3. Ruslan #3
That one makes me bare my teeth. Good. Keep them there. Slow.
No reply.
Then: You sound like you’ve done this before.
I have.
That pause is different. Heavier.
Then: And you’re talking to me like this anyway.
That one catches more than my body. Something quieter. Deeper.
I answer honestly: I’m talking to you like this because it’s you.
Her response takes longer than any before it. When it comes, it’s just: That’s unfairly hot.
I grin. Touch yourself and stop complaining.
She answers with another single word: Bossy.
But you’re making me very, very wet.
I let out a curse under my breath and shove my briefs down enough to free myself fully, stroking slow and hard now, my head tipped back once against the wall. Tell me how wet.
Her answer breaks into fragments now: Enough that
A pause. I can feel it on my fingers.
My hand tightens. Good.
You like that too much.
Yes.
This time I don’t bother pretending otherwise.
Rub your clit while you do it, I send. Slow circles. Don’t rush because you’re desperate.
Her answer comes back so fast it almost overlaps my message: I’m not desperate.
I laugh. Sure sweetheart
A long silence follows.
Then: You remember everything, don’t you?
Only the interesting parts.
That one undoes her a little. I can tell by how long she takes to answer, by the way the next line arrives like she’s no longer editing herself properly.
I keep thinking about your lap.
Fuck. Yeah?
And your hands.
A second later: And that you’d know what to do with me.
There it is again, that perfect mix of uncertainty and surrender. Not helplessness. Choice.
I stroke faster, once, twice, then force myself to slow down.
I would, I type. I’d keep you open on my thighs and make you tell me how good it feels before I let you come.
She takes too long.
Then: That’s cruel.
Would you hate it?
No answer.
Then: No.
Would you cry for it?
This time the pause is so long I wonder if I’ve pushed too far.
Then her answer arrives: Maybe.
I exhale sharply. Maybe is enough.
You sound like you enjoy that.
I’d enjoy every sound you make.
And that one gets her. I know it because the next message comes broken.
Fuck
Then: don’t say things like that
And then, after a pause just long enough to imagine her trying and failing to collect herself: or do. I don’t know.
I laugh, low and rough. You know.
I do.
Tell me.
Another pause.
Then: I like when you sound possessive.
I close my eyes, head bowed, hand tightening around my cock. You like feeling claimed by a man you’ve never seen?
Her answer is immediate: Right now? yes.
Good girl.
This time she answers with no hesitation: Again.
I go still. Then smile slowly into the dark.
Needy too.
Maybe.
Say please.
The pause that follows is exquisite.
Then: Please.
My hand stutters once on myself. Again.
Longer pause.
Then: Please tell me what you’d do.
I breathe out, slow and hot. There’s no point pretending restraint now.
I’d drag you onto my lap facing me and kiss you until you forgot every smart thing you’ve said tonight. Then I’d slide my hand under your clothes and feel how soaked you are for me before I fucked you down onto my cock.
Her answer is not a word.
It’s just: …
Then: Fuck you.
I laugh. That’s the plan.
You’re impossible.
And you’re rubbing yourself while you text me that.
Long pause.
Then: yes
No capital letter. No punctuation. That yes does something vicious to me.
You close? I ask.
A long, trembling silence.
Then: I think so.
Don’t think. Know.
You’re such an asshole.
And yet I make you wet, apparently.
She takes longer this time, and when the reply comes it’s almost incoherent: I hate that that works on me.
No you don’t.
Nothing.
Then: No.
I stroke myself harder, faster now, the tight pull at the base of my spine beginning to build. Come on your fingers, I tell her. And imagine it’s my hand making you do it.
No answer.
I wait another ten seconds.
Before I can examine that, another message appears: I’m close.
I type back immediately: Then come.
Finally, after a stretch of silence that has me gripping myself hard enough to ache: God.
I let out a curse and come with her last message open on the screen, my hand tight around my cock, my forehead pressed briefly to my fist as the pleasure hits hard and clean.
For a few seconds the room goes quiet except for my breathing. The city still glows outside. My body eases down slowly.
The phone buzzes once more.
I look.
That was filthy.
A smile pulls at my mouth.
I type: You started it.
Her answer takes a moment.
Then: You made it worse.
Better.
A pause.
Then: …better.
I sit on the edge of the bed, chest still rising a little heavier than usual, and look at that final message.
No name. No face. Just a woman somewhere in the city who lets me speak to her like that and answers back like she was made to tempt me.
My phone lights one last time.
Goodnight, Mystery Number.
I stare at it for a second, then type: Goodnight.
Another pause.
Then I add: Text me tomorrow.
Her reply is immediate: That sounds like an order.
I smile. It is.
And after a moment, she sends back exactly what I hoped she would.
Okay.