He’s assertive. Confident. Takes what he wants.
And she submits. Willingly, with just a touch of fear veiled inside anticipation.
But it’s a fantasy. A delicious dream.
They type it out. It’s hard, typing. It forces her to feel without touch. And yet, it activates the brain in places she thought were asleep.
She tries to imagine him, leaning against something, one hand busy typing into his phone, the other, stroking.
You wet, he wants to know.
Distracted, she types.
Are you wet?
He repeats the question with punctuation this time.
She can hear his voice inside her head, even though she’s only reading his words. Deep. With a hint of force.
She hesitates. He knows the answer. But he wants her to admit. To say it. To say the word. So she does.
Good, he responds simply.
She smiles at this. He’s happy, maybe a little smug with her admittance. Desired result accomplished.
She feels her pulse beating a little faster, her skin tingle. Good thing she’s not wearing much. She opens her robe a bit to expose her breasts, covered in goosebumps, nipples hard. With her phone still in her hand she waits, imagining him sitting in a similar position.
How do you taste, he types next.
She stares at the words. No one ever asked her that before.
She looks at the word. Each letter separately.
T. A. S. T. E.
Almost involuntarily her hand reaches between her legs, to seek validation she already knows is there. Feels it coating her.
There’s heat beyond the wetness. And an ache. She longs to fill the ache.
She glides a finger along the smooth skin, spreading the liquid around a little, exploring. Imagining his hand in place of hers.
Realizing he’s waiting for an answer, she responds honestly. She knows it’s risky, baring herself this way, but she is compelled to continue.
I don’t know, she types candidly, and waits for his reaction. It comes immediately.
She reads the words slowly, feeling her brain processing them. He wants her to taste herself.
She stares at the words while continuing with her exploration. There’s a pull to obey him. It’s mutually arousing, which is the point of this exercise.
A couple of minutes pass while she plays. Her phone is silent. She knows he’s waiting. Imagining. Fantasizing.
She wants to do it, taste herself.
What if she’s still spotting, she worries.
It doesn’t matter. She already decided to go along with it. With him. For him.
Coating her finger with her own juice, she brings it close to her face and looks at it.
No blood. Her period is done.
She takes her finger and touches her lips. With the tip of her tongue she licks off some of the juice. She’s not sure how to describe it, her taste buds seem to be cloaked by her ever increasing arousal.
A couple of minutes must have passed when another message pops up on the screen.
What’s it taste like, he wants to know.
She wonders if he’s erupted already while he imagines her sucking off her own fingers. She smiles, but doesn’t ask.
Slightly salty, she admits, but doesn’t elaborate about the hint of sweetness she also tasted. Maybe he can discover that himself one day.
* * * The sequel to this post is called Torrid game * * *