I hear them. Clicking. Chattering. I can hear footsteps walking towards us, drawing closer and closer. Soon, we will be caught.
Our climaxes are too close, yet too far to reach in time. We can’t stop. We should stop. But, withdrawing from you and getting completely dressed before that doorknob turns is impossible.
Where do we go?
How do we escape an inevitable light?
My stroke stutters, smothered in adrenaline. Your breath shatters, smothered by my palm pressed over your mouth. The distance between our secret and the footsteps gets tighter. As does your legs wrapped around my thrusting hips. The space between our fantasy and the consequences are almost nil. Much like our alibis and diversions.
Courage and modesty fight for dominance. I imagine the sight of us scrambling, stupidly shielding our shame from their eyes. I envision the sight of us fucking, loudly cumming as the door swings open. Is there an honorable way to be caught red handed? Is there a righteous way to confess after the evidence’s been discovered? Stripped of clothes, choices and merit, we make the last choice we‘ll ever make together: to continue.
I’d rather fill their eyes with passion beyond explanation. I’d rather soil their minds alongside our reputation. The footsteps stop at the door. The deadbolt twists open. An innocent entrance sheds light on a multitude of sin. We do not run. In this moment, I choose to cast my seed and await the witnesses to cast their stones.
The above images for from Gonzalo Benard's voyeuristic collection, "My Lonely Mornings." It's a genius satellite experiment where subjects candidly spend their mornings in front of his camera.
"When some years ago I moved to Barcelona, from my studio's window I had a view that I'd never had before; several buildings right in front and 'too' close. I found myself once at night looking in to those windows, observing people coming in and out of the rooms, kitchen, living and bathrooms leading separate lives. They probably didn't know their own neighbors, but I was observing their intimate lives as if they were on a stage, co-existing but not meeting each other." ~ Gonzalo Benard