"Make sure your phone is charged. I am going to call you."
The text was a command. She eagerly jumped up out of bed, combed her hair, ran a wash cloth over her face. Smiled at herself in the mirror. The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds casting an odd light across her face. Her phone started ringing and she quickly peeled off her nightgown and settled her body on the now cooled sheets.
He liked her naked for their morning video chats.
She had met him on-line—a personal ad looking for sex. She guiltily enjoyed looking through the ads but never responded. Until she saw him—or at least a part of him. Picture of broad shoulders, tight youthful chest with brown berry nipples on a hairless chest leading down to white net jockey briefs displaying a hard, long bulge. He was perfect. Almost too perfect. What did she have to lose?
So this was how she awoke for a month. They texted daily. Flirty, sensuous playful jests coupled with honest sexual confessions. She dreamed of him next to her, his fingers trailing over her hard nipples. She knew her big breasts fascinated him, her curvy body very different than the hard, skinny women he had come to know in Miami. Her blue eyes and pale skin foreign in his world of dark exotic females. He dreamed of her freckles, he told her.
She positioned her phone above her face and clicked the green button. The screen blinked on. She saw his naked body in the frame, his head and legs cut off. He liked to position himself in front of the large mirror in his downstairs bathroom. It excited him to have her watch him. He liked to be watched. He said that it was safer than sex, but it was now a habit that had become a fetish.
His stiff morning erection bobbed closer to the camera of his phone that he had propped sideways on the counter to record his morning dance for her. His left hand reached around, glistening with oil, and grabbed his cock, his long fingers encircling the shaft. She felt a pang of heat deep within her and she longed to be able to reach through the phone and touch him, his hot member, to feel the coconut oil on his soft skin. The tips of her fingers tingled in anticipation of lightly circling the tip of his erect penis, feeling him quiver under her touch.
In one of their conversations, she had told him of an Eastern practice of lingam massage, where the man lay back under the ministrations of his female partner. She had promised this to him—if they ever met. She envisioned him lying on the sheets of a hotel bed, the lights off, candles flickering shadows over his closed eyes. Her hands worked over his chest, down his smooth stomach. His legs lay over hers and she sat under him—the two of them forming a diamond. Her finger tips lightly grazing the inside of his thighs. She knew he anticipated her fingers eventually moving over his hard, pulsing cock, but she slowly teasingly ran her hands over his thighs, down his legs, even over his beautiful feet. As if no part of his body could be virginal to her touch.
This was what she wanted to give to him. And the imagined feeling of his longing for her fingers on his cock in her fantasy was precisely the empty pulsing that she felt now deep within the delta of her womanhood. She moved the phone to her left hand as her right hand moved down between the folds and buttered the sensitive clit with the warm wetness. Her fingers found the nub and flicked it a few times. The sensation brought a quick jolt to her core.
He bent down to peer into the camera. "Good morning, my sweet." He smiled. His eyes were beautiful green and even this early in the morning, they lit up like a green ocean. His face had a boyish quality to it, contradicted only by a fresh shadow of darkness around his jawline where he needed a shave. "You look nice this morning. I love those beautiful breasts."
To please him, she moved the camera over her chest and squeezed her breast, her fingers pinching the dusty pink nipple until it hardened into a nub.
"Tell me what you like me to do," he breathed hoarsely. He liked for her to tell him what to do. Like it was a performance.
