Rough Edit
by acguy
Copyright© 2025 by acguy
Erotica Sex Story: Sophie needs to edit a video. A Story in the Sophie's Stories World
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction .
The condo was filled with scent—ginger, lemongrass, something sweet undercut by the savoury hiss of seared meat. Chef moved in his usual rhythm, silent but efficient, turning duck breasts in a hot pan while the sauce reduced behind him in a narrow saucepan. The clatter of his movements contrasted with the low, annoyed muttering from the dining table where Sophie sat hunched over her laptop, editing.
“Fucking hell.”
“Everything alright?” he asked, without looking.
“No,” she groaned, dragging her fingers through her hair. “This video is cursed. I look good, the lighting’s perfect, the strip is solid, but something’s ... off.”
Chef plated the duck to rest and turned slightly, wiping his hands on a tea towel. Sophie was chewing her thumbnail, squinting at the screen like it had personally betrayed her.
“You want help after we eat?”
She glanced up at him. “You’re not just saying that to be polite?”
“I’ve watched you squirt into a mason jar. I can handle a rough cut.”
She snorted. “Fair.”
He turned back to finish the plating, stacking jasmine rice in a tight mould and spooning sauce around the edges. She let her eyes wander down his back. He was wearing a dark grey tee that clung to his shoulders, apron tied neatly at the waist. Always tidy. Always in control. It made her want to mess him up just a little.
As he brought the plates over, she pushed her laptop aside, barely touching the food.
“Want to talk it out?” he asked, settling across from her at the counter.
She sighed. “It’s a solo. Shot it last night after you left. Living room. I was still buzzing, couldn’t sleep. You know how I get.”
“Insatiable?”
“Creative.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She ignored it. “Started out dressed like a couch gremlin. Hoodie, jeans, socks. I thought it’d be hot to go full ‘girl-next-door slowly losing control.’”
Chef nodded slowly, chewing. “And?”
“The strip part? Honestly? Kinda fire.” Her mouth curved. “Took my time, made them wait. Peeled out of the hoodie first, then the socks—slow, like a tease you weren’t sure was a tease.”
She pushed her food around with her fork. “Underneath I had that sheer black set—you know, the one with the strappy cups that barely hold anything and the little cutout under the tits?”
Chef grunted in vague recollection.
“With the garter belt and the crotchless mesh panties? Tiny silver clasps?”
Now he remembered.
“I knelt down in front of the coffee table, turned sideways so the camera caught the curves. Slipped my fingers under the panties, moaned into my hand to stay quiet. Tried to make it feel private, raw. Like someone walked in on something they shouldn’t see.”
She looked up. “I wanted it to feel ... stolen.”
Chef nodded. “And now it feels what—too slow? Disjointed?”
“Kind of. It’s like ... the buildup doesn’t quite match the release. I want twenty minutes of tension and payoff, but right now it just feels like I’m delaying the good stuff.”
“Isn’t that your whole brand?” he said dryly.
Sophie smirked. “Fuck off.”
They ate in companionable quiet for a few minutes. Chef refilled her water. She picked at the rice. He caught her glancing at the laptop again and nudged her foot under the counter.
“Go on. Pull it up.”
After dinner, the kitchen clean and the lights dimmed, they moved to the sofa with a glass of wine each. Sophie dropped the laptop between them, flipping it open with a sigh.
“You promise you’ll be honest?”
“I always am.”
“That’s what scares me.”
She hit play.
The opening frame was dark and still—just her in an oversized hoodie on the floor, hair up, legs crossed, pretending to scroll on her phone. Casual. Innocent. Then the music started—soft, pulsing, and she looked up at the camera like she’d just noticed it.
Sophie watched herself on screen, sipping wine. Chef sat beside her, relaxed but silent.
He always stayed out of frame. Even here, on camera, his body was just a suggestion—an arm, a hand, a thigh in frame if absolutely needed, but never his face. It wasn’t part of the deal. It never would be.
On screen, she began to undress.
First the hoodie, slow, arms stretching overhead to bare the soft swell of her stomach. Then the socks, one by one, tossed aside playfully. Then she stood and turned, back to camera, peeling off her jeans inch by inch to reveal the garter belt hugging her hips like a whisper.
Chef let out a soft exhale.
Sophie glanced sideways. “That a good exhale or a ‘Jesus this is too long’ exhale?”
“Good. Shut up and play.”
She chuckled, clicked ahead five seconds.
Now on-screen-Sophie was kneeling, framed in warm light, hair loose and falling over one eye. She reached down and slid two fingers between her legs. Her mouth opened, but there was no sound—just the subtle shift of her hips and the wet glint of her fingers.
“This is where I’m stuck,” Sophie said softly. “It gets hot, but it’s a long ramp. I want it to smolder, not simmer.”
Chef studied the screen. “Cut five seconds off the transition into the lingerie. Keep the spin and the turn, lose the dead space when you kneel. Punch in tighter on the first moan.”
She raised her brows. “Damn. Look at you with the feedback.”
“You’re not the only one who’s horny and detail-oriented.”
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