Do you want to know about the mess I’m about to make on my fist? You look so fucking hot. I could stroke myself for hours looking at your tight body. Lay down now. I want to watch you come.
I recline on my bed and brush two fingers over my clit. It feels hot and swollen and so ready for attention. I turn my head so I’m staring directly at the camera.
“I could go for hours too,” I say. “Want to play a little game and see who can last longest?”
I wish, but I have a plane to catch in a half hour.
It always seems like he’s flying off someplace. I don’t know what he does for a living, but I know he makes buckets of money and travels most days of the week.
I’ve been rubbing my clit leisurely, every few seconds dipping my finger into my pussy and sweeping back up. The rhythm is so good, and I can feel my orgasm building. My toes are curling in my sheets and my knees are now splayed to the side. As my fingers speed up and warmth creeps up my spine, I know it won’t be much longer before I come.
Tell me what you’re thinking.
“I’m thinking about you, with your thick cock in your hand. I’m imagining tracing my tongue over it and tasting you. The sounds you’d make. I want to feel…” I can’t go on. My words devolve into moans and pants as my hand works faster between my legs. And I am imagining him, all those things I’d said. As much as he is my meal ticket and client, he’s also my only sexual outlet, and even though I don’t know what he looks like, all my fantasies and daydreams are attached to him. On and off camera.
As I touch myself, I think of him sitting in front of his computer, his hand furiously stroking up and over the head of his cock, his feet firmly grounded on the floor as the tension builds in his body. I imagine the strained grunts as he gets closer, his head thrown back and his fist speeding up. As my orgasm starts to black out my vision, I imagine him shooting his cum onto his belly, pumping out the last few strokes of almost painful pleasure. And as I watch him come in my mind’s eye, I let go, my orgasm crashes over me in waves again and again, and a predictable image flashes behind my eyes: it’s the ghost of Chris’s profile, illuminated by the soft blue glow of a computer screen. It’s there for an instant, and then gone. My back arches up off the bed, and I stare at the camera, because if I can’t see him, I want him to see me, to see what he’s doing to me.
I roll over onto my side, bringing the sheet with me. I’m covered in a light sheen of perspiration, and now that playtime is over, I feel chilly. I stare at the dialogue box, waiting to hear from him. I figure he’s cleaning himself up. I wonder where he is? In a high-rise apartment? The airport lounge bathroom? His fancy office?
I’ll never get tired of watching you come. I’ve gotta run. I’m cutting it very close—you’re a bad influence.
“Well get going, then,” I say. “Think of me, lying in my bed and drifting off to sleep as you rush through the airport and security last minute. Au revoir.” I blow him a kiss and wave a little goodbye.
Thanks, Echo. By the way, check your inbox. I’ll see you soon.
Then he’s logged off and I’m alone again. I pull my laptop closer and click the little mail icon in the corner of the Sugar Girl window. There is a message from Captain. One of over a dozen from the past few months. “For your files” is the subject line and attached to the message is an article about a chain of youth hostels in Europe. Captain knows a little bit about my life, and though I try to keep most details private, I’d let it slip that I’d studied hotel management and dreamed of getting back into that field. As a frequent traveler, he sends me pictures of interesting hotel concepts and articles like this.
Lately though, I’ve wondered if it’s getting too fun and too personal. He and I have started chatting when I’m fully clothed, and that seems unfair to me. Sugar Girl says as long as he logs in, he’ll be charged, and although I mention this to him several times, he tells me firmly that he isn’t concerned with the charges, and I shouldn’t be either. The first time it happened accidently. I had a horrible cold and instead of declining the session, I accidentally accepted it. I tried to keep to the usual ritual, but after a series of bed quaking sneezes he started recommending different cold remedies to me and we ended up talking for an hour as the pile of tissues grew by my side. After that, it seemed to open the gateway to more frequent contact, and the Candy Girl app made it easy to stay in touch with messaging and emails. So, receiving the article from Captain isn’t unusual, but coupled with my happy post-orgasm feeling and all the fun I had performing for him, I’m starting to hear warning bells about this relationship.