The Sex Tape

I’ve got an idea 

for before I leave

Yeah?

with ur new camera, would you film us?

Film us?

something sexy

to watch while I’m gone

Yes

Definite yes

I’d fantasized about this all week. A camera. His eyes. My body. I have no idea what’s in store. He’s the visual artist. All I knew was what he’d texted an hour ago: 

Everything’s ready.

I walk slowly up his driveway. The ground is damp from the afternoon’s humid rain, and the thought of my man—tall and thick-chested, half-Danish with blue eyes and a golden, exquisitely groomed beard—waiting for me—pulls me toward the door. But I make myself take one step at a time, trying to control my breathing. I’m glad I went on a run earlier. My nerves are alive but not wiry. I knock. He opens the door and my core quickens. I step inside.

He’s wearing the vintage St. Paul’s Mechanics hat we thrifted last week, and before he can say anything, I smile, reach up to lift it off, and he grabs my wrist. 

“Woah there,” he murmurs, pulling me into him. He’s a full head taller than me, and as I look up into his eyes, earnest and intense, a wave of want pulses through me. I want to touch him in all the ways I won’t get to for the next month. I’ll miss this. Him. The soft fabric of his light blue shirt against my forearms. 

“Woah,” I say, not breaking eye contact, and deep inside me, something stirs.

His next words come slowly, as though each carried a sentence of its own. “I will miss you.”

I nod. What else can I do? My stomach flutters and my heart picks up. This handsome Viking of a man staring into me, my face tanned from hours on the trails outside town, my brown curls a cute contrast to his light hair.

He’s a lighting designer at the Sebastiani Theater downtown, a place I’d gone three months ago to interview someone I was profiling on assignment for a magazine. I’d stopped him in the lobby to ask for directions to their office, and we wound up talking for half an hour instead. I was inexcusably late to the interview, but completely jazzed by his connection. His contact information hadn’t been hard to find online. I texted him the next day.

“So, you ready to star in a porno?” he asks now, smiling, squeezing me playfully, flicking his head toward his bedroom.

I raise my eyebrows coyly. “Always ready to star in a porno.” 

But as soon as he releases his grip on me, I step forward and push him back, gently up against the wall, and he lets me bring my hands to his face. The camera, his bedroom, they can wait. I’m not nervous. Being filmed. I trust him. We’re two hot bodies. What I want now is to draw out every second with him. 

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” I ask. My thumbs roam his jaw, his soft beard. 

His hands find my hips and he bunches my short, dark green dress between his fingers.

“I do remember,” he says, leaning down to plant a kiss on my neck. “You were wearing this same dress, weren’t you?” My breath quickens with his lips on my skin. He can tell, and he squeezes my waist, then runs his hands down and around my ass, cupping the flesh of me, his favorite part of me, toned from a lifetime of running as decompression after a long day. He pulls me in closer. 

Our first kiss had been after seeing one of his shows. He’d done the lights for a community theater production, I can’t even remember which one at this point. We’d held hands in the theater, then outside my apartment, we’d sat on the curb under the streetlight and talked til two in the morning. When he finally rose to say goodbye, he stared at me, and like two magnets pulled toward one another, we kissed, simply and deeply. He texted me the next day: 

I want more of you.

Now his lips are kissing up my neck, towards my ear, where I want his lips, tender and soft. His grip tightens on my ass, his strength sending more waves of want through me. My pussy heats, and I lift my chin, and he’s kissing my jaw, coming closer and closer to my mouth.

My hips lean into him, my mouth wanting him, but waiting for him, his mouth, hot, direct, now upon me with a tender power that melts my senses. I drop in, and my hands sweep up over his back, gripping my favorite part of him, his shoulders, his chest, years of physical labor muscled beneath his skin, his breadth, his life.

His tongue finds mine, bold, fully awake in my mouth, pulling me into a new dimension. Time warps like this often with him, me feeling things in places I didn’t know existed.

His hands release my ass and slither up my back, reaching into my hair. He wraps his fingers into my long, loose curls. He pulls my head back tenderly and looks at me. His eyes shining, scanning me, my brown eyes and open smile, soaking me in. 

“Come,” he says, and steps toward his bedroom.

I’ve spent countless hours in this room over the last three months. As is usual, his bed is neatly made with a set of deep lavender sheets that hang below a dark blue comforter and a burnt orange blanket. Just yesterday morning I’d ridden him there, my ass pounding in the first rays of sun after I’d discovered his cock hard when we’d woken up, pulsing against me, irresistible. 

What’s new in the room is the camera. He’d bought an old Super 8 with one roll of film off Facebook Marketplace a few days ago, ready to shoot. The desire to text him, to have him film us, hit me in the shower the other day. We were two hot people, I loved fucking him in a mirror. The thought of a camera recording us turned me on.

I want to walk towards the retro contraption and see how it works, but I’m taken by the lights he’s set up. A soft blue lamp hangs from the veiling, casting the bed in a glowing sphere while warm and cool beams layer in from lamps in the corners of the room. The dimensional texture makes something extra in the room feel alive. “It’s beautiful,” I say. 

He bows playfully and I walk over to the camera, pressing my eye to the viewfinder. The side table, the window, and half the bed are framed in the shot. “Show me how it works,” I say.

He comes up behind me and pulls my hair around my neck to the side. Leaning down, he whispers. “It’s art. No one knows how it works.”

A hot shiver runs through me. I spin around. My hands find his shirt, his chest, the texture of his hair buoyant beneath. I want to sink my fingers in, to hold onto him. “I want to take this off,” I say, my voice low.

He groans.

I look at the camera. 

He nods, takes my hand and guides me to the bed. I sit on the edge, in the center of the frame. 

Peering through the camera, he makes some adjustments, then stands and smiles, finger against the record button. We hold eye contact, our dare building, the risks of committing ourselves to this moment in time. If we create a record of this, of us, our bodies, our language, our fusion, the art will bind us, a connection I’m wanting, I know with deep certainty, and willing to make.

“Lights,” he says. 

“Camera,” I say.

“Action,” he says. 

I smile as he approaches, and I lean back, my arms straight and strong, palms pressing into the comforter, and take in the view for myself: Him arriving at me, stepping in between my legs.

Slowly, he kneels in front of me. 

“No performance,” he whispers.

“No performance,” I whisper back, softly shaking my head. Then I sit up and slowly lift his shirt over his head, letting the fabric puddle on the floor beside us. His hands find my thighs and he slides his palms up tops of my quads, squeezing my legs until his fingers find the hem of my dress. Gently, he pushes my thighs further apart, gazing down at my pussy. 

I drop down to my elbows, leaning further back as I open my legs, wanting nothing more than this Viking of a man to push up my dress, to feel his breath close in on the black lace of my thong. 

My pussy throbs. Both of us know I’m already wet.

He kisses the inside of my right thigh, then moves over to my left, then his tongue, heavy and strong, makes its way to the edge of the black lace. His lips cross over, onto the fabric, kissing a circle around my clit, and my stomach flutters, my breathing shortens, anticipating, wanting him, his touch, his heat, him, immediately. 

He can sense my desire, and he toys with it, prolonging his first contact with my clit. But I know he can’t wait either because he suddenly flicks his tongue over the hot pleasure that’s building in my body. I groan.

His fingers squeeze my inner thighs.

I watch as he brings two fingers toward the lace gusset separating him from the depths of me. He feels the damp fabric and lets out a soft moan. My toes curl. Slowly, his fingers start circling the fabric over my clit. 

My breath hikes, shallower, quicker. His fingers glide and circle like he’s winding me up. When he’s confident, he looks up at me, and the force of his gaze keeps me steady as I start to pant while he pulls down my underwear. He pauses to take me in, and I spread my legs wider once free of the thong. 

The space between us charges. My blood pounds, my clit now free, yearning, swollen. A second, then two, then three tick by, and finally he leans forward, crawling onto me, pulling my dress up over my head. My breasts bounce free and he takes one in his palm, the perfect size for him to grasp in one hand with just a little left over. He shakes my tit then leans in and takes my nipple in his mouth, teasing me with his teeth before kissing and tonguing, sucking and then working his way over to my other nipple. His fingers clasping gently, and more and more powerfully on the one that’s now wet. I moan. 

His lips then move down my stomach, and he lowers toward the floor, kneeling back down, his forearms pressing against my thighs now, his hands reaching, sinking into my ass, far more than he could ever grasp at once. Still, he holds me firmly in place.

His tongue begins to work around my pussy, hot and charged. I try to take deeper breaths, but my lungs keep fluttering and catching, only faster and less controlled as he gets closer and closer to my clit.

I gasp when he finally makes contact, my fingers dig into the comforter. He pushes down on my thighs and tightens his grip on my ass. I want to arc up in response to the intensity, but he anchors me, his tongue fixated, my clit under his reign. I can’t help but moan.

Suddenly he dips his tongue into my pussy. I love the weight of him, how he presses into me.

His lips come back up to my clit, wrapping around me now. Sucking and licking, altogether light, then more firmly, more intensely. My head falls back, I want nothing but this feeling. My fingers find his hair, and I hold onto him, his body, the only thing left in my universe. 

My hips tense and I want to buck. This feeling, the heat, it’s so intense, and I try to lift but again I meet his resistance, his arms, firm, asking me to stay, telling me to feel.

My chin lifts in response, my throat long, open, making space for the growing desire coursing through my body. His grip, his mouth, the way he fucks, dreams, loves—I want everything with this man.

Deep flames kindle and curl inside me. He flicks my clit with his tongue, and I can feel the edge materializing inside me. Sharpening and expanding, showing me where to go. Tempting, miraculous. My mouth, my collarbones, my ribs all open.

I scrape up words from the bottom of my pussy: “You,” I breathe. “Do you want me to cum?”

He tightens his grip in response. I feel his commitment, his tongue fanning everything inside me. 

I keep moving toward the edge, lured by him in ways I can’t resist, and I breathe and breathe, trusting where we’re going, wherever he wants to take me.

He senses my surrender, and he holds me there, then he goes all in. 

The flames within me roar, the edge rushes in, and I lean into it. He sends me across, over and down and up into the depths of beyond, where I rise and fall through our miracle, moving with light and, finally, exhaling again and again with life, tender. 

Slowly, he rises, a smile spreading shyly across his face. 

“Come here,” I say and reach out to him.

He bends over, placing his palms on either side of me.

His eyes are clear, hovering over me. 

“I love you,” I say.

He nods. We close our eyes and kiss.