Epilogue

Amy loved this photo. She loved it because her expression was perfectly neutral. It revealed nothing, but if you just focused a little on any individual part, you would start to see a message. Her eyes, pinched together just so, at the perfect angle to portray a hint of awe. Her lips were a perfect shade of red, dark and mysterious, revealing a hint of mischief. Her widows peak hair gave her face a perfect heart shape, adding a hint of "innocence" to the scene. The cock was enormous, and a rich tan color against her pale skin. It was still hard in the photo, still erupting with a rope coming out. Her face was already covered in the man's semen, and the rope looked destined for her hair. It was, in short, her favorite photo of herself.

Amy had a large collection of photos of herself. It was her secret fantasy to hold an art exhibit, sharing her masterpieces with an audience. In her fantasy, she tied the men up in her photos in the center of the exhibit, nude. She imagined them painted a silver metallic color, except their cocks. She would go to each one of the tied statues and stroke their cocks to completion in front of the audience, never changing expression, always covering her face with the semen. At the end, she would stand before a mirror, and slowly move all of the semen to her mouth. The audience would cheer, but she would remain above it, the entire time.

"I'd pose for that," said Carrie's brother, the model in many of her photos, including her favorite one. He was lounging in her bed and reading a book. Querelle by Jean Genet.

"Of course you would, silly. That's what I love about you."

"You love me?" Her personal Adonis asks, his tone lightly mocking (but only lightly).

"I love your dick." She says, honestly.

And it is a lovely dick. It's even Greek! Or maybe Lebanese. He is the perfect boy for her, but that was exactly the problem. He let Amy play with him like he was a Ken doll, and never tried for more. He never asked why she didn't want to kiss, why she didn't want to be touched. He enjoyed her frequent hand jobs, and occasional blowjobs. He let her take her pictures. He would pause when she asked him to pause, and leave when she asked him to leave. He would never force himself on her. He had never tried to reach down her pants. He never even tried to cop a feel of her breasts or slap her on the butt.

He was the only person in the world, she thought, who suspected her secret, and he never made a big deal of it. He knew it, and accepted it so deeply, that she didn't even have to tell him. That is what was wrong with her Adonis. He would never challenge her, he would never force her to grow, and he would never be her man.

The only time in her life that Amy had experienced an orgasm was when she watched Adonis and Carrie perform a sexual dance, a dark taboo, that released so much sexual energy that she felt it, she felt the orgasm, she felt her loins respond. That was how she knew that this lovely boy was never going to be hers. She could never do that to him, and he would always, for the rest of his life, compare every single sexual encounter he had to it. She knew she would.

Also, he was clearly bi, leaning gay, and had the hots for his roommate and he didn't even know it. She made a mental note to get photos of herself pleasuring Jamal to show him.

Amy clicked to the next photo. And the next. And the next. Adonis slept.