She bows down. Both her hands are on my hips. She digs her nails into my soft flesh there. Then she folds her long body in half and touches her tongue to my lips. Slowly, she drags the tip up and down. It shoots through me like a dagger of red, hot lust. Tears prick behind my eyes. It’s the combination of her and me. It’s as if my subconscious realizes there’s some sort of magic in it. And all the chemical processes in my brain and body are working together to make me even more crazy about Camille Rousseau. Even her name sounds so delicious. My girlfriend, Camille Rousseau. It sounds so sophisticated. In my head, it sounds so real.

Her tongue is drawing circles now, and I don’t even need her to add any fingers. I can still taste her on my own tongue. I can still feel her heat on the tip of my finger. My arousal has grown to such levels, it doesn’t even matter what she does anymore. Because that’s Camille Rousseau’s tongue on my clit. Camille Rousseau with her small dark eyes. Her freckled, pale skin. Her long, gangly limbs. Her French sense of humor. The person is enough. The sight of her bowed down in front of me catapults me easily onto the next plane of arousal. But most of all, this is us. Camille and Zoya. In this bed on this night. I look into the lens again. That way I’ll be able to examine the changes in my face as Camille brings me closer to orgasm. I’m not far off now.

I feel a finger at the entrance of my pussy. Two. She spreads my lips. There’s a shift of air. She’s no longer licking me. She’s looking. Involuntarily, I buck up my hips.

Two fingers pierce me. Or is it three? I have no idea, but she spreads me wide. My pussy clamps down on her, wanting to trap her there forever.