Rewind

He said I can film us as long as he doesn't know; he doesn't want to be performative.

I love the home movies we make more than any fantasy, any pornographic video. I replay my time with him over and over, searching for moments to log away forever - moments I couldn't see when we were together. It's like getting to be a voyeur in my own life, watching myself through another pair of eyes, catching every nuance of our desire with the lens only hindsight provides.

I set my camera up on my desk the last time he came over, angling it just right, facing the couch where I knew l'd be kneeling below him soon enough. The thought of capturing it thrilled me almost as much as the act itself. I wanted to see myself, see him, the way we were in those moments when I wasn't distracted by sensation, when I wasn't lost in the wet heat of him - the weight of his hands, the way he breathes my name like a confession. I wanted to watch it unfold with the luxury of distance, savoring every detail I might have missed.

Watching the video later, I traced the way the afternoon light slanted through the curtains, illuminating the silver flecks in his hair as I knelt before him. I hadn't noticed it then; the way he looked down at me, eyes dark and drunk with hunger, his hand smoothing over my cheek with a tenderness that felt almost reverent. I saw the way his eyes rolled back when my mouth took him deeper, the subtle raise of his eyebrows when I moved my tongue just right, the twitch of his fingers in my hair when he wanted more but held himself back.

From the mirror in front of us, I watched him watching me, his expression dark and possessive, the tension in his jaw as he fought to keep control. There was something intoxicating about seeing him like that, seeing myself like that, bent over with his gaze pinned to the curve of my back, the rise of my hips, the way my body yielded under his hands.

I watched his patience unravel in slow increments, the way his fingers traced the line of my spine before gripping me tighter, sinking into me with a groan that sent a shiver down my spine even through the screen. One hand on himself, slowly stroking; the other inside me, stretching, teasing, owning. I saw the way his lips parted, his eyes darkening as he watched me tremble around him, his free hand curling into the flesh of my hip, pushing deep into me.

I rewound, again and again, lingering on the way he touched me - possessive yet careful, as though every inch of me belonged to him and he knew it. I studied the way his face softened when I looked up at him, his thumb brushing my lips, slipping between them, his breathing uneven as I swallowed him down.

There was something addictive about capturing it all, something deeply satisfying about knowing I could relive it whenever I wanted.

Every sigh, every shift of his muscles, every stolen glance that might have gone unnoticed in the heat of the moment — I saw it all now. I memorized it. And I knew that next time, l'd do it again. I'd set up the camera, tuck it into the shadows, and let us play, knowing that later, when the room was empty and I was alone, l'd have him all over again.