Rolling The Camera
By Missy


SERIES:  Rolling the Camera

PART: 1 of 1

RATING:  NC-17  (Explicit M/F sex)


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CATEGORY: Romance, Smut


SETTING IN TIMELINE:   Alternate post-show canon

SPOILLER/SUMMARY: “Cut" (Laverne and Lenny and Hawaii)

NOTES:  Random smut!




The film whirs to life, flashing the wall from white to a blizzard-like haze of grays and whites.  Abruptly, the screen is filled with light – a blue sky.  A panning shot of a flight deck and then the sign for the Honolulu Holiday Inn, by which his new wife poses playfully.




The bland inside of their room, the ocean rolling up to the patio door.  Then the bathroom door opening, and his bride emerging in a black peignoir.


Boldly, she smiles at him, her lips glossy and apple red under emerald eyes and curled copper hair – her hands behind her, all modest.  The peignoir is see-through, and clearly noted are the dark rise of her nipples and the red glow between her thighs.  She walks toward him...




The camera is on the dresser drawer.  They’re lying on the bed, she still in the nightgown and he in his smoking jacket.  He’s kissing her neck and untying the peignoir, her eyes are closed and she’s sighing.  Hands drift off of his neck and down to the tie holding his robe, opening it as he strips the transparent confection off.  His hand strokes her tanned flesh slowly – he remembers telling himself to touch her as if he were strumming a guitar – from throat to collarbone.  His hand finally cups her left breast and his eyes close.


Her hands peel back his robe and begin touching in concert – he winces at the white of his skin – her lipstick smears along his chest as she kisses him, rising to block the view of the lens.  From the way her back moves he can tell he’s found her chest with his mouth.   His hands surround her just below the armpits, holding her still – she’s begun to writhe – and her head falls back, her face a mask of ecstasy.  Abruptly, she shoves him backward and straddles his hips.   


Slowly, inch by inch, she allows him to sink into her – the camera captures this in great detail – and a shudder runs through her as they become one.  After a long moment – he’s asking her if it’s all right, or too soon – she moves her hips sinuously with the slightest little bit of curiosity.  Then leads her in the waltz – her body clinging to and then releasing him.  When she leans forward he sees how far he’s spread her open he wonders at the lack of pain in her actions.  She bucks, shudders, freezes – he remembers what her orgasm feels like, the SQUEEZEclampclampclaspvibration of being held by her.  He jounces her once, holding her upright with his tense arms.  She crashes, spent to his chest, her lips babbling  oh God, oh… And when he revives she sits up again, her expression curious.  


She’s rolled onto her back, her thighs spread wide by his hands.  He looks distastefully at his flabby white rear end frantically working at her, and watches her tossing head and far-away eyes.  What are you doing to me, Len?  Oh!  She babbles, and her orgasm is so strong that she shoves at his shoulders in a blind panic.  He won’t let her go – his weight oppresses her – and after what seems like ages he stops moving.  When he lies across her belly he sees the trail of pleasure coming from within her spent body.  Her arms cross behind his back.


That was the night he figured out he’d have to work extra hard to keep her happy.




They’re on the beach at Waikiki, she in that black bikini he loves.  The sun bounces off her copper highlights and her sunglasses hold back the waves of her red hair –which finally grew out.  He pans down to  see her hand in his.  




A hidden cove at sunset.  She’s chuckling – running from him, running back in his direction.  He’s tackled to the ground and straddled.  She smirks at him and hooks his board shorts with her index fingers.




She’s holding the camera and sucking him off at the same time – she always was multitalented -  her mouth bulging with the heft of him.  She rubs her hardening nipples against his thighs, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.  Opening them abruptly, she looks into the lens.


And winks.




Back in the hotel room; she’s naked in front of the bathroom mirror and he’s not supposed to be photographing her.  Her hair is messy and her mouth is filled with toothpaste – and she definitely isn’t in any mood to put up with his BS.  But there is laughter.  He catches sight of himself in the mirror with only a towel on, until she decides she’s had enough of the towel, too.




A cab, headed back from a tour of the volcanoes.  She’s wearing a bright red miniskirt and his palm is sneaking up it allegedly nonchalantly.  He begins to rub his palm against the crotch of her black lace panties – he still remembers the scent of her in the air, which could only belong to Laverne.  Pan to her face, which is alive with feeling.  




They’re at a luau, dancing in the night with fire throwers.  They’re enthralled, staring at each other, the camera light in his hand.




She wears a wreath  of plumeria, her nipples peering through as she sways her hips – a grass skirt around her waist offering him flashes of red.  It is their last night in Hawaii and they want to make it count.  She moves her hips in slow circles, a tiny smile on her lips – a parody of the old Hula Babies routine.  She pulls him and there’s an uncomfortable close-up of their kiss.




They’re in a rattan chair by an open window, staring at the camera but barely able to keep straight faces.  Half performing for the device, the act is showy but a display of their desire.  Eventually they forget the unblinking eye of their mechanical watcher and stare at each other – the connection vibrant and real.  The orgasms are multiple and indistinguishable.


That was the night they made their daughter.  


The film ends, but he’s enraptured, holding his limp cock and staring at the white screen.  They had forty years together before he lost her, and five kids between them, and she had been gone for six years now.  They’d gone on to use that super eight for much cleaner purposes, but he couldn’t help but look at it and think of the old joys.


He stared at his old limp dick, aware of his inability to stir himself.  His own touch felt second-best compared to hers, anyway.


Wait a little longer for me, he thought, putting the reels back together and stashing them in his closet.