Until We Meet Again

By now, we've been together for two years but we only see each other in the flesh every three months. Leaving aside all the missing I do about not being able to cook together, read together, not hearing his whistling in the kitchen in the evenings, I miss the sex. Only seeing each other at such prolonged intervals means when we're together again, we can't keep our hands off each other. We fuck like wolves and I'm bruised for days after he leaves, black and blue bites on my thighs, my tits, my shoulders from where he bites me while he fucks me from behind. He leaves with feral cat scratches up and down his back, his chest, his ass. I admire my trophies, send him photos in the bathroom at work so he can watch them fade. Promising, threatening so many more.

We talk as much as we can, mostly on the phone. It isn't long before our talks, no matter how innocent they start, descend into us trying to rile each other up. I discover that the hottest sound I've ever heard is the broken way he moans when he comes, the sound so much sharper right beside my ear and I come with him almost every time. He makes me hold the phone beside my cunt so he can hear the wet slide of my favorite silicone toy while I whimper and writhe, wishing it was the real thing.

Our Skype sessions are routinely topless, less deliberately provocative and more the lazy and comfortable kind of toplessness of Saturday morning lie-ins. But I find it hopelessly easy to get him going this way. Sometimes just a sleepy tilt of my head or a seemingly innocuous movement of my body will do it. I'll hear him gasp, catch him biting his lip.

"What's the matter, Sir?" I know full well. I know that his hands are suddenly aching to be able to grab me, fingers biting into my soft and yielding flesh, that he can feel that need all the way down in his cock. I know because I feel it too, the sudden electric jolt between my legs. We lose all sense of shyness, worrying about flattering camera angles or lighting. He watches me cry face down in the pillows, arm twisted back painfully as I fuck myself with the toy, watching him with wet eyes as I tell him over and over again how badly I wish it was him. I miss the intimacy of it, of course, but I also miss the cock that feels so good it's like it was made for me.

Today, however, I'm not allowed to have the silicone cock. I had gone to an afternoon showing of a play, had taken pictures of my stockings and garters and the lacy edges of my petticoat from the fancy theater bathroom. Photos of my mouth, my lipstick the same obscene pink of violent kisses.

I am told to keep my clothes on, to remove only my panties, to hitch my pretty vintage dress up to expose myself to him on camera while he tells me what a tease I am, what a dirty little slut. He makes me take his favorite paddle and welt my thighs for him. He makes me hit my disobedient cunt, laughing every time I yelp. If I close my legs he makes me do it again. And again. And again (he tells me I never learn my lesson). I am soaking wet and delirious by the time he makes me lick the paddle clean, leaning close to the camera so he can be sure I've gotten it all. He makes me apologize for my filthy behavior and only then am I allowed something approaching release. No hands, no toys, I have to ride a pillow, my hips jerking erratically as I try to find the angle and pace I need. I try to look away, the best kind of embarrassed by this desperate display. He sharply orders me to look at the camera. To look into his eyes, golden and bright with arousal and amusement, with those little broken specs of black I love so much. He sits back, maintaining an almost unblinking stare that draws me in, commands my full attention and I hear him unbuckle his belt. I remember that I am conditioned to respond to this sound, suddenly craving his cock shoved down my throat and I moan out loud. He laughs, unbuttoning his jeans. He won't let me see this time, denying me the sight of his hand gripping his cock, the reward of watching him spill on his stomach and thighs when he comes. I can only tell by the short, sharp motions of his shoulder that he's jerking off. I realize too late that I'm distracted, that I've stopped moving until he asks me if he told me to stop, or am I just brainless slut who can't follow directions? I rock my aching cunt against the pillow, whimpering. My eyes wide and blue and wet in my camera view, my lips swollen and shiny from being bitten.

He is silent, regarding me with his particular brand of fond disdain as he strokes his cock. As if it's not my fault I'm a little slut who can't help herself, I'm just a silly little brainless doll who doesn't know better. I won't learn my lesson this time, and I won't learn it the next but it's okay. When he speaks again, he makes me beg him to be allowed to come. I plead brokenly, my welted thighs grinding harshly against my damp pillow.

I hear his breath hitch, his commands stutter and he has to close his eyes. His mask of dominance slips for a moment, vulnerable in this moment of exquisite pleasure. His body lurches as he comes, and he growls between clenched teeth. I hold still, because I haven't been given permission yet, and it takes every ounce of my will not to push myself over the edge. My mouth waters, desperate to lick up the mess I know he's made.

Instead, he cleans himself up, ignoring me as he moves around his bedroom to find a towel and the hand sanitizer. When he balls up the towel and returns to the desk, he gives me a look as if he had forgotten I was there, as if I was of no consequence. He sighs and says dismissively:

"What are you waiting for, Kitten? Come for me."

I don't even have to move as the wave wells up below my ribcage, racking my body with a deep shudder. The orgasm exhausts me and I lay on the quilt in the golden late afternoon sunlight, breathing hard.

In a low, warm voice he gently coaxes me back. Asks if I'm okay, tells me gently what a good girl I am, how much he loves me. How beautiful I look in the light coming through the lace curtains. He stays on the line with me, just being quiet as he watches over me as I come down from the intensity of the scene. The last thing I am aware of before I drift off into a warm and gentle sleep is his affectionate smile.

"Sleep well, Kitten. I love you, and I can't wait to see you again."