Polaroid Trail

I was not paying much attention, and certainly did not give much notice to seeing a pair of Polaroid photos, image-side down, about three feet apart along the side of the street. Thinking about a longtime friend's upcoming visit, I was so lost in plans that even when I noticed a few more Polaroids ahead, image-side up, I did not pay any attention.

But then I happened to step awkwardly on a broken-off piece of pavement, and looked down instinctively to help in regaining my footing. That was when I noticed one of the images: a close-up shot of a female chest.

That certainly caught my attention, especially given that the photo was just laying willy-nilly on the side of the road.

I glanced ahead and saw more Polaroids. It was a long line of the instant photos, most of them with the image-side up, anywhere from a few inches to several yards between them. With both eyes firmly affixed to the ground, I trekked ahead, absolutely amazed at this unabashed trail of female nudity: a close-up of a breast, a young woman on her hands and knees upon a bed with her long red hair obscuring her face, another picture of her in a similar position with a hand fondling a breast, a male point-of-view close-up shot of red-painted lips surrounding a massive erection, a close-up of a closed eye with its lengthy eyelashes projecting upward from a veritable pond of male seed, a shot from between her thighs looking up her body as she rested on her back upon a table and squeezed her own breasts, a similar shot with a trickle of white seeping from her clearly-used sex...

For these images to be strewn like this along the side of the road, I could only assume that these had been dropped by accident. I could only imagine that whoever had the pictures – almost certainly the young woman's boyfriend, as I could not imagine any female (at least, not in my experience) who would want to keep such pictures of herself – had lost them by accident, perhaps keeping them in an unzipped pocket of a backpack and the Polaroids slipping out as he walked along the little-used road.

I continued my trek along the road. The only traffic thus far had been one person speeding by on a bike, clearly in a hurry given his body language and his loud huffing. As far as I could see, the lengthy line of Polaroids continued.

More photos: the same young woman seen from behind while squatting over a large veined dildo with a suction cup affixed to a white-tiled floor, a close-up of the same painted red lips parted slightly with a line of saliva-semen mix dribbling from the edge of her mouth...

At last, I came to a large lengthy grove of trees. I knew from previous walks along this lengthy road that there was a dirt road nestled within those tall leafy trees. I was a little surprised to see that the trail of Polaroids left the paved road and followed the dirt road.

Curiosity caused me to follow the line of images as well: the same young woman (I assumed) holding open her sex to allow the camera a clear view inside her body, a side shot of her from knees to chest as she plunged a thin vibrator into her womanhood, another shot of her well-manicured hand with two of her own fingers buried within her dripping sex, a super-tight close-up shot of one nipple with her other nipple rather blurry in the background of the image...

The dirt road continued on and on, as did the trail of Polaroids, until at last I saw a small cottage, with the trail of images leading directly through the open door. I continued following the images until I stood on the small cement square before the open door. Peering inside, all was dark, darker than what one would expect given the time of day.

Caution made me hesitate at the doorway for a moment.

Curiosity caused my feet to move forward once again.

Once in the shadows of the cottage, it took a long time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I could just barely discern the white edges of the Polaroid images on the floor, but purposely waited a little longer for my eyes to adjust before following the line of images. But, somehow, my eyes did not adjust to the dim lighting, so eventually, I followed the trail down a narrow hallway to a closed door.

With a deep breath and a little nervousness laced with curiosity, I opened the door, discovering a tiny room devoid of anything of substance save for the same young woman from the Polaroids shackled to the opposite wall. There were no windows, no electrical outlets, no other doors... just bare white walls, a plain white ceiling, an immaculate white tile floor, and a tall pillar candle at the center of the room to cast meager illumination upon the bound woman.

Her head was tipped forward, her body slumped toward me as much as the shackles would allow. Her long red hair hung in front of her face, and it was almost as if I was witnessing a "living" Polaroid image.

Cautiously yet curiously, I stepped into the tiny room, my footsteps seeming to reverberate off the barren walls with surprising volume. I noted the gentle rise and fall of the breasts as the mysterious woman inhaled and exhaled softly. Her body was completely limp; if I were to remove the padlocked shackles, she would instantly slump to the floor if I did not also support her. She appeared quite healthy physically, although her stance indicated that she had been restrained to this wall for an immeasurable period of time.

I stepped past the candle, disturbing the air just enough to cause the flame to flicker. That caught the young woman's attention, and she slowly raised her head, yet that lengthy red hair still obscured a view of her face. If she could see me through that thick mane, she did not give any such indication.

When I was perhaps an arm's length away, I hesitated again. I had read before of people who enjoy being restrained in various ways, and they often had a dominant person who would conduct such scenarios. Was this bound woman one of these people, or was she actually here against her will? In either case, why the lengthy trail of Polaroids?

I carefully took another step forward, then another step. Slowly, as if moving through a vat of molasses, I raised my hands toward her face, and parted that thick red curtain of hair.

...and saw my own face, my eyes glaring at me with an intensity which was absolutely terrifying.

Hearing the sound of a camera shutter, I suddenly sat up in bed, finding my partner laughing as the Polaroid spit out a new image. I laughed softly to myself, finally realizing that it had all been just a dream.

...but wondering when my partner had bought a Polaroid camera, and why.