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A photograph of a flower hangs on the other side of the room, taunting me. The petals push softly into the lens, curling back on themselves on the tips. The black and white blossom rests on the dark, graceful contours of a wooden slab.

I was never fond of photographs. For the longest time I suspected it was that the camera lied, that the light would never hang so perfectly as to cast a shadow to etch every fiber and tissue in trembling beauty; that the leathery feeling of those petals existed in that singular, fictional moment. I thought I wanted to reach through their looking glass and caress the wooden grooves with my own fingers, that I wanted to see the flower for with my own eyes and from every angle, savoring every drop of pink-white radiance that I could squeeze from it.

But, as I’ve stared into the borders of that picture frame night after night, the true cause of my resentment gradually came into focus. I hated being something separate from the flower in that crystalline moment. I yearned to be the delicate fold of a single petal, a white curve emerging from the shadowy heart of the flower.

This abnormality, of course, did not limit itself to innocent pictures of birds and butterflies. I satisfied myself with domineering power fantasies for a while, if only in the brief stretch of my emerging sexuality. The same unconscious impulse quietly crept in. Before I even realized it, I was longing to be the actress. I wanted her aching, squealing moans to be my own. I wanted her twitching, rose red lips to be mine. The arching of her back, the steady bouncing of her hips, the passive glimmer of submission in her eyes – all mine.

All of this rushes through my head as I once more go through the ritual, half submerged in the bathtub, of driving every follicle of hair from my legs. After the last stroke of the razor, I lean back in the tub, waiting for the timer on my phone to sound. I’m supposed to be watering plants every night this week while my neighbor is out on a business trip.

In spite of my dread of having to leave the house and do something, the alarm goes off. I examine my freshly shaven body in the mirror as I dry myself off. I indulge myself with a flirtatious pose and wink, shivering with dainty satisfaction before going to get dressed.

One last bit of fantasy awaits me before I head out: a thin, red sex hikayeleri pair of panties. Their frilly edges feel divine on my still-tender legs. A strange sense of subdual settles over me as the hem wraps snugly over my hips. Every stretch and tug of the fabric ekes a knowing, satisfied smile out of my lips. Even in the secrecy of my own private world it drives me wild. Each shifting brush of fabric against my skin demands more of that feminine euphoria.

Over my little secret I wear a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt, which can only slightly diminish my sensual delight. I made my way down the hallway with guileful nonchalance, even though there was hardly a chance of anyone seeing me at this hour.

I opened the door to a surprise. There was a woman already inside the apartment, searching through a few drawers.

“Excuse me,” I call out in a voice that could hardly be described as authoritative. Sometimes I wonder if my own insolvency of command is another contributor to my fixation. Nevertheless, I continue “What are you doing here?”

“Oh hey, sorry,” she calls back, glancing over before prying a new drawer open and rummaging through its contents. “I promise I’m not a burglar. I’m Mark’s niece. Who are you?”

“My name is Oliver, I live down the hall,” I explain, “I’m watering Mark’s plants for the week.” I pause. “So wait, what exactly is it that you’re doing here?”

“He wanted me to find a flash drive for him and send him some of the files, because I guess he’s one of the two people on the planet who still use flash drives,” she says before slamming the drawer shut. “Can you help me out with this really quick?”

I stroll over to the kitchen where I get a closer look at her. She’s pretty, maybe mid twenties as far as I can make out. Her warm brown hair is tied into a tight bun at the back of her head, revealing the sharp frame of her jaw. The sharp cut of her cheekbones cast twin shadows down her face in the white light of the kitchen. I catch her stealing a look at me as I dig through yet another drawer of junk to no avail. Her eyes are a penetrating shade of blue. In even that fraction of a moment her gaze feels like a magnifying glass pointed directly at me. I become important, but only important enough for study.

I steal glances at her dress in return. The loose, floral-patterned fabric tapers porno hikayeleri into her waist before curving out into her hips and finally ending its cascade just above her knees. I wonder what material it is, how the skirt feels swaying along her thighs when a breeze meanders by; how it would feel on my legs. The fantasizing continues to spiral as my hands wander through a cabinet. What kind of bra is she wearing? I would love to have a bra tightly clasped around my chest right now, reminding me of my true nature.

“Is that it?” I ask as my eyes settle on a small, bright shape on top of the fridge.

“It looks like it.” She turns back to me with a restrained grin, “Hey, are you doing anything after this?”

“No, I have nothing planned at least,” I admit.

“Want to come back to my place?”

I resolve against saying yes, but my tongue conspires against me with the technical compliance of a divorce lawyer. “I would love to.”

“Great. I live just down the street, and I was hoping I wouldn’t have to walk home alone.” Her head tilts toward me as she speaks, as though she’s admitting something deeply private. Again I feel the whole room focusing into me when her eyes lock onto me. They dart back and forth for a brief moment, scanning over my expression for any clues into my desires. My lungs tense with each breath under her scrutiny.

“Sure, just let me actually water the plants and we can head over.”

Her house is just a few blocks and an uneventful walk away. She wraps an arm around mine as we walked. I give her an affectionate look and she gives my bicep a squeeze. I learn her name. Florence, or Flora for short. A single corner of the apartment is illuminated with yellow light, revealing a frosty plastic container and the sharp glint of a handful of metallic pins. Most prominent, however, is the glossy sheen of a glass case, whose contents are obscured by the sharpness of the light’s reflection.

“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing at the case as she flips on the main light.

“Just some hobby stuff,” she explains, “I collect insects – butterflies actually.” Something resembling disinterest weighs down her voice. Not apathy, but the disinterest of an impartial judge.

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead.” The impartiality drops, replaced with a measured hint of pride.

I examine seks hikayeleri each petrified pair of wings before halting on a black and yellow figure. Something in that fragile symmetry triggers a familiar feeling of longing. The feeling of a subject longing to become the object.

“What’s this one called?” I ask, pointing to the object of my fixation.

“That’s an eastern yellow swallowtail,” she says with the inclining cadence of rote training, “They’re pretty common around here. I got that one pretty recently actually.”

I point to a few more, and she rattles off their names with the same practiced ease. My gaze never leaves the swallowtail as my finger wanders just above the glass. She seems just short of embarrassed at first, but her confidence audibly grows as I ask her more questions.

Eventually the talk of butterflies dies down and I find myself on her couch, watching a movie that I didn’t catch the name of. Neither of us are paying attention anyway. Before the title credits have a chance to get so much as halfway through their run, she takes my hand and moves it under the edge of her dress. My fingers press into her inner thigh. She nods when I give her an indecent look. I slowly march my fingers up the skirt of her dress and into her underwear. They tease shyly at her nether lips, forcing a breathy, anticipating whimper out of her.

My mind becomes fixed on the thin, embroidered texture of her panties. My skin floods with dull radiance at the dual pleasures of her flesh and fabric. My thoughts wander to color before blurring and dissolving in a haze of feeling as Florence’s lips press forcefully into mine and mine into hers. Her hands dig under my shirt in a similar frenzy. My own hands find themselves clutched to the tapered bend of her torso, igniting in reaction to the soft warmth of her body.

My heart lurches dramatically every time her nails inch closer to my waist. I’m certain she is about to discover me, but every brush of lips and tongues binds me to her more tightly. I can’t bring myself to back away. Every sensation races and pulses too quickly for me to think properly. I hardly realize what’s happening when she reaches into my pants to return the earlier favor. Her hand wraps loosely around my member before she pauses. I don’t permit my heart a single twitch. She works her hand up and down my shaft for a moment or two before she stops. She’s certain now. Her hand withdraws.

“What are you,” she pauses to consider how to deliver the blow, “Are you wearing panties?”

I give a trembling nod. Her expression becomes something sinister.

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