I let out a high-pitched moan, filling the rooms of this apartment, which I was cursing this very morning—oh, the irony of that. This is all thanks to batteries and how they always die.

“Oh, god. Oh,” I moan as I try to indicate to Camille that I’ve had enough, that my body can’t take anymore. My muscles are relaxed, my limbs lazy, my lips spread into their widest smile.

She crawls up to me. Her smile matches mine.

“Mon dieu,” she says. I don’t need to know a lot of French to know what that means.

She brings her fingers in between our faces and looks at them intently. Her smile fades, then deepens. She spreads her fingers and traces them over my lips. I smell myself on her, then taste myself as she slips them inside my mouth again. While her fingers are in my mouth she kisses me on the lips. As though she can’t get enough of me. Maybe she can’t. The thought fills me with lust again. Depletion of desire is no option in this bedroom. Not with Camille lying half on top of me and thrusting fingers into my mouth. How long before she goes? No, I shouldn’t think about that. The night is only half over. We have time. I haven’t had my wicked way with her. A desire so great, I push her off me and assert myself on top of her.

She looks up at me doe-eyed, as if she can’t quite believe what just happened and what is about to happen next. There are so many ways in which I want her. So many images of Camille all over me, and me all over her, run through my mind, but I think it better to keep things simple for her first time. To bestow upon her the simple but deep pleasure of a woman bowing down between her legs with the sole intent of making all the lust that’s been building inside of her explode. I don’t ask her what she likes. I’ll find out as I go along.

I kiss her, our lips spreading wide from the get-go, letting as much of each other in as possible. Her hands are in my hair. Her breasts are soft against mine. I can feel her wetness on my knee, soaking through her panties.