Camera Off

The first thing I saw was her thumb over send, and the second was the photo: her pussy wet and pink under black lace.

We were two adult strangers stranded at Exit 17 after a blown radiator, and the only place with power was a shuttered photo studio that smelled like old paper and hot bulbs. She’d found me in the parking lot, shirt off, trying to keep my phone alive with a car charger.

“Tell me you liked it,” Lena said.

“I liked it too much,” I said. “I’m Ben.”

She typed: Ben. Then held up the screen: Now send me yours.

My hands were stupid with want. I pulled my jeans down and sent him back: a hard, flushed cock, leaking.

“Jesus, Ben,” she laughed. “You’re fast.”

“You’re not.”

She propped her phone against a stack of backdrop paper so the texts would pop on screen, then unbuttoned her blouse. One button. Then the next. Her black bra was damp at the cups, nipples pressing through lace as she shrugged it off.

“Come here.”

I did.

The kiss was messy—teeth, a bitten lip, her laugh caught in my mouth. She pushed me onto a leather chair, thumbs dragging circles over my chest, palm sliding under my belt.

“Still hard,” she murmured.

“Because you’re still naked.”

She unbuttoned my jeans awkwardly, my fly catching, then tugged them down. My cock sprang free against my belly. She stepped out of her panties, lace dragging over her thighs, and opened her legs on the chair. Her pussy glistened in the ring light, slit swollen.

I touched her before I thought, two fingers sliding along her clit, then inside.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “There. Don’t stop.”

I kissed her while my fingers worked her, feeling her hips jerk. Her tits bounced when she laughed, then sobbed. I stood, pulled her against the seamless paper backdrop, and pressed her there. The paper crackled under her spine.

“Phone,” she gasped. “Keep it up.”

I angled it toward us. Texts lit the screen:

Me: You’re so wet.

Her: Put it in.

I pushed my cock against her pussy and slid in. She cried out, nails biting my shoulders, the ring light catching the shine where we joined. Her walls clamped hot around my shaft.

“Ben—”

I started slow, watching her face, then grabbed her hips and fucked her harder. The chair creaked. The backdrop rolled off its tube and crashed. Neither of us cared.

She came with her mouth open, then again when I bit her neck. Her pussy pulsed around me.

“Cum,” I said.

She bent over a table of lens cases, ass high, cheeks flushed. I took her from behind, one hand on her waist, the other gripping her hip. Her clit dragged against my knuckles with each thrust. The wet slap of skin filled the studio.

“I’m gonna cum again.”

“Do it.”

She did, shaking, while I drove in until my hips slammed against her ass. I came hard, hot rope after rope flooding her, and she moaned low, broken.

After, we lay on the floor under the fallen backdrop, phones dark, chests rising together. The air smelled like sweat, paper, and salt.

“Delete them,” Lena whispered.

“Nah,” I said. “Keep them.”

Her breathing slowed first, then mine.