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It started with a single call.
Just after 2am.
He said he couldn’t sleep. That his mind wouldn’t shut off unless he heard my voice.
I thought it would be a one-off… a quick chat, a cheeky release. But then he called again the next night. And the night after that.
Every night. Same time. Same need.
At first, we kept it soft.
He told me about his day. I listened, laughed, teased. I became his routine. His comfort. His late-night addiction.
But night after night, things got filthier. The way he whispered my name. The way he begged me to describe things I’d never say in daylight.
He told me he liked the sound of my voice when I was pretending to suck him off — slow and wet. I gave him every detail. Lips. Tongue. Moans. Spit.
“You know what I want, don’t you?” he’d say.
I did. And I gave it to him. Every damn time.
Sometimes, I’d stretch it out — tease him for twenty, thirty minutes. Other nights, he’d be frantic, panting, desperate to come while holding the phone with one shaking hand.
What started as a habit turned into a full-blown obsession.
And the truth? I loved it.
I loved knowing I was the last thing on his mind before sleep. That he craved me more than rest. More than anything.
Now, when the clock hits 1:59, I’m already waiting.
Wet. Smiling. Ready to ruin him all over again.
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