Sticky II
This is what distance has reduced us to.
“God. Why do you always do this to me?” She lets out a half whimper, half grunt — a telltale sign that she’s close.
“Me? I haven’t done a thing. You started this.” I bite my lip knowing her eyes are trained on my mouth, knowing the effect it has on her.
“Fuuuck.” She draws it out.
We’ve been at it for a few minutes, the third time this week. It’s hard to pinpoint how we get here. Sometimes it’s a prolonged look. Most of the time, one of us will say something dripping in innuendo. Then, when silence follows, we know what’s happening. Getting comfortable. Heavy breathing. Hands reaching for inevitable bliss. I’ll let out a moan when my fingers glide over my wetness. She’ll ask, “where is your hand?”, and when I follow with, “you know where,” she’ll ask the better question, “how wet are you for me?”
This is what distance has reduced us to.
Her face, contorted in pleasure, fills my phone. My mind drifts to everything that is happening beyond the frame. How wide her legs are spread. How fast her hands are moving. How she must look, lying there, touching herself for me. I have learned to read her face and to decode her grunts. To tell by the timbre of her voice whether she’s close. To know by the tightening of her eyes, just how close. I know now, how to work her up to dizzying heights. I know now, what will tip her over.
I swirl my fingers, coating them in the sticky evidence of my need. When I pull them up to show her, her breath catches. When I put them in my mouth, tasting with abandon, she cries out.
The sounds of her pleasure are a delightful symphony. An orchestra that I, a rapt audience of one, am pleased to witness.