I wake up to find the following e-mail: “Which panties shall I wear today?” she asked, and included a picture of eight pairs of panties laid out on her bed. Thongs, boyshorts, bikini briefs; plain colors, patterns; cotton, silk.
Now this is my kind of multiple-choice question.
I can taste her cunt, just looking at the picture. I can imagine the slickness her fingers are encountering. I can hear her heavy breathing as she’s bucking her hips up, slightly, to meet her fingers, to increase the pressure.
As I’m lost in my reverie, my phone rings: it’s her.
I don’t answer. I know why she’s calling. I don’t want to talk to her.
Some minutes pass. She e-mails again, this time, no picture – just one word: “Listen.”
My voicemail indicator isn’t as quick as her e-mail – there’s no message showing yet. A moment passes. It lights up. I listen.
It’s a three-minute message. Google Voice reports that it couldn’t transcribe the message, and no wonder.
It starts quiet, breathy. There’s rustling. Sheets? Fabric? Then the breathing gets faster, louder. Punctuated by complete stops – as if she’s holding her breath. The rustling is louder, the breathing is somehow both louder and further away.
Did she drop the phone? I hear nothing. Nothing for a good thirty seconds, except muffled ruffling. Then the ruffling gets louder, and I hear the breathing again. Louder, louder, faster. There’s moaning, delicious, lovely moaning. I’m familiar with the moans – I know precisely what’s happening. I can picture her rolling over on her side, squeezing her thighs together tightly now, as she’s getting close. With one finger, she’s pressing against her clit; with her other hand, she’s fucking herself, hard, fast. The sounds are louder, and there are more of them. There’s rustling of sheets, moaning, I can hear her arm rubbing against the sheets faster now, her legs kicking. And I’m pretty sure I can hear her fingers sliding in her cunt’s juices.
“Thanks,” she says. And the voicemail is over.