"How are you?"
How is she? He asks. He didn't know she spent the day reading the stories he posted. They should be published, they're that good. Her body is a glowing vessel. Steaming heat, vapors rising from her blood, making her skin perspire. Her Hanes for her panties damp at the band, sticking a bit to her skin. She is much more damp in between her legs. The fabric has shaped itself to her swollen lips.
"I'm okay. Miss you."
Her voice, soft, sweet, sensual, he could hear a slight gasp. The gasp that says, never stop kissing me, my lips, my body. It also says, don't tease me, put all your cock in me. He often teased her, rubbing his length over her lips, loving her wetness, moving inside her part way, her pussy squeezing like a vice as soon as he entered her.
"I miss you."
He's looking down at his Hanes for him shorts. His cock is a mummy in the white fabric, beating with its own heart. His fingers lightly rub the shaft.
She hears the catch in his voice, the verbal cut off when his sexual senses are overloaded.
Two of her fingers rub her lips, her oil has soaked through, tiny drops cling to her finger tips like pearls. Her long legs rub, inner thighs feeling sticky. She cradles the phone on her shoulder, her free hand unclasping her bra.
"Keep talking babe."
The sound of the crisp sheets in his hotel room are a whisper to her husky voice. He has succeeded in kicking off his shorts. His hand grasps his steel cock, wishing it was her hand, her lips, mouth, her tight hole.
"What did you do today?"
"I read your stories...again."
Her hand has slipped under her panties, sliding over her lips, hydroplaning on her oil.
She wanted to hear the deepness of him, his gasping, his heavy breathing, his saying the word fuck!
He was able to grant her wish for a few seconds. He did gasp, his body was breathing heavy, he did mumble fuck as he stroked himself faster.
Talk was over.
Her fingers were conducting her lips, raising the bars of her voice, her music ever higher.
He was groaning, deep, fierce. His hand a steady pump, squeezing his cock, watching the cap darken its purple color.
Her legs bent, twisted, rubbed. Her panties were being stretched to the ripping point. Her body was dancing solo to her music. Each finger is an instrument, pulling like a bow on the violin. Pressing down the notes like a perfect trumpeter. The pounding of bass drums is the warning her body is giving her. The fuse is lit, her orgasmic explosion is near.
Female gasp, whimper.
Male groan, another whimper.
If their phone was a party line, how many others would be joining in?
Seconds away. Two fingers in, two small flutes. The palm of her hand is a round cymbal, her clit the other cymbal, crashing together.
The phone, they are barely aware such an instrument is in their free hands. She is singing her song, squirting her oil onto her palm, it splashes off, dousing her lips of fire, racing down her skin, finding its way in between the crack of her ass.
He, a deeper voice, is an inhuman growl in the night. He is already squirting cum before his orgasm hits, then his body quivers as cum soaks his chest, stomach, covers his hand in seed.
Softly. "Babe? Still there?"
They laugh, their voices bridging the distance between them.
"When can I be in one of your stories?"
"I think you just were."