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He didn’t speak.
Not at first.
I answered with my usual cheeky hello, but all I got was slow, deep breathing. Not heavy or rude — just… deliberate. Nervous. Curious.
“You okay, baby?” I said, softer now.
More silence. But then, finally, in a breathy whisper: “I’ve never done this before…”
That was all I needed.
I lowered my voice and painted the picture for him.
“I’m lying in bed,” I said. “My favourite knickers are already damp. My top’s riding up and I’ve just slid one hand under my waistband…”
I spoke slowly, each word like a drop of warm oil. He didn’t reply, but I could hear it — the sound of movement, of friction, of pleasure.
He was stroking himself. Quietly. Completely caught up in the fantasy.
“You like listening, don’t you?” I purred.
“You want me to describe everything… what I’d do if you were here. What I’d let you see.”
He let out the faintest gasp as I told him how wet I was getting. How my fingers felt. How I’d slide them in, slow and deep, while staring into his eyes.
Still no words — just broken breath and need. Pure need.
He came hard, just from the sound of my voice. No conversation. No build-up. Just that tension, that heat, that pure, raw audio-driven release.
And then — quiet.
Not awkward, but heavy. Intimate.
Before he hung up, he whispered just one word.
“Thanks.”
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