She always calls after midnight.
When the world is asleep. When no one’s asking anything of me. When all I want is her voice—and her fingers between her legs.
It starts soft.
“Hey,” she says, like she’s lying on her stomach, like her voice is already drowsy with wanting.
We talk for a while. About our days. About what we ate. About nothing at all. And I can always tell when it shifts—when her breathing changes, when the silence stretches just a little too long.
“Are you touching yourself?” I ask.
“Not yet,” she whispers.
“But I want to.”
She starts slow. She always does.
I close my eyes and picture it: the way her legs open, the way her fingers trail down her stomach like a secret, how wet she must be already just from hearing my voice.
I guide her. Tell her how I’d touch her if I were there.
Where to put her fingers.
How much pressure.
What pace.
She moans softly into the speaker. Not loud. Just enough to make my dick ache.
“I miss your mouth,” she breathes.
“I miss your taste,” I say.
There’s something about the distance that makes everything filthier—and more sacred.
She tells me she’s on her back now, two fingers inside, palm pressed hard against her clit.
I can hear it in her voice—the catch in her throat, the way her words stumble, how her “yes” gets faster, needier.
And then it happens.
She gasps—sharp, high, broken—and moans my name so softly, it feels like a prayer.
Afterwards, there’s silence. Not awkward. Just real.
I hear her breathing slow.
She asks if I came too.
I tell her yes.
I don’t tell her I came the moment I heard her fall apart.
