"What were you doing up there?" Jane asked over the phone, very suggestively.

It really caught me off guard because I know I kept things very quiet when I went upstairs in Jane's townhouse that weekend. I know I kept the sheets on her guest bed clean.

I didn't leave a drop of cum or baby oil on your sheets, Jane, Scout's Honor! I had a towel under my ass to make sure there were no stains. The sound on my laptop was all the way off for that evening's feature presentation (Natasha Nice getting tit-fucked by Mark Ashley in Boob Bangers #4, for the record). I had earbuds in for my masturbation soundtrack ("What Comes Naturally" by Sheena Easton).

Jane didn't suspect, much less know, I was up there beating my big dick and hoping she'd hear me or catch me or walk in on me; she just assumed that was what I was doing because I am a single man and I have had a burning desire for her since she was my babysitter. But I sure went for it, imagining she had a spy camera hidden in the ceiling light or something. I put on a show for her, regardless if she was there to see it.

So, anyway, Jane, I am going to assume what you were doing down there in your bedroom.

I think you had your toy, a vibrator, a Hitachi wand, whatever you prefer, magnetized to the pretty pink petals of your pussy, tracing the edges of those beautiful wet lips, then spreading your hood and buzzing your throbbing clit, in your big, four-poster, princess bed.

I think you were clamping your thighs shut and rolling over into your pillow to stifle your moans.

I think you were thinking about me, thinking about you, masturbating at exactly the same time.

And I think you were imagining what it would look like, my dick slithering through my oiled-up fist, the slit at the end of my mushroom cock head gasping, the hot, white ropes of cum lashing your tummy and your perky boobs.

Am I right?