I hear the click, and see the flash through the silk tie which serves as my blindfold. My consent to be bound apparently qualifies as permission to document my submission. If I had expected it, perhaps I would have shifted, sucked in, smiled, but then the photos would have told a slightly different story, one that was less true. This way, my pose is natural, and open, wide open. He has captured his own hand on my upper thigh, with black feathers as stark contrast to pale, smooth skin.

Later, much later, with another man, other men, the poses begin to come easily to me. I’ve learned that my story is fascinating and deserves to be recorded.

Sometimes I make suggestions:

“Drape the silk scarf across me.”

“Try from a lower angle. Take the picture like you want to look way inside of me.”

“Zoom in on the marks — angry red on pristine white.”

Sometimes he knows what he wants:

“Crawl up the bed to me.”

“Look up at me with my cock in your mouth.”

“Scream for me baby. Come for me.”

I’m a diva in a way I never am in real life. My innate drama queen is captured, as is my pain, as are my orgasms. The camera flatters me, loves me, wants me, fucks me with tenderness. With my clothes off, in a strange place, with a familiar lover, I am the camera’s whore.