Message Received

Pulling back the camera, I send a hand between my legs. Normally I start more slowly than this, when I touch myself. Not today. I can feel the dampness of myself, as soon as my fingers brush against the fabric of the bodysuit between my legs. Where did this come from? Not the wetness--I knew exactly where that came from. The flood of warmth that ran upward through my body, the all-consuming warmth of arousal. My thumb pressed down on the flat screen of my phone. I barely care whether the pictures are being taken, any more. All I can think about is the motion of my fingers between my legs, the racing of my heart in my chest, the low sound of my breathing. My nipples are pointing straight up, in slightly opposite directions. My breathing becomes slightly fitful as I ease my fingers below the fabric band of my bodysuit and against my labia.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that I can't moan. Thomas is probably laying on his bed, on the other side of the wall that my open legs are facing. He often had headphones in, but I couldn't be sure. For some reason, the knowledge that I shouldn't make sound meant that it was all that I wanted to do. Did I really care, if he heard me?--Maybe? No. Maybe? I feel the thought disappear as my fingers slide into my vagina, feel them pushing against the tight, slick inside of my own body. I can't help it, the feeling brings a small, involuntary moan to my lips. I swallow it so quickly I almost choke. For a moment, I forget to press the camera button of my phone; all I can focus on is staying quiet while I work my fingers deeper inside of myself and then back out again.

Whatever's happened to make me feel this way, I know I've never been this turned-on in my life. Something is beating between my legs; my heartbeat, I realized--my fingers move in time with it. A slight curl of my middle fingers causes my entire body to react. I can smell myself; the light, clean smell of sweat and citrus shampoo, and below it the slightly heavier smell of sex. My legs roll over the fur sheet, pulling up toward my hips. Working my fingers in a steady rhythm, I lean upward slightly and lift my phone between my knees. The camera clicks. The top of my thumb brushes against my clitoris, the touch feather-light. My mouth opens, and I concentrate on not letting out the obscene sound that's risen in my throat. I'm almost beyond the point where I care.

Half-closing my eyes as I stroke my hand up and down between my legs, I try to picture Deidrich's face. How he looks while we're in bed together. My hand almost pauses, my heart leaping as a completely different picture comes to mind. Thomas leans back against the edge of the counter, his hips pressed forward against a pair of faded blue jeans, his grey-blue eyes shining in the brilliant overhead light. Wrong one, I breathe out heavily, trying to wrestle my dumbstruck brain into order. My brain doesn't care. At least for today, it's decided on what it wants and I appear to have no say in it. Admittedly, the image of Thomas in my mind is doing it for me. It's sparked something inside of me that I didn't know was there; like a spark-plug tapped on a metal pipe. Thrusting my fingers into myself, I rub the top of my thumb over my clitoris; letting it touch briefly and then retreat down toward my fingers, repeating the motion over and over.

I'm going to finish. I can feel it rising in my body, the electrical shiver running over my skin. Pulling my hand out from below my bodysuit, I cup my hand between my legs so that my thumb lays across the flat space of my pelvis. Pulling up my legs so that I'm laying only on my back and letting down the phone slightly, I take a low-angle picture. My mouth is slightly open; not hanging loose, but only open as though I were half-way through a word. I look at the camera from the bottom of my eyes, over my cheeks and the round lower edge of my glasses. My hair is a tangled mess behind me, draped over the pillow.

That one.

Everything in me is tight; desperate, begging for the orgasm I know I've brought myself close to. I also know that if I finish, in the moments of post-orgasm clarity, I'll completely lose the sudden bravery that makes this possible. Rolling over on the bed, I swipe quickly through the pictures I've taken. It's the final one. I know it's the final one, but I still have to check the other ones anyways. Finally, deciding that I was right the entire time, I swipe back to the end of my camera roll. My thumb hesitates for a moment over the Share icon, then presses down.

Thinking about you, I type. Then I backspace, erasing the message. About to cum, I type quickly, Any chance you want to pick up the phone and help me out?

Contacts. First option. Send.

There you go, dick-dick. You don't deserve that, but damn did it feel good.

Sitting up, I toss the phone onto my bed and ease my legs over the side. Letting out a few long breaths, I try to rid my body of the hanging-on arousal. I can't quite get rid of the tightness in my stomach or the heat beneath my face, but whether it's because I'm nervous for the reply or simply still turned-on, I can't quite seem to decide. And where the hell had Thomas come from, during all that? I was going to have to have a serious conversation with my brain about what it decided to think about while I was masturbating, I decided.

I nearly leave the bed when I hear knuckles knocking on the wall. It comes from the direction of Thomas' room--almost as if in response to my thoughts. It wasn't the first time he had done that. It was a familiar sound. This was how we got one another's attention, instead of walking around and knocking on each others' doors. The timing, though.. it was almost as if it was in response to my thoughts. Oh god--had he heard me? No. He wouldn't have knocked, if that was the case. He would have just put in headphones. Right?

"Grace?" A muffled voice calls through the wall.

"Yeah?" I call back.

"I don't think, uh--" the voice hesitates, then switches to English, "I just want to know if this was sent to the right person."

I can't breathe. All of the air has gone cold in my lungs. An electrical shiver, faster and lighter than that of my previous arousal, runs down my back. No. No--I can't have... I grab my phone from the bedsheets, fighting them for a moment. Clicking it on, I desperately press down on the contact icon. Sent messages. Dick-dick Deidrich; Last message: Tuesday, you up?

Last message: picture image. Thomas Venquest.

This can't be happening.

I realize that I'm sitting in silence on my bed, staring at my phone screen, and Thomas is on the other side of the wall, still waiting for an answer. It's unreachable, to me. The ability to think has abandoned me completely, much less the ability to speak. My mind has gone blank. You fucking asshole, I turn my very first words in on my scattered brain. How the fuck did this happen? I knew, though. It had happened because I had been thinking about him, while I was touching myself. It had happened because, during my minute of bravery, whether by accident or subconscious decision, I had been picturing Thomas' and sent the message to him instead of Deidrich. Letting my phone fall against my thighs, I stared wide-eyed at the wall that separated our two bedrooms.

"No," I whisper. Then, raising my voice, I call back, "That wasn't... That was an accident." My voice sounds horribly small.

Maybe if I throw myself really hard at the blind-covered window behind my bed, I'll be able to go right through it. There's a moment of silence from the other side of the wall, and then something clutches at my chest. Thomas is laughing. He's laughing! A sincere, good-natured sound that comes from high in his throat.

Whatever it is in that sound, it's released something in my body. The cold, racing adrenaline of my fight of flight response goes out of me in a rush, and suddenly I'm doubled-over my own legs. I'm also laughing, and the sound is nearly hysterical. My glasses side down my nose against my folded arms, and my hair hangs down around my head and legs.

"Don't worry about it," he calls back, "I'll delete it."

"Wait--!" I jerk upright, surprised by the sudden urgency of my reply. This is a bad idea Grace, my brain warns me. Fuck you. This is all your fault, I spit back it it.

"You don't--have to."

There's a long moment of silence on the other side of the wall. I sit on my bed, feeling my bare feet pressed against the rough carpeting of my floor. My eyes can't leave the wall--not until I hear his voice. Beside me, my phone rings. This would be the moment that Deidrich chose to call. I couldn't decide who was the bigger asshole, between him and my brain. I ignore it for a moment, then glance down. Thomas' contact icon is lighting up the phone screen. Picking it up, I slide the green answer icon to the opposite side of the screen and lift it to my ear.

"Hello?" I ask.

"Hello," his voice answers back. I can still hear the sound of laughter, behind that word. It's easy and confident.

"Why did you... call me?" I ask, hesitating.

"Well, I figured you're probably embarrassed, and this seemed easier for you than knocking on your door." There's a quick pause, "Don't be embarrassed. I once sent a picture like that to my best friend, instead of my girlfriend. The worst part? I didn't even realize until a couple days later, when he was acting weird around me and I had to ask what was going on." He chuckles, "I deleted the picture, by the way."

"Why?" I ask quietly, "I told you... you didn't have to."

"Sure," I can almost hear his shrug, through the phone-line, "I didn't have to, but it wasn't mine in the first place. I will say, excellent picture. Very porno."

I laugh, pressing my eyes tightly closed, "Fuck. I'm sorry, Thomas."

"Oh, don't apologize," his voice goes slightly crackly over the phone line, "Listen, if you want to send me a picture like that--any time, no explanation needed, I'll hang on to it for the rest of my life. But I'd like it to be sent for me, you know? I'm not taking advantage of an accident."

I can't speak to answer that. I can feel the tight breathing in my chest; partially at the compliment, and partially at the implication. And, I realize, partially because of exactly what it all meant. I thought about Deidrich, in his apartment in Berlin; about a small string of unanswered text messages, about that string stretching back over the course of six years, about the low ache in my chest when I thought about him. Then I thought about Thomas. Thomas, who I could picture very clearly sitting on his bed on the other side of the wall, his legs kicked out in front of him and his back resting against the flat wall. I thought about how comfortable around him I was, how carefully he listened to me--how he'd deleted the picture. I thought about his easy smile, his easygoing attitude. I thought about him, and my heart didn't hurt inside of my chest. It raced.

"I have to go," I say, quietly.

"Okay," his voice answers from the phone beside my ear. He's not laughing, any longer, "No problem. Just, Grace--don't be embarrassed about this, okay? We can make it a nothing. It's fine."

I hang up the call. Holding my phone in my hand, I can feel myself coming to a decision. It happens slowly, and then all at once. Clicking on the phone, I scroll to where Deidrich's round icon shows. A miniature picture of him; all dark hair hanging loose over either side of his forehead, his smile roguish and wildly charming on his lips. A blue-collared shirt is propped open to either side of his neck. My eyes scan the last messages. Three, over the course of a week.

Thinking about coming into Berlin this weekend. Groceries and some sexy stuff. You in?

Hey D, I could really use a minute of your time to chat. Give me a call whenever you can. Talk soon xx.

You up?

Pressing my thumb down on the chat box, I typed a message. I sat there looking at it for a long moment. We're done. We've been done for a while now. Goodbye Deidrich. I'd never texted him something like that before--not for our break-ups, not when we'd fought during our months of long-distance, not even when he'd said something very similar a few months earlier. Send. Moving my thumb, I tapped the three grey dots beside his contact icon. Delete Contact? Delete.

Holding my phone in my hand, I stared down at it for a moment. I could feel a weight, which I hadn't even realized I'd been carrying over the past week, ease off of my shoulders. The last week?--or five of the last six years, I wondered. Sitting up slightly, I turned the phone over. Slowly, I pull myself back on the bed into the sheets.

I don't think about what I'm doing; I'm not thinking about the camera, of how my body is laying, or even about how I look. My expression wasn't lustful, this time. It wasn't coy, or innocent-looking, or seductive. It was my regular face; eyes staring wide through the lenses of my glasses, mouth closed and turned slightly upward in the beginnings of a smile. Laying on my side, I held the phone out in front of me. With my other hand, I tugged down my bodysuit once more to reveal the curve of my closest breast, the small standing nipple in its center. The camera clicked. Flipping over onto my stomach, I touched my thumb a couple of times against the screen. Share. Contacts. First option; Thomas Vendquest. Send.

Tossing my phone aside, I lay back on my bedsheets. The turmoil of emotions which had been coursing through me for the last thirty minutes calmed slowly as I turned my face over on the pillow and closed my eyes. The slow breaths I took through my nose sent warm air over my lips each time I exhaled. From the far wall, I heard a knock. Raising my hand to my headboard, without raising my face, I knocked against it. It wasn't the wall, but I knew he'd hear it anyways.

"So, uh--" Thomas' voice came through the painted drywall, "For me, then?"

"You up?" I call back.

I can hear him laughing, behind the wall. A moment later, my phone rings. Without glancing at it, I grab it from the sheets and smile as I lift it to my ear. I don't have to see the contact icon to know it's Thomas'; I can hear his steady breathing on the other side of the call, his barely-contained laughter in the silence, his easy presence entering the bedroom through the receiver.

"All the way up," his voice speaks from the other side of the phone line.

"Well," I press my lips together briefly, trying to contain my smile, "I believe my last message contained a question? Any chance I can get an answer?"

"I don't know," I can hear his smile, "Want to give me a picture?"

"I believe I just did."

He laughs, "Yes--and that's... God, Grace. Do you have any idea how hot you are?" His laughter deepens for a moment, and then falls off, "Actually--I think you might. But this time, I meant with your words."

"Oh," I breathe. Shifting down deeper into the sheets, I pull a pillow under my head. I can hear the expectant silence on the other end of the phone, "Well, I'm in bed."

"Okay, good start." His voice is slightly teasing, "Maybe a little more information?"

"I don't know... where to start."

"Well, something like this, maybe." His voice fades for a moment and then comes back, "I'm laying with my back against the wall. I have you on speakerphone, so I can look at that picture you sent while I touch myself. I've still got my jeans on. All I can think about it coming through your door, pulling that black suit off your body, slipping my hand between your legs--"

My heart made a pitter-pattering sound against the inside of my chest as I heard him speak. Like I said--Thomas and I have never really spoken about sex. I'd also never had phone sex, despite what my earlier message might have implied. It had always thought that it would be awkward. Hearing it all laid out so explicitly. It wasn't. The calm intensity of his voice sounded entirely natural; he spoke smoothly and invitingly. Slipping my hand between my legs, I discovered very quickly that I was still wet. Or maybe wet, again. Feeling a sudden well of courage inside myself, which I hadn't know I had, I spoke into the phone line as my fingers traced over the outside of my vagina.

"Tell me about your cock?" I ask, slightly pleading.

"I have it in my hand, and I'm stroking it slowly," he answers back, "It's about seven inches long, and curls up ever so slightly. There's a small birthmark on the left side, just above the base." I close my eyes, tilting my head back agains the pillow slightly and breathing through my mouth. Between my legs, my fingers play almost absentmindedly over the folds of my labia, stroking slowly up and down. I can see the imagine coming together, in the darkness behind my eyelids. Thomas is still speaking, I realize, "I'm imagining how good it would feel, to have my cock between your legs. To keep them open with my own. To hold you in my arms while I enter you slowly, feeling your body opening up around me. To run my fingers over your cheeks, while I press deeper--"

This wasn't sex the way I'd had sex before. This was something cleaner, somehow almost more methodical; something new and intriguing and hot. Matching his words, I pushed my fingers down underneath the fabric of my bodysuit and inside of myself. I felt my body clench, and then go loose. Turning onto my side, so that I'm propped up by the pillow, my left hip, and my left leg, I sigh into the telephone. My breathing is warm against the pillow beneath me; getting heavier by the second, by each word. My hips are moving in slow, comfortable circles as I work my fingers inside of myself, following a direction I knew that I liked.

"God," Thomas' voice breathes from the other side of the phone beside my face, "that sound was hot. Tell me?" He doesn't need to expand on the question.

"Thomas--" my voice is slightly breathless, "I'm..." I let out a low breath, and then feel it catch in my throat as my fingers find their usual, rising pattern, "I'm so wet. It's my hand now, but I'm imagining it's yours between my legs. That it's your fingers inside my tight pussy, and that I'm rocking against your palm. Oh God, this feels--so good. I want to--" I draw a shallow breath, "I want to cum, listening to the sound of your voice. I'm going slow, because I want this to last, but I--" my palm touches down on the top of my vagina, and the thrusting of my fingers becomes slightly more insistent. Something slips, inside of me; my next words come out in a rush, "I want you. I want you so fucking badly. You make me feel hot--you've always made me feel hot, and horny, and safe--" I trail off, the motion of my fingers lessening slightly, "Sorry, that wasn't..."

"

No," his voice speaks over mine, gentle but firmly, "That's perfect. You're perfect. Tell me?"

It's that voice, I think. How calmly he says those words. My breathing is weightless in my chest--making me feel almost empty; each breath coming slightly faster than the one before it. My entire body feels like a lightbulb. Bright, hollow, faintly buzzing. I shove my fingers further into myself, curling them upward and bringing a sharp, winded quality to my voice.

"You make me feel so safe, and wanted, and just--" I laugh, a breathless laugh, "sexy. So sexy."

Dropping my hand slightly, I rub the side of my thumb along my clit; not quite over top, but only tracing the small, hard outline of it with the side of my knuckle. I'm trying to hold back the orgasm I feel coming--the one that comes rushing upward from wherever it had been sent down to earlier. I know it's a fight I'm losing--and losing quickly. My body lifts off the bed slightly, my fingers moving so quickly that it almost feels as if they're vibrating. My arm, matching my body, has gone tense. A low ache moves through the muscles, but I'm not stopping now. Not now. I let out a low whine as the muscles of my stomach clench. I'm rocking, right on the edge.