Long Distance Love

“I love your nails.”

“Thanks,” she said, showing them off in the light. “I did them while I was sexting Adam last night.”

I watched her face as she made her confession, proudly announcing that she’d faked it through another dirty text session with her boyfriend.

I didn’t understand that. Never really had. Maybe it was because she and Adam had sex, fairly regularly, and I never got to have sex with Michael, but I couldn’t imagine fake sexting.

I couldn’t, honestly, imagine faking an orgasm in person either. Wasn’t that like rewarding bad behavior? If I knew Michael wasn’t going to make me come, I felt obligated to tell him and he felt obligated to figure out why.

The same was true of sexting.

Maybe he faked it. Maybe he was playing video games or something instead of rubbing one out with me on the phone but I was pretty sure we both enjoyed it. As much as you can enjoy mutual masturbation when what you really wanted was physical contact.

I got home from dinner with Cait and poured myself a glass of whiskey, pulling my phone from my pocket and stripping out of my jeans. One great thing about living alone was masturbating—and sex, when I could get it (long distance relationships aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, kids)—anywhere I wanted. I left my jeans on the kitchen floor and laid myself, naked from the waist down, on the couch.

I spread my legs open and held the phone to get the best angle of what I wanted him to see, everything and nothing at the same time. He could see the neatly waxed flesh below my stomach and the pert little pucker concealing my clit from view, but I made sure to keep the important stuff out of shot.

I sent the photo and waited. I rested my phone on that pert little pucker, and when he replied, it vibrated against the soft organ beneath it.

He had held the phone between his legs, shooting up toward his face, which he had turned away from the lens, trying to look artistic. In the shot was the edge of his still flaccid penis and the next message was a request.

“I’m having a little trouble over here. Tell me a story to make me hard.”

I set the phone to voice text and laid it beside my head on the couch.

“I rested my middle finger on my clit,” I spoke into the air, doing what I was telling him I was doing. “I’m rubbing it, but not hard. Just gently as I imagine your cock getting stiff and erect, begging for my touch.” I told the phone to send the message, returning the device to the place I’d let it rest before, enjoying the soft vibrations of the incoming messages.

“I want to see.”

I laughed, genuinely amused by his response, and focused the camera to show him everything but what he wanted to see.

“Tease,” he replied, with a photo of his half erect cock. “Keep talking, still not hard.”

I knew he had incredible self-control and was staving off his erection, making me work for it. I sent a different version of the same picture, from a slightly lower angle. In this one he could see all but the tip of my finger as I continued softly caressing my clit.

“That’s better.” This time his reply came with a close up photo of his tongue. “Let me eat you out. That will make me hard.”

“I push you down by your shoulders, urging your face between my thighs,” I once again spoke into the phone. “You press your tongue against my clit, harder than I have been touching it, flicking at it, and sucking it between your lips.”

I looked at the photo before continuing. His erection had lifted away from his body, but he was nowhere near as hard as I knew I could make him. I held the phone between my legs and this time gave him the full view, pushing back the folds of skin protecting my own erect clitoris. For the photo, I pinched it in my fingers. “Imagine my fingers are your lips, pinching me between them, sucking at me. Now, move down my body and push your tongue deep inside me. Tell me how I taste.”

“Delicious,” he replied. This time, the erection was full, pressing into his stomach, bigger than I could wrap my fingers around to stroke him off. “Salty and sweet. You’ve been eating berries. And hot, like that chocolate you like with the chili peppers and berries. I fill my mouth with your juices. Would you like to taste?”

I pressed my fingers deep into my hot, wet pussy and covered them before lifting them and the phone to my face. I took them into my mouth and sent him the photo. “You’re right. Salty and sweet with a little chili heat.” How did girls like Cait do this without coming, without even wanting to touch themselves? “I want to watch you touch yourself,” I urged.

The video showed his full, throbbing erection, his long slender fingers wrapped around it gently, stroking up and down the shaft, pulling over the smooth pink head and back down. Veins popped from the shaft, blue and purple beneath his pale flesh, full of blood, keeping him rock hard. I loved his erections. Fucking him was like fucking a marble statue, firm and large, filling myself almost more than I could take. He stretched me open, sometimes forcing me to take him inside. I started the short video over for the third time, riding my fingers as I did, pushing them from clit to pussy, wetting them before bringing them back.

I let him watch, sound on, moaning as I fucked myself.

“Do you want me inside you?”

“Fuck, yes.”

I slowed to a caress as I waited for his next message, wondering why we were doing this this way instead of on Skype or even over the phone. Too late to change course now, so I waited.

“I kiss every inch from your clit to your breasts to your mouth, letting your taste your pussy on my tongue. Kissing your mouth, I spread you open, tipping your hips back off the bed, and slide my cock in, slowly, forcing your tight pussy apart as I press deeper. You’re so tight, I can’t keep moving at this speed, there’s too much resistance. I pull out and thrust, hard and fast, deep, up to my balls in your hot, dark, throbbing pussy. You scream, just a little. It hurts but you want it more than you don’t.”

I set the phone to video chat and arranged it so that we could both see what was going on between my legs. “I push you away, only to bring you back in, harder, faster. ‘Fuck me,’ I whisper into your kiss.” I moaned into the air, watching myself in the screen, rubbing hard at my clit, my pussy open, waiting for his cock. “You raise yourself off my chest,” I continue, “granting my wish, pounding against me, your cock deeper than it’s maybe ever been, your balls slapping against my ass.”

“I want you to come,” I hear his deep, rich baritone resonating from the phone speaker.

I hit the screen to show his camera instead of my own. “Come with me. I want to watch you explode.”

We both maneuvered to be able to see our screens as clearly as possible and watched the other masturbate, now with the goal of coming. I almost wished I could see both views equally. I loved watching him come, but I didn’t hate watching myself either. “Record your screen,” I instructed him. “I want to watch myself come.”

I stroked my clit, pushing my fingers inside and out again, pantomiming with my free hand around an imaginary cock. I even caught myself moving my lips as I imagined sucking him off. The more I thought about his cock, the faster I worked for my own orgasm. I could hear him moaning on the other end and that made it even better. I focused my attention on the screen, watching him stroke, harder and faster, with increasing intensity as I did.

He pressed his cock down away from his body and I came, hard, watching the end of his cock jerk as he did too. Hot, white cum did exactly what I had hoped it would do, bursting from him and dripping onto the bed beneath him. I could taste it, feel it, hot in my throat, in my vivid imagination. He came hard and heavy, enough spilling from him that I hated the idea of it going to waste. I longed to be drinking it from him.

“I could watch you come all day,” he moaned, breathlessly, when he had finally finished.

“Tell me how you taste.”