Engines & Lace: Chapter 7
Chapter 7 — Through His Lens: Filming turned want into proof, and obedience into performance.
This is Chapter 7 in the “Engines & Lace” series. The previous chapters can be found here.
The first time he recorded us, it wasn’t announced. No “can I film this?”, just his thumb tapping the screen while his other hand pushed me flat into the mattress. The flash stayed off, but the soft click of the camera app let me know it was rolling while he slid himself inside, hips rolling slow at first, then harder until his balls smacked against me. You could hear everything…the wet slap, the breathy moans, his low growl in my ear:
“Look at me while I use you.”
I twisted to look back, and he kept the camera trained on my hole as he pushed deeper. When he finally came, he stayed buried and kept filming, grinding slow as his release leaked out around him. Later, the clip arrived on my phone with one word: mine.
After that, it wasn’t a question anymore. He’d prop his phone against a pillow or wedge it between a lamp and the headboard, the angle locked on my hole as he opened me up. Sometimes he’d hold the camera to provide his POV, move the phone closer mid-thrust, making sure every inch of him disappeared inside me. I’d be stretched to the limit, swallowing him down, the string of my thong or the torn edge of fishnets framing what he wanted to show. He’d whisper in my ear as he filmed: “Look at you. Perfect hole. Say it—say who you’re taking this for.”
“You Daddy…” I’d pant, trying to catch my breath, poppers buzzing in my head, body covered in goose bumps as he filled me.
Sometimes we pulled ski masks over our heads before we started—black fabric hiding our faces while everything else was exposed. It was practical at first, about keeping our identities safe, but soon it became part of the ritual. He’d tug the mask down over my eyes, muffling my breath, making me feel faceless, reduced to just a body for him to use on camera.
“Eyes up. Look at the camera. Show them what you are.”
It didn’t stop with his recordings. I started sending him mine, pictures and clips of other men inside me—outside, beds, bathrooms—different hands, different bodies. He never got jealous. If anything, it lit him up.
“That one’s good,” he’d Snap back.
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“Think he’d want to tag-team?”
We never did a threesome, but the question stayed in the air, heavy, like a door we both knew could open.
He used my clips like fuel. The next time we were together, he’d pull them up while I was on my knees, his dick still soft but heavy in my mouth.
“This guy,” he’d mutter, scrolling. “Bet he didn’t make you beg like I do.”
Then he’d grab my hair, tilt my head back, and feed me a hit of poppers while his other hand guided himself into my throat. I’d worship his balls first—suck them, lick them wet, kiss every inch until he groaned, voice rough. Only when he was rock hard would he shove me onto my stomach, pull my legs apart, and slide inside, the camera still rolling from the nightstand.
Sometimes he made me reenact the videos for him—same position, same angle, but with him giving orders.
“Arch your back. Hands behind you.
Spread wider. Let them see what a good slut looks like.
Tell me you’re ready for my nut.”
And I would, voice shaking, hole open for him, his balls smacking against me with every stroke. He’d press the poppers to my nose again, take a deep breath himself, then drive harder, his voice getting lower:
“Beg for it.
Beg me to breed you.
You want my babies? Say it.”
“Yes—yes, Daddy—breed me—make me your slut.”
He’d lean close so his voice was right in my ear but loud enough for the mic to catch:
“That’s right. Take every inch of my big dick. Show them you’re mine.”
Every photo, every video, whether it was his or mine, circled back to the same truth…he owned the story. Even when another man was inside me, I was still his first boy. He shaped the way I opened, the way I moved, even the way I documented myself. The clips weren’t trophies; they were a language only we spoke.
He’d text me sometimes at night with screenshots from old clips: me bent over, thong string pulled aside, hole slick and gaping; me blindfolded and on my knees; me on my back, his balls slapping against me as his hips ground slow. “Remember this?” he’d write. “This is who you are.”
And every time, it worked. It pulled me right back into the headspace he’d built for me. Even if I was in another city, another bed, another man’s hands on me, I was still his when he wanted me.
That’s what the videos show. Not just sex, but power. Not just a body, but a body trained to remember. Frame by frame, a decade’s worth of control, desire, and surrender.