Lights, Camera, Play - Episode 8

She grips the camera with both hands, knuckles pale, lens aimed at the bedroom window like a loaded weapon. The room is dark except for the glow of the monitor across the hall. My breath fogs the glass. I press closer, bare chest against cold wood, and watch her. She wears nothing but a thin white shirt, buttons open to her navel, the cotton barely covering her hips. Each small movement tugs the fabric aside, flashing the soft curve of her breast, the shadow between her thighs. Her legs part slightly as she adjusts focus. The skirt of the shirt rides higher. She leans forward, knees on the mattress, ass lifted in the air, and the hem climbs to reveal the wet line between her legs. I swallow. My hand moves to my own cock, slow, measured, matching her rhythm. She sees the motion. Her mouth opens, tongue wet across her bottom lip, and she pushes two fingers inside herself while keeping the camera steady. The wet sound carries through the night air. She pumps her hand, wrist turning, thumb circling her clit, and I can see the muscles in her thighs tense with every thrust. She tilts her hips toward the lens. The camera captures it all: the slick shine on her fingers, the way her cunt tightens around them, the tremor that starts in her knees and travels up her spine. I stroke harder. The window fogs more. She glances up, eyes bright, and holds my gaze while she adds a third finger, stretching herself wider, fucking her own hand with deliberate, greedy strokes. The muscles in her forearm stand out. Her shirt slips off one shoulder. Her nipple hardens in the cool air. She arches her back, pushing down harder onto her fingers, and comes with a sharp, quiet gasp that fogs the lens for one brief second before she steadies the shot again.