop, spread my legs and drove into me at once. He fucked me there, with the dishes trembling beside us, biting my neck, until I begged him to come inside me.

I found the email three weeks later, one night when he had fallen asleep on the sofa. His laptop was still open, logged in. I went into his sent folder like someone entering a forbidden room. And there was the pattern. Dozens of emails, all to the same recipient, an alias made up of a single initial and a string of numbers. I called him V to myself. I didn’t want to give him a full name. I didn’t want to grant him more existence than he already had.

Every email from Mateo had an attached photo and a short subject line. “Look at this one.” “After dinner.” “Asleep.” “What do you think?” And V’s replies were what left me breathless. “I’ve come twice to that one.” “I can’t stop imagining her.” “I want to see her from behind, with her ass spread open.” “I want the next one in the shower, with water running down her tits.”

I closed the laptop. I went to the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the tub with my thighs pressed together and my breath broken. I should have felt disgust, rage, betrayal. I felt all that, yes, but wrapped in something bigger. Someone I didn’t know, someone faceless, had come with me. Had jerked off while looking at me sleep. Had come all over a screen that was my body. Had wanted me blindly, without even knowing my voice. That idea split me in two. One part of me wanted to wake Mateo up and smash something against his head. The other part had already unbuttoned the pajama pants and had two fingers inside her cunt, imagining a stranger’s cock unloading for me.

The second part won.

***

That same night I memorized his email password. He had it saved in the browser, so all I had to do was look at the text field patiently. I didn’t need much time. Just enough to write from his address without him noticing. The first reply I sent was cautious.

“I have more. Want them?”

V replied in less than a minute. “Please.” That one word alone made me cross my legs in the chair and feel my cunt clench dryly.

I started choosing the photos he sent. I downloaded them from his folder, renamed them, sent them myself signed with his name. And sometimes I added details he would never have given. “This is from last night, after fucking. I still had my cum inside.” “She was the one who asked me for this one. She likes being watched.” Little lies that made V even hungrier. His replies grew longer. He started telling me what he touched himself with, in what position, how many times a week. “I came thinking about her ass. I want to put it in there.” “I want to see her wet, with her panties stuck to her cunt.” “I want to see her in the kitchen, legs open, showing her pussy, not knowing she’s being watched.” “Last night I jerked off for a long time to the shower one. I ended up soaking the screen.”

The following Wednesday, in the kitchen, I staged the scene myself. I asked Mateo for a wide shot from the floor, with the fluorescent light falling over my skin. I was wearing a white T-shirt, wet in front, with my nipples showing dark through the fabric, and nothing underneath. I spread my legs as if I were going to reach for something in the drawer below, and let the photo happen on its own, my pussy open to the lens. Mateo didn’t notice anything, or if he did, he loved it. That night, while he slept, I sent the image to V with a short message. “I told you I had more.” Five minutes later, his answer. “I came. My hand is covered. I want the next one in the yard. With the moon.” I pressed the phone to my chest as if it were him whispering in my ear.

***

The yard was trickier. We live on the first floor, with tall trees on the far side of the fence and a building across from us whose windows are usually dark at that hour. I waited for the following Wednesday, for a windless night, and asked Mateo if we should try taking photos outside. I wrapped myself in a white sheet and went down barefoot. I asked him to record a short video too, while I let the fabric fall little by little. The moon was high. The cold made my skin prickle before the sheet had even fallen all the way. When it did, I stood naked in the middle of the yard, my nipples hard as stones and the hair on my pussy shining under the moon. I brought one hand to my cunt and stroked myself in front of him, slowly, looking at the camera. I parted my lips with two fingers so everything would show clearly. I slipped one finger deep inside and pulled it out shining, then brought it to my mouth. Mateo filmed every step, his hand so steady I could almost hear him breathing through his mouth.

When we went back upstairs, he took me to bed while my skin was still cold and kissed me with a urgency I had learned to read. He tossed me face down and opened my ass with both hands. “You’re soaked,” he growled. He ran his tongue over my pussy from behind, long, filthy, and then moved up to the other hole and licked that too, until I pushed my ass against his face begging for more. After that he slammed his cock into me from behind, his chest crushed against my back, biting my shoulder. He fucked me until I came, squeezing him between my legs, and when he came he pulled out and unloaded onto my hot ass. I stayed face down, his cum sliding down my crack, feeling him fall asleep beside me. I knew that night, while I showered, he would open the laptop again. I let him. I let him think the video was only for him.

Later, when I heard him breathing deeply, I copied the file to my own phone and sent it to V with a note: “I wasn’t asleep this time. Tell me what you’d do to her.” The reply took almost an hour, and when it came, it was long. V described everything he would do to that woman if he could have her for five minutes. How he would put her on her knees and force his cock into her mouth until she cried. How he would open her against the patio wall and fuck her cunt standing up, one hand over her mouth. How he would come on her tits after sucking her for a long time. His fingers, his tongue, his voice against my ear. I read it twice, sitting on the bathroom floor with my back against the tiles, my panties already around my ankles. I spread my legs right there, sucked my fingers and shoved them into my cunt to the wrist, while my other thumb rubbed my clit. I came twice in a row, biting my hand so I wouldn’t wake anyone, my legs shaking and my ass knocking against the cold tiles.

The strangest part came next. I didn’t feel dirty. I didn’t feel used. I felt like the owner of something I hadn’t even known existed two months ago.

***

Yesterday I made my boldest move yet. In an old folder on Mateo’s hard drive I found a video of us from a couple of years ago. Me on top of him, in this same bed, moving slowly, tits out and my left hand searching between my thighs. You could see me riding him with his cock sliding in and out, shining with my juices, and my fingers working my clit in the same rhythm. Mateo was filming me from below, holding the phone with one hand and grabbing one breast with the other. Back then I wasn’t pretending anything, and it showed. I would reach the end with my head thrown back, squeezing his cock inside with contractions visible on my face, and a muffled moan I still recognize in myself.

I edited it. I cut out the sound from the beginning, left only the end: my hips moving faster and faster, my cunt swallowing his cock whole, my cry when I came over him. I sent it to V’s email with a single message.

“You know she wasn’t faking this one. Look closely.”

V didn’t reply for hours. When he did, he wrote just one line.

“I just came three times. My hands are shaking.”

I turned off the laptop. I left it where Mateo had put it, at exactly the same angle. I brushed my teeth, let my hair down, got into bed beside him. I stroked his back until he settled against me. While he slept, I stared at the ceiling and smiled. Somewhere in the city, a man I’ve never seen was still thinking about me, cock in hand, masturbating to my image, believing he owned a secret.

And the truth is that for months I was the one who knew nothing. I was the one being photographed, watched, handed around without permission between two men who thought they were accomplices. But today I’m someone else. I’m the one who chooses which photo leaves this house, the one who decides what gets sent and what stays. The one who writes in my partner’s name without his knowing, and the one who keeps filming herself when she’s alone, spreading her legs in front of the camera just for herself, slipping her fingers in to the hilt while looking at her face on the screen.

I’m no longer just an image behind the lens. I’m the woman who looks at herself from the outside, touches herself thinking about what she sees, and for the first time in my life I like what I see.