The window

Shoes are off on the floor and the camera strap is still on my neck and I am talking to the phone with the city in the glass. Josh is behind me. He is thirty-three, my partner, and he came over because I asked him to, not because a job ran late. Denim shirt, nothing clever under it but skin. I told him to stand at the window with me and put his hands on my hips and wait. He waited. I like being looked at by the glass and by him at the same time.

I said unbutton me, slow. He did, knuckles on my stomach, and told me I looked like a photograph I would not let anyone else take. I said this one is only for us. His palms came up over my breasts. I arched into them and said pinch, lightly, and tell me what you see. He said my mouth was open, said my nipples were hard, said he wanted to fuck my cunt right here if I wanted that. I said yes. I braced my forearms on the sill. He pushed the denim up, dragged my underwear down, and slid his fingers along my wet cunt before he even took his cock out. He said listen to that. I laughed, shaky, and said put your cock in my cunt.

He put his cock in my cunt and held still until I nodded. Then he fucked me in a steady rhythm, one hand on my clit, mouth at my ear describing us for the woman in the glass. Your cunt is taking my cock so well. Look at your face. I looked. I came watching myself, which still surprises me at thirty-six, the vanity and the honesty of it. He asked if he could cum on my lower back. I said yes, I want to feel your cum. He did, warm, and then he wiped me with his shirt and kissed my shoulder. The strap is still on. I might take the camera off before he fucks me again. I might not.