Women Seeking Women #35

Her mouth drops open on a filthy groan, thighs shaking against my shoulders. The upload date stares back at me from the corner, gray text that won't quit: September 21st, 2007. Ten years older than her, this body, and still her cunt tastes so fucking sweet it hurts. She's riding the angles of my face now, slick spreading over my chin while her fingers claw the headboard. "Oh my fucking God," she whimpers, and somewhere deeper inside my skull the lie about who she is keeps ticking, keeps burning. I lick harder. The old laptop fan whirs in the dark room like it’s choking on dust, but it won’t stop recording. Her heels dig into my back, red indents blooming along my ribs. I chase the spot that makes her whole body lock and I find it—always find it—until every tiny muscle trembles around my tongue. I push two fingers through the mess and fuck into her, rough, slow, knuckle-deep, stretching her open. She cries something halfway between a scream and my name. Tonight the age gap, the wiretap caution, even the legality of the whole sick, beautiful thing doesn't seem real. Just slick heat and the way she begs with every arch of her hips: don't stop, don't think, just take it. I press my thumb in circles over her clit, sucking in time. The flash on the camera pops once, burns a white outline against the inside of my eyelids, and her cunt spasms so tight it aches around my fingers. "Fuck, please—" Her voice cracks. She shakes through the climax with her neck arched, breath stuttering, puffy flesh clamped hot and pulsing. I don’t let up until she’s gasping curses into my mouth and everything is wet enough to drip. The year on the video will still be 2007 when I replay it later, proof I took every dirty, filthy inch they told me not to. She’s still trembling when I shove up from my knees, still slick and wrecked and wide-eyed, but the door is already unlocking in the background. A last view of her ruined mouth and flushed chest recorded for future evidence. A last kiss I shouldn’t have given. (Inhale. Be specific.) I just moved before the clip ended, hand in her hair, her legs clamped tight around my waist. My zipper gives, metallic click hidden under the camera’s whine. When I sink into her the old springs squeal like someone caught on fire, but I just fuck her through it—deep, measured, wrong. She bites into my collarbone to keep quiet and nothing’s ever felt this intimate and illegal at once. I ride it out until we both fall silent, until the footage burns into static at the end and the little upload bar reads Completed. Three seconds later the night ends the way films noir tend to: flashing reds outside the curtains, a plan already dissolving on the flophouse floor.