Memories of Emma Ch. 02

The words were written before I could fully think them through. Before my nerve failed, I typed out two more messages:

i think you want to get caught

i think you like telling me about it

I wasn't sure what was more shocking: that I was sending these texts to Emma, or that I was convinced they were true. How would she reply? Not with simple agreement -- that wouldn't be her. I wished I could see her face: the indignation in her eyes, the false denial; and burning beneath these the arousal I'd seen yesterday, in her photos, and even more as she let me look at them.

My phone buzzed, and I looked down at her reply.

i think you're jealous that I got some tonight and you didn't

Petty, and weak -- I was getting to her.

did anyone hear you?

lol probably not. came while i sucked his dick

There were versions of this conversation where this information was simply matter-of-fact: a funny story about a bathroom hook-up, shared with a friend. Not with Emma. I was supposed to picture her, see her as though I'd walked into the stall, caught her sucking the dick she couldn't wait for. She liked to be seen, and this was a form of that. For my part, I was learning that I liked to watch. I wasn't supposed to know any of this; and that's what made it so hot.

did you swallow?

some. got most on my tits

makes for a better picture

fuck you

show me

I was fully masturbating at this point, my hand and cock slick with precum. Somehow I knew she was doing the same, and I wondered how she did it: rubbing through her panties, or naked and sprawled, eagerly fingering? I would find out, I was sure, but not tonight. Somehow that still seemed too intimate. This wasn't sexting, really: I was a witness, not a participant.

After all the night's excitement I knew that I wouldn't last much longer, and I slowed as I waited for the photo I knew she would send. Then, with a buzz, it came. Emma was on her knees, her eyes bright with an expression I was starting to recognise. Her mouth hung slightly open, as though overcome with arousal, and a line of cum ran from the corner of her lips to her chin. The halter of her dress had been undone, and her bra stood black against the paleness of her skin. A rope of cum clung to her neck, and her chest was splattered. Droplets sat on the exposed tops of her breasts, and some on the bra itself, through which her nipples, just like last night, were fully visible.

Emma, the cumslut. The effect was too much, and my dick, strained through the day by memories of Emma and Dani's teasing, finally erupted. My body went slack as I surrendered to the rush of pleasure, riding it out like a surfer on a wave that was slightly too large. Emma would know what had happened: she had sent that picture for a reason. She wanted to be seen: and I wanted to see. Looking down at my splattered abdomen, I imagined for a second that she had been with me; that the cum covering her tits was mine. I don't think I could have handled that -- not yet. Even the idea of getting naked in front of Emma still felt strange, inappropriate; like many fetishes, it was more possible to imagine than partake. Eventually, though...

The thought was too big. I grabbed my shirt to clean up with -- I really needed some tissues -- and then checked my phone again. The photo was still open, and my dick responded immediately. Closing it, I typed:

so you didn't actually get any either

Would she have fucked him, if he proved more resistant to the charms of her mouth? To be fair, I doubted that I would have done any better had Dani tried the same with me. Memories of public blowjobs from Jane trickled into my mind as I remembered that the wider world existed; between fear and excitement I had never lasted long. But though Jane had been shameless, it was always about her being willing to take what she wanted, everyone else be damned; being caught was a risk, sure, but that wasn't the point.

i got what I wanted

There was the Emma I knew; and as I read it I felt a wave of something quite different from arousal. It was something like affection, divorced from any eroticism. Just like having Emma here to start uni with me brought a sense of comfort, somehow she brought a similar comfort to our game. Though the boundaries were murky, somehow everything felt safe; even if I pushed too hard, she would push back; and neither of us could be hurt. At least not yet, I thought, as the ghost of an image of her lips around my own dick tried to materialise: but however risky that bridge may be, we would be crossing together.

Still drunk, exhausted, deep in post-orgasmic haze, I typed out one last message before surrendering to sleep.

me too