Social distancing from others and close quarters with your wife has been torture. You’ve been unable to get away to see me, and being cooped up with her and the rest of the family has even interfered with our time on the phone together. I’ve been patient with your inability to spend more than a few hurried minutes with me in the middle of the night or while driving to the pizza parlor to pick up dinner.
Because we know each other so well, and I’m able to push all your buttons so adeptly, I’ve become a virtuoso at giving you the release you need as quickly as possible. But while I am a giver, I’m sorry to say that my own needs have not been met during these all-too-brief interludes.
I know you’ve been forced to share the home office with your wife the past several months. But I woke up this morning too aroused to really care. I have a mischievous idea.
You’ve settled in with a cup of coffee, your wife at her own makeshift desk with her back to you across the room. You sigh as you look at the unopened emails and the meeting invites already stacking up in your inbox.
You slept poorly last night. She has been asking why you’ve been getting up so often in the middle of the night and staying downstairs so long, which we both know is because of your yearning to hear my voice, so you suffered through a long, sleepless night thinking of me.
Your phone dings with a message. A picture of me, lying in bed with my breasts exposed, while my knowing fingers softly pinch my erect nipple that is just out of view.
“I know she’s there. Stay at your desk. Tell her you have a conference call and call me. Now.”
Your heart skips a beat and you feel a tingle in your groin. You put your ear pods in and grunt to her that you have to listen in on a call. As usual, she barely acknowledges you, typing away on her laptop.
You do as I’ve told you and hit my name in your contacts. I pick up on the first ring.
“Hi there, baby. Say your name as if you’re joining one of those boring work calls.”
Again, you follow my instruction without hesitation.
“Good,” I say. “Now don’t say a word.”
For the next half hour, you listen as I pleasure myself, describing in intimate detail how I’m fondling the tits you love so well, how wet my pussy is for you, how I’m using the vibrator I had you purchase for me to tease my clit. I say all the naughty words that drive you mad with desire for me.
“Cock, cunt, lover, mine, good boy, pussy, etc.”
Occasionally I tell you to say some innocuous word or phrase that sells the fact you’re doing nothing more than participating in another interminable conference.
The only thing I haven’t done is given you permission to touch yourself, and you squirm with discomfort as that cock which belongs to me strains against your jeans. You struggle to control your breathing as I moan and shout with wild abandon as one, two, three times I cum.
“I know you need to cum now, baby,” I finally say. “It’s your choice. Hang up and excuse yourself to the bathroom. Or enjoy the sweet agony until tonight when we WILL talk.”
You see, I need to hear your voice, too, sweetheart.
So do whatever it takes to ensure she doesn’t interrupt us tonight.
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