I’m braced up on my hands and I hang my head for a minute, trying to catch my breath and decide if I can say no to this. I don’t want to and there’s no logical reason to, but this feels big. The special kind of big that only Devi and film make me feel, and it fucking terrifies me.
“I’m scared,” I admit. “Devi, being with you bare, with no barriers and no cameras…I’m scared. Whatever is between us, it’s so real that it hurts.”
“I’m scared too,” she says. “But I’m with you. If we fall, we fall together.”
If we fall, we fall together.
My heart pounds with both relief and terror at the same time, and I dive back down to capture her mouth in a searing kiss. “God, I love you,” I say fiercely. “So fucking much.”
“Do it, Logan,” she breathes. “Please. Need it. Need you.”
I inch just a tiny bit lower, and—with our eyes locked on each other’s the entire time—I reach down and take myself in my hand and guide the swollen crown to her wet entrance. I only push inside to the flared edge of my helmet and then I stop. I take another deep breath, almost unable to bear how tight her pussy is around my tip. It squeezes me, it fists my crown better than any real fist ever could, and I almost want to stay like this forever, with her wet and begging, and me rendering both of us practically insensate and nonverbal with just the barest penetration.
And then I slide in deeper.
Her thighs tremble and her hands dig into my back, and I feel my cock stretching her so tight, forcing its girth deeper into her wet, soft warmth, until I’m nestled all the way. I’m in between her legs, our pelvises flush together, our stomachs touching and my chest brushing against her stiff, dark nipples. I lower myself to my forearms and I kiss her again, not moving inside of her yet, letting her adjust and letting myself cool down before I embarrass myself and explode like a teenage boy before making Devi come.
We kiss long and slow, and she moves soft and sighing underneath me, until she’s practically glowing with happiness, until she’s moving herself against me and wearing the kind of open, warm expression that radiates pure love.
She’s rubbing her clit as she undulates under me, and I see a dark flush rising up her chest and cheeks and I know it will be any second now, and sure enough—despite the fact that I’m not moving at all—she’s grinding herself to orgasm underneath me, the balls of her feet moving against the sheet as she searches out friction and depth.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I murmur to her, watching her face blush as she works herself on my thickness, watching those fleeting sex smiles chase themselves on and off her lips as she approaches the edge. It occurs to me that I haven’t fucked a woman in missionary position in I don’t know how long, because it’s not a great position to film with. I prefer the positions where the viewers can see my dick and the pretty, pink pussy it’s fucking, and missionary hides so much of the good stuff.
Except it feels fucking incredible—for me and for her—and there’s something else. I forgot how intimate it is. Our skin is touching everywhere, everywhere, our thighs sliding together, our stomachs, our arms and our lips. I’m so close to her and I can see her every expression, her every unspoken thought, and I know she can see mine. There is nothing between us—no condom, no camera, no invisible walls of denial or fear. There’s only us moving together as one, an intimacy so deep and feverish that I almost feel outside of myself, like my soul really is leaving my body to search out Devi’s.
It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to any woman, ever.
But right as she begins to peak, I have this uncomfortable thought, this thought out of nowhere, that this is the best it’s ever going to be. That I’m going to look back at this moment one day and realize that it was when we were the closest, the most uncomplicated, the most in love. And I realize I think that because there’s no camera on us right now, no camera to capture this moment forever. It makes it feel so fragile, like it could vanish at any second, and how do people bear this? This feeling like love and ecstasy are slipping through their fingers? With a camera, I could hold on to it, freeze it in time. But without one, there’s nothing protecting this moment from being swept into oblivion.
And then a dawning realization of oblivion comes as she shatters around me, as she cries out and flexes and shudders with waves of release.
I want all these moments. I want only these moments. Because the only way to hold on to them is to hold on to her, and the way I want to hold on to her is something like I’ve never felt before. I want to give her all of me, all the time, always, and what the fuck does that mean? Does that mean I don’t want to fuck other women? That’s ridiculous, of course, but the answer is right underneath me, coming down from her orgasm glassy-eyed and breathless.
I think I might only want Devi.
I think I love her in a way I’ve never loved anyone else before.
I think I want to give her all of me. All of me. Meaning I don’t give myself to anyone else.
Because that’s one thing that the economics of porn can’t erase—you are sharing yourself, endlessly, over and over again. Private slices of yourself, and I want Devi to have all my slices, all the parts of me that I have to share.
A ball of panic clenches in my stomach, because I don’t know how to digest any of this. I try to push it all aside, but as I start rolling my hips into hers, I catch sight of my camera on my bedside table. It’s dark and unseeing now, but its presence soothes me and worries me all at once. Who is Logan O’Toole, really? And what does he want?