Skype sex is better than being alone.
I spend hours in isolation doing my hair and makeup.
There’s nothing better to do.
Dig out strappy lingerie with the thigh-highs, committing to heels while I’m at it: not like I have to walk anywhere in them tonight. (After a few weeks of sheltering in pajama pants, it all pinches more than I like.) With contouring and highlighter on my DDs, I am a high-production cum-show for one.
Shirtless in basketball shorts when I call, you’re ready… but not for all of this.
I think see the shorts tent immediately, a subtle semi.
I adjust my bra strap and ask: “You like?”
Then I’m sure.
Not like I’m not courting casual conversation in a corset and red lips.
You choose the music. Mostly songs I know, but some of them are distractingly foreign. If I lose the rhythm or mess up the words, I play it off cheesy and you laugh.
Bend over, ass to the webcam, pumping my heels so everything jiggles.
You groan relaxes something in my spine. Peeking over my shoulder, you’re biting your bottom lip and massaging your junk.
Spread my legs on Facetime? For your face, anytime.
You cheer when the bra comes off, which makes me giddy.
Shimmy my shoulders, shiny breasts bouncing.
Brushing manicured nails across delicate skin, I let the points graze my nipple and shudder. My eyes drift closed as I cup myself, squeezing and rolling between thumb and forefinger.
Biting my lip, I imagine your hands – your tongue, your teeth – instead; just as you wish aloud for the same.
While you awkwardly remove your shorts, I reflect that masturbating really isn’t the same, even with you here to watch.
I can’t lick, stroke, or even tease you as much as I could if you were here.
As much as I want to.
And – looking at your cock swaying over your hips as you lay back again – I want to.
Wistfully, I think of sitting on it and groan, pressing my fingers against the satin of my panties. They’re already damp.
“Can’t you take those fucking panties off already?”
“I was just thinking the same thing!”
They come off over the suspenders, so I’m still wearing my stockings and corset. I let you choose a toy from my array.
“Something big,” you say, wiggling for the camera “bigger than me.” I shiver: you want me to feel the difference.
Propped up on a pile of pillows, camera shooting straight between my knees I feel like a butterfly, pinned open for your admiration. My thighs ache, my fingers work, I sigh.
You cup your balls roughly, your erection bounces heavily.
“Fuck yeah.”
My pussy drips.
You’d be inside me by now, if you were here. Either I would be riding you hungrily, or sucking and savoring that delectable cock with my mouth.
The sound of your moans and the sight of your face are something. The way your eyes roll back when you feel a wave of pleasure, the way your mouth quirks and nose wrinkles when desire bears down on you.
Little things that rain down on me like sunshine when we’re together, which I drink thirstily in whatever small measure I can through this tiny magic mirror.
You can Zoom in on this.
Deftly, I grab and turn on the vibrator, melting until I’m lying flat on the bed. Mewling with eager need, I tease my labia and clit, resisting the grind along its length until my body is humming all over. I growl when I do. I’m rocking, passing it between my legs from vag to clit and back, vibrations rumbling in my core as I feel my desire build behind my ribs, stealing my breath.
I whimper.
“I want to be inside you so badly.”
Cue fucking myself.
Teasing with my lips, taking just the tip, the catch in my breath with each inch, with each rock of my hips.
The headrush when it’s sheathed wholly inside me.
My back arches, my toes curl, and I fuck back with my hips, panting.
It’s a lot to manage (four hands are better than two), and I throw my annoyance onto the pyre of desire, going deeper. I’m teetering on the edge, head back, mouth open.
Panting but poised, taught as a harp string, anticipating the note that will send me shivering down into ecstasy. You conduct yourself beautifully. Cumming for the camera, I can see your cock but not your face-
The stops and starts of arousal, the wanting and missing; the pure sexual torture of it all makes me cry out in frustration. I fuck myself desperately to the sound of your voice, scrambling for a secret memory to click it all into place.
Deranged, I fall back. The pillow huffs, and through the smell of my own hair, I catch a wiff of you that makes my heart skip.
Shamelessly, I bury my face, smother my senses with your smell. I recall your neck, your breath as I fall asleep on your chest. Muse that plain, vanilla air has nothing on the velvety-soft, secret smell of your balls pressed right under my nose.
I conjure your warmth as I call out your name.
You whisper huskily in my ear, coaxing me along through the haze.
I gasp. I sigh.
But… there is no languid roller coaster of pleasure, no loops or curves, no continuation. No multiple orgasms. Just the explosion, and then the drift back down to earth
We watch each other for a few minutes, smiling dreamily.
But we hang up fairly quickly. No point in “cuddling.”
I’m left with a mess: my face, my bed, and how did I manage to rip these expensive stockings?
I miss you, I text later
I miss you, too, babe.
Try to fall asleep.
Very suddenly alone, I feel cold again. Restlessly, I fire off one more missive to help me sleep.
Please mail dirty boxers, plastic-baggie-sealed.
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