He pulls into the driveway, relieved to see that it’s empty. He lets himself into the silent house, drops his briefcase in the cool hallway, grabs an ice-cold Michelob from the kitchen on his way to the small study at the rear of the property. He sits down at his laptop, sipping the beer while he listens to the hard drive whirring into life, idly thinking about switching to a solid state drive.
Once the screen is finally ablaze, it takes him less than a minute to log into his webmail service. He’d sent her a message at lunch time – “I do hope you’re making the most of having the house to yourself” – and this is his first chance to see if she responded.
He smiles to himself: her reply is waiting for him. He doesn’t notice that he holds his breath as he waits for it to open.
Yes, thank you. I worked in the garden all morning, but now I’m bathed, cleanly shaven, oiled all over and thoroughly de-stressed. I think you’ll know what I mean by that.
He feels himself stirring.
He clicks on ‘reply’ and begins to type:
“Tell me: did you come? Hard? More than once? Are you still aroused? Are you still wet? Would you like to feel a hard, thick cock easing its way inside you right at this moment?”
He reads his words, the cursor hovering over the ‘send’ button. He thinks he should be less direct, begins to recompose the words in his head and then clicks the send button anyway.
A few minutes pass before another email from her appears.
Yes, I came, hard. It was just the once, but it went on and on… I am still very aroused. I’m meant to be doing some reading for work, but I can’t concentrate. I keep thinking about you, imagining myself touching you, tasting you. Yes, I would very much like the feeling of being filled right now. The thought of how it would feel, how you would feel … it sends shudders through my body.
He types again:
“Are you alone now? What are you wearing? Are you touching yourself languidly, randomly, as your thoughts take you away from work and towards more pleasurable sensations?”
He sips more beer, waiting impatiently for her response. It would be easier if she would text or use some sort of instant messenger, but she’s steadfast in her preference for email. Just when he thinks that she’s had to leave, her reply arrives.
Yes, I’m still alone. I’m wearing a light cotton dress, but no underwear. I love the way the material feels against my bare skin. So light, so smooth. I love the feeling of being smoothly shaven too. Does that sound bad? I’m gently stroking my freshly bare skin. It’s a lovely sensation.
The words are thrilling to him.
“Take off your dress. I want you naked.” His fingers tremble lightly as he types, forcing him to backspace more often than merited by the length of the sentence.
This time, her response arrives in seconds.
“How much longer will your solitude last for?”
Not sure. Half an hour, maybe longer. Normally I get a text to say he’s on the way home. I usually have fifteen minutes from that point.
His swelling cock is becoming painful, trapped within his briefs and his suit trousers. He checks his watch. Will his own solitude last long enough? What the hell, he thinks. He unzips his fly and awkwardly pulls out his cock. He can smell himself, an aromatic combination of heat and excitement. He strokes his foreskin slowly back and forth. The sensation is pleasurable, but nowhere near as much as it would be if it were her fingers manipulating him. Is it the same for women? he wonders. It must be. The familiarity with one’s own touch must dull the experience across the genders.
He types, “We shouldn’t waste time then.”
Waste time? What did you have in mind?
“What I have in mind is you naked and touching yourself. Are you?”
Yes. Does the thought of that turn you on?
“Very much. So much so, I’m stroking my cock between messages.”
I would enjoy stroking it for you. Feeling just how hard you are.
“I’m very hard. Tell me what you’re stroking right now.”
He has to wait a few minutes for her answer, and the delay makes him nervous, nervous that her connection has dropped out, that she’s been caught, that she’s been offended or – worse still – become bored.
And then her words come:
I’m stroking my clit. It’s still soft with the oil, and very smooth.
He squeezes himself hard, and a clear pearl appears at the very tip of his cock. He smears it across his glans with the pad of his thumb, then licks his thumb clean before he types again.
“Is it making you gasp, touching yourself like that?” He tries to imagine what she sounds like when she’s being pleasured. As much as he likes to see, to watch, he is an auditory creature, and a woman’s moans always make him throb, always send ripples of pleasure and anticipation coursing down his spine.
Yes. Very much. My nipples are so hard; they’re aching to be sucked. I want you to suck them for me. And I want to suck you. I would so enjoy running my tongue along the length of your cock. Would you enjoy that?
“You know I would.”
He stops. His fingers hover over the keys as the idea percolates in his brain. He looks at his wristwatch again. A real risk, but his good sense is being consumed by his lust. He suspects he could stop himself if he wanted to, if he really wanted to … but he doesn’t.
“You said he’ll text when he’s nearly home. Does that mean your phone is to hand?”
“Give me your number.”
He’s never asked for it before, waiting for her to make the offer, to make the first move towards the next level. He reads and re-reads the message, consumed with excitement and regret.
The silence stretches out as he waits for her reply. Just as he’s given up hope, an email with a single line of eleven digits in the subject line drops into his inbox.
Without waiting – stopping to think might be fatal – he pulls out his phone and stabs the sequence onto the smooth glass face. He holds the phone to his ear, hardly daring to breathe. He listens to the ring tone, once, twice, three times, four-
He swallows. “Hello there. At last.”
“Yes, at last.” She laughs, a little stridently. “I … I take it you’re alone too?” She sounds flustered.
She’s as nervous as I am, he thinks.
“For the moment. Like you, I have one eye on the clock.”
“So this isn’t the most sensible of things for either of us?” Her voice is softer than he’d expected, younger.
“I suppose not. Do you want to me to go?”
She says nothing. He can hear her breathing, shallow and quick. Somewhere behind her, a clock chimes. He knows from their communications that she’s well off. He wonders about the grandeur of her home. It multiplies her risk. Perhaps he should take the decision out of her hands.
And then she speaks.
“No. No, I don’t want you to go.” She sounds calmer, her tone huskier, sultrier. How he’d always imagined it would be. The ripples course down the centre of his back like a boiling river, like lightning. Fuck.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to tell me what to do.”
He lets his breath out through his nostrils, a dragon’s long exhalation.
“Switch your phone to hands free, and then put it down somewhere close to you.”
The quality of the sound changes, and he knows that she has done as he asked.
“Okay,” she says.
“Cup your breasts. Describe how it feels.”
“They fill my hands. My nipples are extremely hard. I’m brushing my palms across the tops, because they’re almost too sensitive to touch any other way.”
“Do you still want me to suck them?”
“Yes. Oh yes.”
“Lick your thumbs and forefingers, and then roll your nipples between them. Make them glisten for me.”
The light gasp tells him that she has complied.
“How does that feel?”
“It feels good but…”
“…but it’s not enough. It makes me want more. It makes me want your fingers, your mouth, your tongue.”
“Just those things?”
A pause. “No.”
“Good. Choose a breast to keep teasing, but use your other hand to stroke your belly, the outsides of your legs, the insides of your thighs. Let your hands go to where your body calls them.” He licks his lips to moisten them. “But don’t touch your cunt.”
Her voice comes low, barely more than a whisper. “Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
She groans, and his cock lurches against his belly.
The microphone on her mobile is high-quality: he can hear her hand as it strokes her skin. He wonders if she’s drawing the tips of her manicured nails across her flesh, setting tiny fires along her nerve endings. Every so often, she gasps. Are the responses for his benefit, exaggerated to arouse him? Or is her excitement genuinely getting the better of her?
“Can I touch myself now?” Her voice is lower still, guttural.
“You are touching yourself.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. But I want you to say it. I want you to spell out for me.”
“Can I touch my pussy?”
“Because you didn’t ask in the right way.”
Another pause. “Can I touch my pussy … Sir?”
“I don’t need you to call me Sir,” he says. It’s difficult to keep his strokes calm, measured. “I just want you to speak to me honestly. To use honest words.”
“Can I touch my … my cunt?”
Immediately she cries out, softly but forcefully. The dichotomy is exhilarating.
“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me how you feel.”
“I’m very wet, and I’m very warm, and I’m very swollen.”
“I wish I could see you right now. I wish I could touch you and taste you.”
She continues as though she hasn’t heard him. “Oh, I’m so fucking wet. I want to come for you. I want to come for you now.”
“Come for me then. Think of my tongue flickering against your clit. Think of my cock filling you.”
“Will you come for me too?”
“Yes,” he says, knowing that the challenge will be holding himself in check until after her orgasm.
She cries out again. “I’m being firm with my fingers … that’s how I think yours would feel.”
He doesn’t contradict her, but he thinks of the times he’s been complemented on the lightness, the sensuality, of his touch. Perhaps he’d be a disappointment to her in the flesh. Perhaps this is as far as things should ever progress between them.
“I want you between my thighs now,” she half-says, half-whimpers. “I want you to fuck me … I want to feel you coming deep inside me.”
“God, I want that too.”
“Fuck!” But it’s not an expression of lust, this time; it’s an exclamation of panic, of fear.
“He’s back already. Shit!”
And before he can respond, the line goes dead.
Her email arrives at lunchtime the next day, but he makes himself wait until he arrives home before reading what she’s written. Again, the driveway is empty. This time, his walk through the house feels flat, mundane. He doesn’t take a beer into the study.
He sits down at the computer and opens her message.
I am so sorry for having to leave you so abruptly last night. I heard the car coming and knowing I had to slip my clothes back on, I had no choice but to go. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to make you come, and to hear your moans of pleasure. I know I would have come with you; I was so turned on talking to you. Your voice has something about it that just buckles my knees.
My apologies if I sounded flustered to start with, you really took me by surprise. You were the very last person I expected to talk to yesterday, but you were the very nicest too.
I hope you came hard for me, imagining all the things I would have done with you, done for you, if I’d been there. I promise you this: I would have left no traces – except in your mind. X
He re-reads her words. In his heart, he knows that this is a path that will only ever lead to more frustration, to greater and greater angst, for both of them. And yet…
He remembers the sound of her pleasure, and the aphrodisiac sets to work on him at once. He grasps his stiffening length through his trousers, and then clicking on the ‘reply’ button, he begins to type.