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He called just after midnight. His voice was low — the kind of whisper you only use when someone’s nearby.
“She’s asleep upstairs,” he said. “I shouldn’t be doing this… but I need to hear your voice.”
He told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me. That my voice had been in his head all day. I asked what he wanted, and there was a pause — then he admitted it:
“I want you to pretend you’re her… but filthier. I want you to do the things she never would.”
So I did.
I told him to lie back, unzip, and imagine me slipping under the covers, naked, wet, hungry. He moaned — softly — as I whispered everything I’d do to him.
Licking the tip… teasing it with slow, dirty kisses… sucking deeper and deeper until he couldn’t hold back.
“You’re so bad,” he said. “If she knew I was doing this…”
That made it hotter.
He told me he was close, but I didn’t stop. I wanted him to come thinking about me.
His married mouth. My dirty tongue. Her bed. My rules.
And then — a sharp breath. A stifled groan. He came hard, trying not to wake her, shaking as I cooed down the line, telling him how good he’d been for me.
How much I loved turning him into my filthy little secret.
When it was over, there was a pause. Just breathing. Then he whispered,
“I’ll call again tomorrow… same time.”
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