Phone Sex

bysalaciouswit©

Logging on the chat site, there's the usual smattering of the desperate, the lonely, the bored. Some of them are obviously male, or female. Some of them are obviously not as bright as others. I like smart women, one's whose principal erogenous zone is their mind. Simple text can do wonders to stroke that zone into a ravenous frenzy. I like that. I feed on both the stoking and cultivating of that brainy want, as well as the dead silence that speaks of their busy hands working to satisfy.

This time, someone begins to flirt with me privately. Neither of our aliases explicitly reveals our gender, but I can tell immediately that this person is smart, quick witted. I'm not sure of their intent, and don't particularly want to encourage them if they turn out to be male, like me.

"Friend, I don't even know your gender," I say to them.

"Nobody can tell my gender, it's quite frustrating at times, but fun too," they tell me.

They're very open with me. Pointing out their profile with favorite books and music, and a photo. She's young - 21 - and cute. I'm 26. I'm still not even sure that this person that I'm chatting with has any connection to the person that's been created for the purposes of the profile I'm seeing. I ask her as much.

"Cripes, of course it's me," she says.

You never know. "She" could be anyone, online. She wants to know what my hottest sexual fantasy is.

"It's kind of complicated," I type, "most people tend to jump to the conclusion of domination, but it's not pain and leather. I tend to think of that stuff as extraneous, sort of like props."

All this, while true, is meant to be intriguing, compelling. I ask her what her fantasy is.

"Gangbangs," she says.

"Is it the submissiveness that turns you on? The degradation?"

"Aye. All of it. I think I'd like the attention."

I pause. This could be dangerous. Though few words have been exchanged, there's a resonance in the air, a meshing. I sense, vaguely, that this woman could want to receive exactly what I want to provide. This feels like a potential feedback loop, something that could build upon itself over and over, something that could spin out of my grasp.

"That's quite a fantasy. Want some help mulling it over?"

"That totally won me over. It wasn't a line, but still..."

I want her to understand, to warn her that I think this particular random meeting of strangers is a dangerous one. I start to elaborate on my kick, on my idea of "domination." It's a more subtle version of the whole whips and chains scene. A woman's poise, her self-possession, is what I like to examine, to appreciate and savor. I like to look at the facade that women build around their more primal desires, around their wants and needs. Those facades appear to me as soft solids, like butter. My kick is to stroke at that soft creamy solid, from the inside, through their minds. I like to appraise the facade, then heat it up, and watch it melt into sticky, slippery, molten streams - pooling in hot, wanton puddles in the shallows of their chairs.

"You see what I mean? Subtle. Is that something you might be interested in?" I ask her.

"Are you kidding? It's like fucking poetry here. You've got me so hot." She pauses, "How would you feel about calling me on the phone?"

This shocks me. I'm still not sure if she is who she says she is. Further, I've never had phone sex before, ever. I'm feeling fear mixed with a rush of adrenaline and anticipation. I'm not sure what I should do.

"I'd prefer phone at this point," she tells me, "that way I can touch myself, lounge in sensation, instead of having to remember how to type."

Do I do this? Can I do this? I'm not sure. How is this supposed to work? Do we use aliases, or real names? She's not sure which she'd prefer.

"Ok," I type. "I'll call you, and...I think I'd prefer real names. I'm John."

"Jane. Pleased to meet you."

"You *look* like a Jane. I hadn't thought so before, but now that you've told me your name...it fits."

I can tell we're both nervous. She types out her number. They're just digits, text on a screen but my body is reacting as if her eyes had just acquiesced to the desire she sees in my own. I sense her phantom softness against me, the whispers of her breasts against my chest, the ghostly heat and damp of her mound against my own very real hardness. I can see the face in her picture soften, the want in her eyes in my own mind's eye, and I feel the weight/nonweight of her being against my own. It's an unbelievable rush. I glance over at my phone and give it a long, hard look.

"Hi. Jane?"

"John."

We both laugh, nervously. There's a buzz running through the line, but we're still both moving gingerly, stepping lightly. She sounds like she looks - her honesty is a total turn on - young, sexy, real.

I can't touch her for real, so I ask her what she's wearing. Snug fitting silk top, bra, cotton pajamas.

"I want you to touch yourself as I would touch you. I want your flesh to feel my hands and fingers and mouth on it, and I want your own hands and fingers and mouth to feel and taste your flesh as I would. Can you do that for me?" I ask her, nervously.

"Yes," - in a whisper.

With her wrist bent back, I run "my" fingertips lightly over her skin, pulled taut over her quickening pulse. She's incredibly responsive. I hear her breath in shallow tatters at the sensation. Fingertips begin ever widening arcs along Jane's wrists, hands, and lower arms, alternately pulling the silk of her top tighter and looser along her arm's flesh.

"Do you like what I'm doing to you?"

In a whisper, "Yes."

While she pants in my ear, I observe that the silk of her top is an excellent heat conductor - that she must be able to feel both the coolness of the fabric itself, as well as the heat of her body radiating through it with my roving hands. She must also feel the heat of my hands through the silk on her flesh, sense the trails of heat and pressure along her skin.

"Surely Jane," I ask, "you must be able to feel arcing jets of hot air rocket out from underneath the hem of your top, out into the cooler air of the room? Can't you feel the sensation of hot air rushing out and cool air rushing in, across your heated flesh, as my hands play with the hem of your shirt, as they start to make their way underneath along the skin of your lower back and stomach?"

"Oh God, yes."

"You must also be able to feel the silk run hot and cold against your body as my hands begin to roam around underneath, making the fabric pull taut against your breasts as I run my fingernails lightly over your shoulder blades..."

"Yeah."

"...and travel further down, tracing light, lazy circles down over your vertebrae, and along your sides, and in wide arcs over your quivering stomach and the fall and rise of your rib cage."

"Oh God John. I'm so very wet right now.""

"Good. That's the way I want you - the way I want to see you. I like making you writhe against your clothing for me, making you acutely aware that mere fabric can insistently, clench and caress you. I like that I'm making a hot, sopping mess of your panties."

"I'm not wearing panties, John."

Those words, her voice, leap off the receiver and suckle at my twitching brain stem. So far she hasn't said much, but her breathing and mewling have had me in an absolute rapture. Of course, the few words she does grant me, like these, thrill me to the core.

"God Jane. It's so hot to hear you say that, to hear your voice, soaked with need, your breath ragged. I want you to take off your bra, but leave the silk shirt on."

A pause. "I can do that."

I hear the rustling of clothes over the line.

"Good. Now, see how much sensation you've been missing? As before, I'm working my hands underneath the stretched silk, but this time, all those arcs of warm and cool air, all that exquisite silkiness, flow uninterrupted over your stiffening, itchy nipples."

"My nipples have been so hard for so long that they ache. The silk feels sooo good."

"Really? Do my fingers feel good, as they roll both your nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, Jane?"

She whimpers and gasps at me. The loop is feeding back on itself, dangerously. The primal, brain stem want of hers is calling to me, and I can feel my own higher faculties being pushed aside by an urgent desire, and urgent need to possess and penetrate - to be male and invading to her female invitation and yielding. My vision and thoughts narrow down into a tight focus around her, around her need.

"Have you been touching yourself, Jane?"

"Yes."

"No Jane, I mean have you been touching your pussy, twiddling your clit."

"No," she states, almost begging, trembling. Her voice is so full of want that I can taste the salt of her tears. "I've been doing only what you've been doing to me. I need you to touch me. Please. Please, John."

"Your cunt is feeling empty isn't it, Jane? Achy."

"Ravenous. It's sooo achy and empty and I'm so wet - soaking."

"But there's so many other sensations, Jane. Isn't it nice to feel the large muscle groups in your thighs, hips, and flanks flex and release? Isn't it nice to feel all those muscles move and flex as your legs scissor up and down, opened - wide and presenting to me - and closed. Isn't it nice to feel your pelvis dance for me, to have your stomach churn your pussy up and down searching for contact, to feel the delicious gnashing, salivating, clenching emptiness of your pussy?"

Her breath is a staccato rhythm of desperation in my ear. Her voice whimpers and pleads in need, in the primal, empty ache that I thirst for - that I can taste on my tongue and smell in my nostrils. She, no, her pussy, begs me - frenzied - for contact. I can taste, smell the phantoms of her musky tang.

"I'll do anything. Anything. Please."

"Tut, tut Jane - so impatient. We haven't even talked about the puffs of steam that escape from your pajamas as I run my fingers along the waist band, or how your flanks and ass relish the heavy grasp of my big hands, the flesh seeping through my wide-splayed fingers. I wonder what would happen if I brought a hand to the front of your pajamas, grasped the fabric, and yanked it, tightly upward, tensioning it against your poor, needy cunt..."

A groan, from deep, deep inside her, washes over me. It's music to my ears. Audible ambrosia.

"You like that Jane? I love hearing what I can do to you. I love hearing your pussy take over your voice and tell me what a good job I'm doing to it. Take your pajamas off Jane, and feel how cool the room's air must feel to your overheated flesh."

"Oh God, yes. Please John, I need you to..."

"To what? Say it."

"I need you...I need you to fuck me. Please."

"I'm taking off my pants, Jane, for real. My cock's a decent length, but its nice and thick, particularly now, thinking of you, listening to you. Its all slick and sopping with precome for you."

I listen to her voice whine, her breath quick and erratic.

"I'd take my cock in one hand, and your hip in the other, and I'd pull you - roughly - across the bed, closer toward me." I listen to the dead anticipatory silence on the line, to her breath withheld. "Then, the thick, heavy, velvety weight of my cockhead would slowly and inexorably begin a heavy flick over your swollen clit, back and forth..."

I soak in her screamed moans, her repeated calls to God. Savor them. Relish them and roll the taste of them in my mouth. I'm not a talented enough writer to convey how delicious her noises are to me. I'm not convinced that there are words capable. How does one convey the high a man gets listening, almost *seeing* a woman's body jerk and convulse and dance for him? How can mere words capture the thrill of knowing that at that moment, that woman's whole being lives for one thing, hungers for one thing, needs one thing: the stretching, filling, thickness of his cock.

"You know what comes next, don't you Jane? You're so very female now, so empty and achy and in need of filling and using and ravishing. And I feel so, so male, so drunk on the need to penetrate and use and ravish and fill. I'd take my cock in hand, and I'd stir the head, slick with our juices, in the scalding, steamy heat of your cunt lips..."

Her voice and breath spasm for me, like I imagine her body does - like I know that her body does.

"And I'm sinking the thick, rigid length of myself into you. Feeling the welcoming embrace of your pussy on my cock. Feeling your muscles deep within stretch at the intrusion. This is why it's so dangerous, Jane, why I've never done phone before, and never will again. You have no idea the lengths I'd go, the things I'd give up, the worlds I'd destroy to feel the grateful spasms of your cunt on my cock for real - to see the look in your eyes as your body bonds and addicts itself to mine, as my cock thirsts in the rush and addiction of your cunt - of my cunt. Whose cunt is it, Jane? Tell me."

In the quietest whisper in the world - "Yours."

"Tell me again. Tell me whose cunt it is."

"Yours."

"Say my name, Jane. Let your cunt speak. Let it proclaim who owns it, who it belongs to."

Barely audible - "John."

"Louder."

"John."

"That's my girl, my pussy. If I could have you for real, Jane, every part of you would be mine - your mouth, your ass - all of it. You'd want to go to class, or some other appointment, but you'd be late, often, because seeing you all put together to head out in the world would make me want to mess it all up. Dishevel you by flipping your skirt up around your waist and bending you over a table or desk..."

Constant gasping moans now from her as I work my free hand up and down my slick cock.

"...and taking you. Claiming what's mine. Reminding your cunt what it needs, what it wants. I want your cunt to never, ever forget this need, intimately and desperately, the ache across time, before I filled you, used you, during, and the interminable anticipatory after, when your pussy will whisper, whisper, that it will want me to use it again. Use you again. Its frightening the lengths I'd go to, now, to see my cock pumping your pussy, covered in our juices. I'd watch the waves of impact flow across your fleshy ass and crash into my fingers digging deep, deep into your flanks - holding you steady, not wanting one bit of the energy of my thrusts to stray from the jack hammering I'd give to your cunt, to you."

Jane's a glorious mess. Just the most beautifully touching and life-changing guttural noises pour off the line. I remember thinking I could do this, listen to her forever. I remember not caring who I would have to hurt, the things I'd have to give up, just so long as I could actually touch her. Actually fuck her. Actually own her. Actually feel the involuntary spasms of her pussy on my cock, on my tongue, on my fingers. Everywhere. I would have given anything to see her asleep, after, overused.

"Goddamn Jane. My eyes are tearing its so intense. I'm pressing myself against walls and mattress wishing it were contact with you instead. Does your boyfriend fuck you like this? Use you like this?"

"No." - in a choked back sob of a whisper. I'm torn at hearing this - elated and guilty and superhuman and subhuman.

What happens now is a blur. I hear her coming, perhaps repeatedly. I taunt her into letting her cunt become mine, to let it applaud my efforts, to let my cock soak in her body's spasming appreciation. I still hear her voice, sometimes, in my head, coming - that final, guttural groan of satisfaction echoes in my head. I saw, still see her head lifted off the bed by the uncontrollable clenching of her abdomen, and her eyes screwed tight. I remember telling her that her cunt is now addicted, like my cock is to her cunt - that she might feel tired and overused now, but still, perhaps even now, she'll feel a gnashing hunger in her belly, whispering for my cock - to be used again.

"Yeah," she gifts to me. "It feels that way now. I'm exhausted, but I still, my pussy still, wants more. My whole body is just spent, soaked. My hair is moistened and sticking to my face."

All of this is absolute music to me. My head was swimming. Swimming. I longed, still long, quietly, to have felt my cock wilt in the depths of her pussy. I'd have given anything to feel the curve of her ass and the swell of her hip as I pressed my body against hers, the heat of her back against my chest, to listen to the peaceful rhythm of her sleeping breath, to smell the junction of her hairline with her neck.

"This has all been mind blowing, paradigm shifting. Would it...would it be possible for you to sneak away? If you ever wanted to, you could, you know, anytime - anywhere..."

I know. God, do I know. We both have others. I had no idea that I'd stumble on a resonance so pure, so incandescent - like the sun. At some point she told me she hungered for eye contact, to see the inexorable need in my eyes. She told me she was afraid of the thoughts running through her head, of the things she was considering doing. All this was true for me as well.

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