The photographer had nailed it. Chris stretched out on his bed and slowly stroked his cock as his eyes roamed over the picture. While the woman’s face was hidden behind her black hair, the flush on her chest made it apparent to anyone with an ounce of discernment that she was having an orgasm. But for those without discernment, the way she clawed the sheets as she arched her back toward the camera gave it away. The picture froze her in ecstasy.

Chris's eyes trailed lower, to where the other woman's hands held the first woman's hips. Her black hair cascaded over thighs and stomach and obscured what she was doing, but there was no doubt, really. Not with her head positioned there. Not with the way the first woman reacted.

Chris smeared a little pre-come around as lube, and then continued with his self-pleasure as he admired the photograph. It was the most erotic art he'd ever seen—better than any Playboy, better than any picture in a San Francisco gallery—even if it was just a Polaroid. It was searingly hot.

It was also his eldest daughter stretched out under her mother's tongue.

A jolt went up Chris's spine. He gasped as he felt the pressure build in his balls.