The glow from your phone illuminates the contours and angles of your face, skin damp, pulse soaring as your husband snores beside you. You thumb the screen, scrolling through the message stream. Words jump out at you. Snatches of racy conversations.
...instantly wet
clutching heat
gasping into the room
ache for you...
Your free hand brushes naked, bare pussy lips and you flinch. Can scarcely believe how wet you are for the man the other end. A man you know next to nothing about, yet his words... God, his words. A constant stream of poetic prose, laced with filthy promise. A literary drug.
...tongue lashes your needy clit
fingers trace every sumptuous curve
lips clamp an erect nipple
our kiss a desperate inferno...
Fuck, you want him. Wish he were here to see you like... this. A tangle of hormones. A breathless aura surrounding you. A galloping tightness beneath porcelain pores. Fingers touching, exploring raw, wet want, reawakened after months of yawing nothingness in a vanilla marriage.
Staring at his avatar, you wait. It's been two minutes since his last message, loaded with lust.
I graze my stubble across your neck, lips nuzzling, teeth nipping at your flesh as my fingers curl into your fiery wet snatch, hearing you gasp for me.
One hundred and twenty seconds of pure torture since. Your unblinking eyes sting from the screen's phosphorescence, fingers feverishly tending to the throb between your legs. He hasn't forbidden that. Only adamant about not cumming. Not until he says.
5:48am. Horny. Unable to sleep, thoughts only of his words. He was awake too. A flurry of dirty messages and now this. Want. Desperation.
A wave of worry surfaces. What if his wife has discovered him sending messages? He's lying alongside her, phone hidden from view by the pillow. Fuck, what if he never replies? What if it's all over?
The phone trembles in your hand as the message box appears. Relief washes through you.
Can you feel me inside you? Fingers reaching, thumb on your central button. Desperate for you to cum so you can lick your juices from my digits. Touch yourself. I want you on the edge. I want your cum. Soon.
You can feel every word. Your fingers glide within your smooth walls, palm crushing your hard clit, biting your lower lip in a futile effort to stay quiet. You can't stifle the need, mouth parting like your pussy lips, fingers sawing, digging, heat rising to flush your heaving chest.
So close.
So fucking close.
Your mind is a cyclone of thoughts from the past week. A rollercoaster thrill ride. Days merely drifting, work barely registering, punctuated only with anticipation at his messages, culminating with the aching need to cum. To spill over. To give yourself completely to this stranger who has crawled inside your head and made a nest there.
No escape. No desire to. Only desire to live moment to moment. To breathe. To gasp and moan and buck. To end the crushing torment, only to crave it again and again. The perpetual high exhilarating.