Reminder of a Phone Call

Dear Nick,

I've been thinking about you a lot lately. I miss our silly online conversations. I miss the serious ones, too, where we'd talk about religion and politics, and friends and drugs and being lonely. You thought I was going to hell and that homosexuality was a sin. You said it was bad that I liked boys and girls. Later you'd become so enamored with me that you said you'd believe whatever I wanted you to believe.

I miss how special you made me feel, even though you were far away. You told me I was beautiful, pretty, gorgeous, more than any guy I've ever dated. You were so crazy about me. I was mad about you too, but it seemed silly... You were thousands of miles away.

I remember one night when I came online, you messaged me right away.

"Jesus Christ, I've been trying to contact you all night," you said.

I laughed. "Why, what's up?" I asked you.

"Nothing much, I'm just addicted to you," you responded.

Do you know what a rush that is? To have someone say they're addicted to you, that you're their drug, that they're sick with withdrawal without you. It's amazing, Nick. How could I not be crazy about you?

You said it again one time. "You're like crack, in the best way possible." It made me crazy how much I wanted you sometimes.

Nick, do you remember when you'd call me? We'd talk about serious things. I worried about you... You drank a lot then. I hear you're pretty sober these days. I'm proud of you.

I think a lot about the other times, too. The ones you'd call me and whisper how much you wanted me. Your voice was low, husky with desire. You'd tell me you wished I was there with you, wished you could hold me, touch me. We'd practically be whispering, late at night, hoping our roommates wouldn't hear us. Sometimes I couldn't even make out your words, and just touched myself to your moans and sighs and the excited tone of your voice.

Most times I'd be fully clothed when you called, but sometimes I was in bed in just string bikinis and a tee shirt. I could never tell which you liked better, imagining that you were slipping into my room and finding me sleepy and undressed, or being able to tell me what you wanted me to strip off first, picturing my hands unsnapping my jeans and slipping inside to touch.

After a moment of petting, I'd slide them off, leaving them in a rumpled pile at the foot of the bed. I'd leave my tee shirt on sometimes, especially when I was worried about someone coming in. Besides, I loved the feeling of the soft cotton against my fingers, against my palm... against my nipples. It was like a fabric lubricant; it heightened the sensations and made it slippery.

I'd look down and be able to see the little bumps my nipples made. Sometimes I'd reach under my shirt and pinch them, and grab my whole breast and massage it a bit, like you were lying there next to me and couldn't resist the temptation… seeing my round breasts and hard nubs through my shirt, and you just had to have the feeling of my soft flesh in your hands. Did you imagine pulling my shirt up to suck on my pink nipples, to bury your face between my breasts? I did.

I was shy about talking to you that way at first, but you were so sexy, so sweet. You made me ache with desire; you got me so wet. Your voice would have my panties soaked so quickly.

You'd tell me you wanted to trace your tongue around my nipples, kiss and nuzzle on my neck... You'd speak slowly and pause between your sentences, knowing exactly what you wanted to do with me, but letting me enjoy your words, savor them, as I teased my body.

I'd tell you how I wanted to lick and tease your cock, playing with it, getting you so hard we both thought your skin would split from the pressure. I'd tell you how I wanted to get on top of you, holding myself so your cock couldn't reach my pussy. I’d whisper how I wanted to slowly drag my breasts against your chest, moaning as my sensitive nipples grew taut again, then leaning down to kiss your chest and nipples, licking and teasing like you told me you loved, but shifting my hips so your cock still couldn't enter me. We loved to tease each other.

You'd tell me how you'd massage my breasts as they dangled in your face, then drop them and grab for my hips, my ass, and push your cock up into my pussy.

All the while on the phone I'd been listening to your breath grow quicker as you stroked your cock. My hand was covered in juice from my pussy, and you'd ask me what I was doing, how I was touching myself. I'd tell you how I'd been stroking my pussy lips, how smooth and shaved they were, and how I was sure if you turned on the light you'd see how shiny wet and glistening my pussy was.

I'd tell you about sliding a finger around the hole of my pussy, teasing the sensitive area. I’d tell you about sticking two fingers in my pussy and moving them around, imagining your cock in me. I played with my hood, not yet touching my clit, because I wanted to stay hot and wet with you a while longer.

My words became breathy and more excited as I described all of this to you, and my fingers nimbly worked faster.

"God, Cat, you're so hot," you'd say, and I'd moan a little as my response. It became more and more difficult to speak as I grew closer to my orgasm.

You'd take over, telling me you were stroking yourself, and that you wished I were on top of you. We imagined how we'd grind our hips together, your hands tightly on my hips, mine in your hair. I moaned and sighed as I rubbed my clit in my bed, forgetting about my roommates.

You always knew when I was close, and would encourage me, beg me, "Cum for me, Cat, baby, God, you're so gorgeous, I want you here," and I'd gasp your name as I slid my fingers into my pussy, smeared juice all over my clit, then rubbed hard, fast, bucking my hips as if you were inside me. I moaned and squeaked as the fire inside burst out of control. I could hear you cumming along with me, and we both sighed as we finished, sticky and wishing the other was there.

I think about you a lot, Nick... Maybe you could call sometime...

Love,
Cat