Chapter 8 Olivia #2
I press the button to record again, cranking the intensity of the suction.
I whimper and moan, my body twisting to get away from the pleasure.
It’s almost too much, and yet, it isn’t enough.
I read his words over and over again, and each time the desire becomes more intense, my orgasm tingling my limbs with warning.
My phone vibrates again and I ignore it. I’m too close. I can’t stop. I thought I was going to make him come, but this conversation has gone in a different direction. Now I’m the one who needs to orgasm even though I’ve had an amazing day. A promotion and hot phone sex? I’m on top of the world.
“I’m close. I’m so close. I don’t want you to stop. Don’t stop. Give me more. Fuck me harder,” I say aloud, wanting him to hear my pleas through the video.
With a shaky hand, I manage to press send. I finally check the message he sent to see a video waiting for me.
“Holy shit,” I moan, watching him on his knees as he fucks his own toy.
A light sheen of sweat covers his chest, his abs flexing with every thrust of his hips. He’s so audible and it makes me crave hearing him in person.
“That’s it, sweetheart. You’re taking my cock so well.
You feel so fucking good. Are you going to come for me?
” He moans and grunts, the deep rasp making me even wetter.
“Because I’ve never felt something so good before.
You’re going to make me come. Fuck, fuck!
” His hips stutter. “Take every drop for me. That’s it.
Fuuuck,” he groans, his muscles tensing as his orgasm rips through him.
His cum drips out of the toy and it’s so obscene.
There’s so much. It fills the toy, the cream rolling down the base of his shaft to his heavy sack.
He catches himself on the bed with one hand, his body shaking, the hard rope of his bicep flexed, and he hangs his head just enough that I can see the unruly sweat-soaked hair, but I still can’t see his face.
That’s all it takes for my own orgasm to rip through me. It’s powerful and intense, my toes curling, warmth spreading through my body. I play his video again, listening to his words, moans, and grunts to prolong every spasm that wrecks me.
I send him the video, then toss the toy to the side, gasping for breath. My limbs tingle with the threat of becoming numb.
“Holy shit,” I finally say, breaking the sudden silence since there’s no longer a buzz sounding in the air. Never in my entire life have I had an experience like that. My entire body is limp. My brain is mush.
And yet.
I want more.
So much more. I don’t want to be done with him for the night. I wonder if we can learn one another’s names. Maybe…maybe we can try to move this forward.
I’m losing my mind in the after-bliss of the best orgasm I’ve ever had.
I want him. I want him to do all the things he said he was going to do to me. I want to taste his cum on my tongue after he’s left my bed. I want to feel the ache between my thighs the next day after he’s fucked me the way he said he would.
Groaning in frustration, I flip over and bury my face in the pillow.
The moment my phone vibrates, I turn over, smiling as I stare up at the ceiling and my hand searches for the device.
Mr. Wrong Number: I haven’t come that hard in a very long time, sweetheart. You definitely turned my day around. Your videos, your sounds, I’m going to be dreaming of them every night.
I can’t help the grin that splits my face. My cheeks begin to hurt. There’s still a small amount of sweat sticking to my body that has me shivering when the air conditioning kicks on, sending a burst of cool air through the room.
Me: I haven’t either. That was by far the hottest experience I’ve ever had. I love that you have a toy. I might need to rewatch that a few times. That will be on replay.
Mr. Wrong Number: I’ll be doing the same. You drive me wild. I haven’t felt that in a very long time.
Me: You make me feel the exact same way. This was an amazing way to end my day.
Mr. Wrong Number: You definitely made my day so much better. It was worth going through all the negative since it meant ending on a positive talking to you.
This is it. This is the perfect opportunity to move this—whatever this is—forward somehow.
I start to type, asking what his name is, when he sends another message that has me stop.
Mr. Wrong Number: We probably shouldn’t do that again.
I sigh and toss my phone to the side, annoyed with his back-and-forth. Maybe he’s right. I don’t want to be in this situationship if it will be like this. If he’s going to feel bad every time we sext, then I want nothing to do with it. I’m not trying to be a man’s regret.
A burst of anger wells in my chest and I snag my phone, my fingers flying in rage-filled bursts over the screen.
Me: Then I think it’s best we go our separate ways.
I’ll delete the thread and all the videos of you.
I won’t show anyone what we showed one another.
It was nice talking to you. Sorry for how this all started.
Have a great life, Mr. Wrong Number. I hope you find what you’re looking for. Thanks for the orgasms! –xoxo.
I don’t delete the thread, because I’m not ready to.
I set my phone to the side and stare up at the ceiling, convincing myself that this is the reason I need to go on dates.
Talking to a man I don’t know, showing him parts of myself that I shouldn’t, isn’t a good way to meet someone to spend the rest of my life with.
It’s time to move on, put the fun behind me, and really try the dating scene.
I refuse to be anyone’s regret.
Even if the regret of ending whatever we had eats away at my reason.