Camera Lucinda

In a weird, strangled voice I reply "Good thanks, how about you?" thereby forgetting my only line and potentially ruining everything. I really do not want to have to do multiple takes of this. But you, a pro, say "Oh, same old, same old. Want to come and watch some TV with me?"

I come out of the kitchen. Two quite professional looking lights on stands illuminate you and the couch, while the rest of the room is largely in shadow. I see that a camera is on a tripod directly behind the TV, and the TV is now showing a picture of you, in a bathrobe, on the couch. I suppose you must have connected the camera's output directly to the set.

Oh God. I'm still wearing my coat, even though I'm barefoot. I just about have the presence of mind to slip it over the back of a dining chair on my way past. You look over your shoulder at me, and pat the place next to you, smiling. I notice that a couple of inconspicuous towels have been placed on the cushions. So I sit down beside you, and I can tell from the image of myself on the TV that I look frightfully stiff and anxious, despite the warm glow of the excellent lighting. You reach for my hand and give it a brief, reassuring squeeze. And that's when I notice that your fingers are wet.

You take your hand back and untie your robe's belt. The body beneath it is the body I'd watched on your phone in the bar, but now that it's also really your body it is alive and meaningful to me in a quite new way. There are your out-of-bounds nipples, your throat, your stomach, your face already slightly flushed. There's your other hand, with its index finger ever so gently rubbing little circles around your clitoris. You open your legs a little wider, and my eyes flash to the screen, where your well-lit vulva sparkles. I look back from the image to the real you, and I know which I prefer, but there is something very compelling about seeing you opening up on the big screen, so carefully framed. You strum your clitoris a little faster for a moment, then turn to me and raise an eyebrow. You look down at the lump in the front of my pants and smile and nod.

Unbelt, unbutton, unzip. I try, awkwardly, to shuffle my trousers and underpants down together, the waistband getting caught on my erection. I'm tangled. You smile again and whisper "All the way off." So I stand and let my pants slide to the ground. I step out of them and then, looking straight up at the ceiling, I release me penis into your gaze. Yours and the camera's. When my boxers are off, I primly sit back down and find that I have closed my eyes quite tightly. But then you have the grace to say "Oh my God. Would you look at that? Yum," and you sound very pleased about things, and that enables me to open my eyes, and the first thing I see is my penis reflected back at me in glorious 4k, and--what can I say?--my penis has never looked better. I mean, I don't think there's anything wrong with it. Some people have said kind things about it in the past, and it has rarely let me down. But tonight it looks beautiful, lit like this, framed liked this, juxtaposed with your blushing, gleaming vulva, which looks like a beautiful shell newly washed up on the beach, mother of pearl flashing within. I'm perfectly hard, of course. I can't imagine being any harder. Perhaps that gives my penis a new air of confidence, certainty. Who knows. Honestly, I don't spend much time looking at it--perhaps I have had a good-looking penis all along. Now, though, it looks I can only say majestic.

And you are not unaffected by it, it seems. Your eyes firmly fixed on the screen, you bring your feet up and back onto the edge of the couch. Your right hand, still dry, reaches between your legs. With your left hand holding yourself open, you slip the middle and ring fingers of your right into your vagina. You go back to work on your clitoris with your left hand, but thanks to the camera I can see that your fingers are probing inside you. You're not moving in and out, but I can see the tendons on the back of your hand flex, presumably as you curl your fingers up, stroking the front wall of your vagina. I mean, I would guess it's the front but it might be the top? It's difficult to orient oneself.

"Could you please touch yourself?" you ask. "I'm getting self-conscious here."

So I begin to masturbate, and I'm not going to describe it. You know what jerking off looks like. I am grateful, on this as on countless other occasions, that I'm not circumcised, thanks to having been born overseas. No need to worry about lubrication or chafing, everything nice and smooth. You watch me do it on the TV, and you begin to fuck yourself with your fingers, steadily and not fast, but with determination. And that's when I come down from whatever cloud of unknowing my head has been visiting and realize that I can hear you. I can hear your wetness. It sounds like splashing in puddles. It sounds like the end of a bathtub draining. There are suction noises and squelches and little bubblings and pantings and it is the most erotic thing I have ever heard. I can't stop looking at you, but if I did the sound of you would make me come any second anyway.

Suddenly, you slap me on the wrist--the masturbating one--with your wet hand--the penetrating one, now removed--and say "Are you getting close?" and I say "Mmmm-hmmm, literally on the edge."

"Well, stop it, for goodness sake."

"Why? Weren't you getting there too?"

"I'd already come before you came in, just a little one. But yes. I am ripe. Bursting. So answer this question quickly and deliberately: do you, Professor Christopher Lehman, consent that I, Professor Lucy Griffiths, may fuck you right now, on this couch, and film it for posterity?"

"Oh God, Lucy!"

"Yes or no!"

"Yes!"

"Condom on--now. Shirt off--now. And scoot down into the middle of the couch."

There is a moment of undignified scrambling as I find the condoms in my pants pocket, get one on, lose the shirt, open the packet, unroll the thing onto me. I look ridiculous, except for my cock, which is continuing to have the night of its life. Before too long however, I am sitting in the center of your couch and you are astride me and the head of my penis is meeting the entrance of your vagina and even through the latex it feels like diving into a warm tropical pool. But you start moving, and now it's like being in a small boat on a choppy sea, but you're tight around me, so it's like... actually, it's like nothing I've ever felt before, even though it is absolutely sex. The quintessence of sex. I have to try thinking about other things, lest I explode before I'm supposed to. It's not easy. You quicken your pace, and you are able with great skill and consistency to raise yourself right up off my penis, keeping hold of only the very tip, before slamming yourself right down to my pelvic bone, engulfing all of me and (presumably) introducing me to your cervix in a rather abrupt manner.

And then you slow right down and... bear with me on this... you know how caterpillars move, those ripples or undulations that their bodies make when they activate each leg or pair of legs in turn, so it looks like a wave is passing along them from tip to tail. This is a terrible analogy, but: you do the caterpillar thing to me with your cunt. I look up at you in shock, and you have your eyes closed and are biting your lip in concentration as you contract the muscles of your vagina in a series of pulsations starting at the bottom and working back towards the top. Each squeeze feels like a kiss, and the top of my head has come unscrewed and is floating back up to the ceiling. You're looking at me now, and smiling one of your best smiles.

The caterpillar ripples stop and I catch my breath. You lean down and whisper into my ear. "Tits. Now. Be rough." It's not actually as easy as it sounds, though I'd love to oblige, because you start riding me with absolute abandon at this point. I'm not sure I've ever seen somebody thrashing about in real life, but what else can I call it as you buck and grind hard and fast, and my penis only slips out of you once, which seems like miraculous technique. And I can't catch up with your breasts which are bouncing pretty much any which way, and that makes me feel like a doofus, until you pause just long enough to grab the back of my head and bring me in close to you, and your nipple enters my mouth, and it is very hard and I want to bite it so I do, and you say "harder" and I bite a little harder, and then you come.

I can't describe your orgasm, of course. You aren't very loud, although at one point you do say "Oh my goodness gracious." It seems to last a long time, in comparison to mine. I can feel even more wetness pooling on my thighs, and there are some interesting contractions around my penis. It's the coolest thing I've ever seen.

And then, bless you, you start right back up, and this time it's you twisting my nipples with your fingers, and at one point you reach behind you and squeeze my balls with a firmness that I'm sure would normally be painful, and that's enough for me, and as I come I'm flying down what appears to be an infinitely long kaleidoscope, and God's probably at the end of it, but I don't quite reach God because my cock can spasm only so many times and eventually I run dry.

You lift yourself off my penis, which no longer looks magnificent, but definitely looks smug, and then you do something strange. You stand up, on the couch, feet either side of my thighs. You grab my head again, holding me in place as you lower your sopping cunt onto my face, and you actually smear yourself all over me...nose, mouth, chin, eyes. You drench me. I can smell and taste the condom a little, which is a shame, but mostly I taste the umami of you, the salt water, the sweet flesh. It's a baptism. I am born again. You climb back down and you kiss me.

*

That was all a miracle, but not the biggest miracle of the night. When we'd heated up and eaten a frozen pizza with some salad, and drunk a really big glass of water each, we took blankets onto your balcony and ate ice cream looking out into the night. It was Phish Food, which turns out not to be a favorite of either of us, but it was fine. But the miracle, the miracle was that at about 10.15 you said "would you like to stay the night?" and you had a spare toothbrush and although I was very awkward about what had happened that evening and we didn't mention these events at all once we'd turned off the lights and you'd disconnected the camera, you cuddled me in your bed for twenty minutes before turning over and going to sleep.

*

In the morning, you were gone. I slept heavily, slept too much, and it was 9am before I surfaced, groggily. You weren't there, and of course I was already in love with you and so I gathered myself up and got ready for heartbreak. But you'd left me a note on the table that said "Another secret I have to share: I teach Irish dancing on Saturday mornings and have to be at the community center by 8.30. Couldn't bear to wake you, handsome. Thanks for last night. THERE IS NOTHING TO FEEL BAD ABOUT. I'll be in touch. xLx."

*

You did get in touch. On Sunday you sent me a link to our video. It's fucking hot. I mean seriously. You'd edited it a little, removing all my fumblings with clothes and condoms. Once or twice our heads had crept into frame, and you'd scrupulously blurred them out. The lighting is fabulous, our bodies look delicious, and the urgency of our desire is palpable on the screen. You asked if I wanted to post it, said I could take as much time as I liked to think it over. Part of me wanted to keep it to myself forever, a memento or heirloom, to be jealously guarded, for my eyes only. This was the greatest thing ever, it had happened to me, and I could relive it whenever I wanted to. But I knew that wasn't the point. My gaze is insufficient. You wanted to share an experience, not just with me, but with anybody who might benefit from seeing it. Sharing is caring, don't they say? So I said yes, and you uploaded it, and it is even hotter now that I know that Olaf and Renée and (to date) two hundred and six other people have watched it, shared our experience in some way. And one beautiful stranger even commented that I had a nice dick. Maybe I do.