His face is trapped in a shy grin on the pic on my phone. His hair a mass of unruly curls, somewhere between defiance and fashion. One hand over his head grasping at nothing on the cloud of pillows in a leisurely pose while the other frozen mid-stroke on his angry red cock. My thighs are in the pic. As are his. His covers most of mine before they're cut off of the frame, but I can trace those limbs in my memory. A pocket cub from Colorado with meaty miniature legs that attempt to wrap themselves around my back because I'm inside him and he wants me in there. Deeper. They scramble to pull me closer. His hole wraps evenly around my shaft before it tightens and tries to suck me in even further. I remember the suction of his needy ass on every backstroke as I fuck him.
He had requested the pic. I suspect he's artificially enhanced the experience, an inference with the frequent fragmented thoughts and restless eyes on an otherwise serene face. He wants to capture the moment. He wants to see what I'm doing to him.
He shot off quickly after. I continued fucking, though. He may be content with reliving the experience later through photographs but my body wanted to play with the elasticity of time and stretch it into an infinitely long snapshot of now.