"Hey, Case,“ was all my sister said as she hugged me, graciously ignoring the sweat and the travel stains I was sporting. I was very aware that I was painting a generally unappealing image, standing on her front step in crocs (crocs! With socks!) and with my hair wild and all my worldly possessions littered around my feet.

Apart from a slightly sad smile and a sympathetic note in her voice as she greeted me, I almost couldn’t tell exactly how pitifully pathetic she thought I was, and that was also sort of nice of her. Cat had always been the stronger twin, physically, emotionally, and mentally. She was the only person who had never rubbed it in, though. She couldn’t help being just that little bit better than me at everything, and I couldn’t help but love her.

“Thank you,” I said quietly into her long hair and took a second to appreciate just how good this long hug felt. “For this. For everything, Cat.”

“Oh, hush,” she rebuked me mildly and finally let me go, held me by the upper arms, and looked me in the eye, her expression full of sincerity. “You can stay as long as you need. This house is too big for two people anyway, and Michael and I are happy to have some company. Come on, I’ll show you to your quarters.” She emphasized the last word and winked to let me know it wasn’t as dramatic as all that, then picked up one of my bags for me and led the way.

I followed because that’s what I always did.
 

Catlynn might have been joking about it but her damn house really was big. The first few days during my stay, I had to seriously resist the urge of painting floor plans and sticking them to random walls, and of building myself a pillow fort because my bedroom’s ceiling was just too high up for my comfort. Too much echo. Too much air above me.

I got lost no less than four times. In my defense, it was dark each time. Sleepily lurching through the corridors in my sleep socks and washed-out T-shirt, I was searching for the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Stumbling around yet again at three in the morning and rubbing my gritty eyes, I came past the TV room – really, a home cinema. The door was open a crack, painting the corridor with pale bluish light.

Through the gap, I could hear soft noises.

Immediately recognizable, unmistakable soft noises.

I held my breath and froze mid-step, irrationally convinced that I would be heard and caught eavesdropping if I caused another sound. My suddenly racing heart pumped my blood so hard through my head it sang in my ears.

For some reason, my first thought was ‘Michael must be watching porn by himself.’ Which was a strange thought to have, really. I had known Michael since primary school, where he fell in love with my sister. He was the most down-to-earth, mellow, inoffensive sort of guy – the sort that wouldn’t watch porn in principle because it was demeaning and crass and unsexy. He didn’t even like most pop music videos because the women in them looked cheap to him.

Still, I saw the blue shine, heard the noise and immediately came to this conclusion. Visions of my sister’s boyfriend with his dark eyes glued to the writhing bodies on the screen, his hand vigorously working himself, bloomed in my mind’s eye.

I stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the hallway as a hot, prickling sensation bubbled up in me from my toes to the crown of my head. My heart sped up and seemed to stumble around in my chest as if caught by surprise by its own sudden acceleration. When I instinctively put my hand to my breastbone to still the hectic pulse there, my shirt pulled a little tighter. The fabric rubbed against my nipples.

Snapped out of my stupor by that thrilling sensation, I raced back into my room as quietly as I could and burrowed into the blankets of the too-large bed.

Eleven months. Jacob had successfully doused every spark of lust in me for eleven long months. He had managed to turn work, love, life itself into a barren wasteland for me.

Eleven months versus five days. Five days away from him and from the office and the city, and my… everything flared back to life.

I pressed my face into the duvet and smiled my most stupid smile.

Five more days and I would be back to my old self. I was certain of it.

*

“So, Case,” Cat began a new topic in the middle of our usual breakfast conversation, and even before she said another word, my shoulders pulled up a little. A small voice in the back of my head was entirely convinced that she had – somehow, some way – found out I’d had those thoughts about Michael that one time.

Or… two times.

Two and a half.

Maybe three.

I couldn’t help it. I was desperate, and after all, even before this uncharacteristic period of pure dissatisfaction, I had been the weaker twin. And Michael was… well, dreamy.

Instead of accusing me of lusting after her man, my sister settled for a painfully neutral “How are you feeling?” and focused her eyes on her morning yogurt rather than me. That way, she didn’t see the blotchy blush I could feel creeping up my neck. Small mercies.

“I’m okay,” I replied, equally neutrally, and shrugged. “I mean, as well as can be expected.”

Jacob had called numerous times in the past week and left dozens of voice messages. I had deleted them all without listening to them, then blocked his number, and regretted it now because not knowing and basically running away was definitely worse. Also, there was unfinished business at my now-former workplace, and my now-former landlord was being difficult, and I was – irrationally – starting to miss the old routine even though I knew full well that it had been toxic.

But really, all that was only part of my frustration. The greater nuisance was what was – or rather, wasn’t – happening between my legs.

Five days had turned into ten, yet my old self – the one I had been before Jacob had turned our relationship into a nightmare, with my life as collateral damage – seemed to move farther and farther out of reach, no matter how hard and persistently I tried. I was so sure that if I could… if I could only find my bliss again somehow, everything would break open and fall into place.

Yet every night when I let my fingers wander south, I could coax no more than a bare spark of pleasure from my body before it all felt sore and started to sting as my thoughts turned dull.

When I tried to keep my brain turned on with some visual help, I felt… nothing. The men and women in the pictures seemed like plastic, like computer animations, too unnatural for me to find any sort of connection with them. I got distracted by the things in the background (oh my God, people, please clean your bedrooms before you shoot your sex tape!) or started to critique the unnatural position the actors and actresses had been bent into like some insufferable porn snob (I mean, I can now see your massive foot-long dick going into her, which is cool, but that way you’re barely going deeper than an inch and a half. Basically, you’re wasting everyone’s time here, pal).

I even tried the electric toothbrush – a very short experiment that wouldn’t ever be repeated. (Fucking ouch.)

It was sad how quickly I had run out of ideas. Apparently, my (self-)love life had been a one-trick pony – and now it was headed for the knacker’s yard.

Thus, I was condemned to lie awake, my thoughts spiraling around that one out-of-reach goal like water around a drain, a numb sort of throbbing in my core, too deep inside and too small to reach it and – when I pictured Michael masturbating in the dark – too shy to come out and play.

“Casey, are you listening?”

I jerked out of my thoughts and back into the kitchen. “Uhm, yeah,” I lied, and added, “Sorry,” because I was a shitty liar.

Cat, ever the good soul, didn’t hold it against me but just kept going with her string of good advice. I caught something about going out more, and vacations, and getting in touch with old friends, and volunteering.

But really, I got stuck on something about ‘Casey, are you listening?’.

 *

The door was closed and locked. I had checked twice.

The windows were shut, the curtains pulled closed against the twilight outside. The only light came from the lamp on the little table at the other end of my room, and my laptop screen. Even my iPhone was entirely turned off.

My headphones seemed a bit too tight around my skull. My ears were squished to my head and felt sweaty underneath the little oval cushions. I tried to find a comfortable position, forced to lie on my back as I was by the headphones. Fetal position was my usual gig, but alright – I figured that sacrifices had to be made in the name of… science.

My finger hovered over the space bar of my laptop keyboard. One last thorough mental check – door locked, windows shut, headphone jack firmly plugged in, and sound volume at a very comfortable 65%, check, check, check – one more deep breath, and I pressed the button to start the movie.

And then I closed my eyes tightly. ‘Casey is listening,’ I thought and tried to relax.

A knock on the door. Door opening.

Bubbly female voice. “Hi, Chad!”

I imagined her blonde. Her voice was blonde, in any case.

Deep male voice. “Hi, Kimmy.”

Huh, he certainly wasn’t as happy to see her as she was to see him.

“How’re you?” Kimmy asks.

“Good. You.”

It was barely even a question. Deep-voiced dude was already fed up with her, five seconds into the movie.

“Good! Is Jen home?”

Oh, was this a lesbian scenario after all?

“No, Kimmy.”

Good grief, Chad. A little more enthusiasm, maybe? And would it kill you to be normal and polite? Then again, who knew what type of shit Kimmy had done to him already. She sounded like a cocktease.

“D’you know when she’s gonna be back?”

“No, Kimmy.”

Short silence in which I appreciated the scintillating dialogue so far.

Then, Chad: “What the fuck?!”

Huh? I blinked my eyes open but closed them again quickly. No peeping! But still, what had just happened? Had Kimmy gone straight down on her knees and pulled his pants down, right there on the threshold? The idea was… not bad in principle, I thought.

Some heavy breathing by Kimmy.

I was getting confused. No impromptu blowjobs, then? Apparently not. Kimmy started talking.

“I was thinking… that… You know, I’ve been hearing at school that… All the girls you fucked-“

Alright, straight to the point. And no lesbians, after all.

“-have…said that you really like rough sex!”

Oh, okay.

“So,” Kimmy continues, “you are gonna fuck the shit out of me today.”

What?

“What?”

Chad and I were on the same page at least.

“Yeah!”

Ugh. She sounded like an overeager dog toy.

Instead of Chad elaborating on his (and my) confusion about this abrupt turn of events, there was some muted rock music in the background. I groaned and rolled my eyes behind my eyelids. Why did porn directors do this? I couldn’t even understand the next few words. Something about a bulge-?

A raspy male moan.

Operation ‘Fuck the Shit out of Kimmy’ seemed to be a go?

Wait, were they still at the door?

A hissed breath.

Something stirred in my blood. Finally, a noise that plucked the right strings. A little bit of hope soared in my chest.

A gasp. “Hah! Yes!” Laughing moans. “How do you want—meee!?” A playful shriek.

I imagined Chad throwing her down on a bed. Chad, I decided, was built like a linebacker, while Kimmy was about as big as a fairy. A tiny little fairy with a very dirty potty mouth, and a very flexible body. 

“Oh, my God,” she moans. Wet licking noises. A slap. Gasps.

Keep going. Please, Chad, keep going-! I thought.

Kimmy mumbles something and then her mouth is audibly full. Gulps and huffing noises. Big, noisy gasps for air, spitting, wet, slurpy sounds, overdramatic humming.

I sighed. My eyes opened and I stared up at the faraway ceiling.

This wasn’t working right. The background music was annoying. There was too much Kimmy when I wanted – no, needed – more Chad. More than the faint “Woah, that’s it, that’s it” he was whispering over her overdone shrieking groans.

I sat up, stopped the video – Kimmy turned out to be a brunette with a girl-next-door face, and they were 69ing with Chad’s hand wrapped around her hair as he pushed her face onto his (holy shit!) big cock – and pulled up google on my browser. Time to go deeper into the rabbit hole.

dirty talk porn, I wrote into the search bar, and hit ‘enter.’

115 million results. I shouldn’t be surprised. I scrolled down and found that out of the first ten links, five were German, two were Czech. Uhm. No, thanks.

porn male dirty talk English

Seventy-three million results. The first three results were “dirty talk gay porn video”. Okay. Uhm. Maybe later?

Maybe I should finally make use of that ‘Search Google like a pro’-spreadsheet I had pinned into my cubicle for two years.

male dirty talk, I wrote and added a qualifying “-gay porn”.

145 million results.

“Soundcloud,” I read the first few hits’ addresses aloud, frowning. 'I thought SoundCloud was for music?' Intrigued, I clicked on the topmost Google result ambitiously titled ‘This will make you cum’ and lay back as the webpage came up on my browser.

I hit the big orange play button, then tried to relax into the pillow and closed my eyes again.

A door opening.

I frowned. Deja-oui. Kimmy again?

“Babe, I’m home!”

His voice was deep and rough, just a little bit too close to the microphone. He sounded more like he just got out of bed after a longish night of drinking and smoking than anything, but I’d take it.

“Babe, where—?“ An ominous pause. “What are you doing there?”

Unreasonably, my mouth went a little dry at his suddenly strict tone of voice. Getting caught – even getting caught doing nothing, and certainly doing nothing wrong – was somewhat of a childhood trauma of mine, apparently. And right now, I was definitely caught doing something, behind locked doors and barred windows, with my sleep shorts around my knees-

“Were you touching your clit?”

Oh. Oh.

Very faintly, I was aware that this was supposed to be titillating at best. That this recording existed because some (probably hairy, overweight, eternally incel) dude with a headset he normally only used for MMORPGing, had sat down in front of his computer (probably in his parents’ basement) and spontaneously decided to read out his poorly written one-man masturbatory fantasy. While actually jerking off, with his hand down his stained underwear, probably.

And yet.

And yet I could already feel it working.

“Don’t deny it. Your finger is all wet. You were fingerfucking yourself again, weren’t you?”

Yes, I—I was…. Sir. I clenched my (dry!) fingers into the sheets underneath me.

“So that’s what you’re doing while I’m at work? Playing with yourself, huh? When I told you not to?”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” I whispered soundlessly.

This was crazy. When Jacob tried this one time, it turned me off so fast I couldn’t even articulate my displeasure.

But this anonymous dude on the internet barely spoke five sentences – spoke them like an amateur theatre actor, no less – and every hair on my body stood on end.

“’Sorry’,” he scoffed as though he had heard me. “You’re not sorry. Not yet. But you will be soon.” Pause, agitated breathing. “Bend over the couch.” Like he knew I wouldn’t do it right away, his voice got a little louder, more insistent. “Bend over. Stick your ass out. Let me see that sloppy pussy.”

Holy shit. My own pussy clenched like it hadn’t done in a long, long time. Stupidly, I didn’t dare to touch it. I didn’t want to jinx it.

“Mmmh, you’re dripping. How long have you been playing with yourself, babe? Hm? How many orgasms did you give yourself, huh?”

None, none at all! I wanted to tell him. Not for lack of trying.

“None, huh?” he asked, and I startled a little. He chuckled. The rough rasp of it trickled down my neck. “You’re such a bad liar, babe. Here, let me see.“

I could hear a wet sound, like a finger sliding through slick pussy lips. I stifled a moan, too scared to miss a second of this, to miss a single word or single breath.

“Look at this. Soaked. Here, open your mouth. Clean it up.”

I had never sucked my own wetness from someone’s finger. Never sucked someone’s finger, period. I had never wanted to, but now it seemed like an amazingly sexy idea. He seemed to think so, too, judging by the noises he made.

“Tastes like at least five, don’t you think? Five it is, my needy little slut.”

The slapping sound came unexpectedly and seemed a little too loud. Still, I jumped.

“Count,” he said, and I couldn’t not obey.

“One.” I heard my own feeble voice muffled through the headphones.

“That’s a good girl.”

Two and three followed suit. He groaned into my ears. “This is turning you on, isn’t it? I can see you trying to clench your thighs together. Is your little pussy all swollen and tingling now? Hm? Maybe next time I should try spanking it instead of your ass.”

A hot drop fell from between my pussy lips. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to not pump my hips even though it tickled. I wanted to milk this moment for what it was worth.

“But I really like spanking your ass, too. God, it’s such a tight little ass. And my handprint looks so good on it, babe. Fuck. Stick it out properly. There, good. Two more.”

Noiselessly, I mouthed ‘four’ and ‘five’ as the slaps fell, followed by the softly rasping sound of a rough, male palm petting a freshly spanked, smooth backside. “Such a good girl. Stay like that, just like that. Don’t move. I want to fuck you from behind like this.”

Doggy style had never been my thing. It had felt detached, demeaning, and left me unpleasantly sore every time because Jacob had been too rough. Now, lying alone in my bed with this strange man’s hypnotic voice and filthy words in my ears, however, there was nothing I had ever wanted to do as urgently as being taken from behind. In this moment, the idea of humiliation, and the prospect of being able to feel him for days after, actually turned me on.

With a wet sound that was almost entirely drowned out by an animalistic groan, the man slid his cock into his non-existent paramour’s pussy (or was it mine?). I groaned a bit along with him as my muscles contracted once more.

“God, so fucking tight and wet. Don’t move, babe. Let me go deeper. Relax that pussy for me. Gonna push all the way inside. Need to be inside. Fuck. I can feel you clench. Ffffuck. So hot.”

He groaned again and I pictured him, with his work clothes still on, his whole, huge cock stuffed into her (my) little hole, his balls pressed up right against her lips. How he would rock deeper still, pump his hips until she scooted forward on the backrest of the couch. He would grab her waist and pull her back into him, angle her lower body until his cock would nudge her G-spot with every thrust. And all the while, he described to her how good she felt, how good she made him feel, and what else he wanted to do to her.

I could feel rather than hear myself moaning.

"You want to finger your clit now, babe?” He was slightly out of breath now, his voice shaking as he pumped forward and back. There was a faint noise of flesh against flesh in the background. I pictured him, a shadowy figure with a large cock, rutting into his own fist, lubricated by his own pre-cum, and moaned again.

“You want to make yourself come on my cock? Can’t help yourself, can you, my needy slut, huh? Tell me. Tell me you want to touch yourself and come on my cock.”

“I want to touch myself and come on your cock,” I whispered with quivering lips, but didn’t follow suit. I merely let my legs fall open a bit more.

“Louder,” he demanded as he rammed himself inside. “Don’t you dare put a finger on yourself before I tell you that you can.”

I whimpered, stupidly relieved and proud that I had indeed not put a finger anywhere yet. “I want to touch myself and come on your cock,” I said, significantly louder this time, and my heart fluttered madly in my chest and between my legs.

A knocking sound. Loud.

My eyes snapped open, the spell suddenly, abruptly, quite rudely broken.

Another knock pierced through the headphones. I sat up so fast my head spun, flinging the phones from my head as if they were on fire. My entire body was drenched and my heartbeat was deafeningly loud in my burning ears.

Knock, knock.

A long moment passed until I finally caught on to protocol. Real life. This was real life. Casey. What do real people do when other real people knock on their equally real doors?

“Yes? Who is it?” I called out dumbly, wiping my bangs from my sticky forehead. My voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling. It made me wince. I had entirely forgotten just how loud every noise would sound inside the rooms of this house.

Michael’s voice rang out, slightly muffled by the door. “Casey, hey, it’s me! Do you know where Cat is?”

“I, uhm—“ Before I could rationally think about it, I was already on my way to the door, pulling up my sleep shorts as I went, and cringing. My panties were entirely liquid, feeling squelchy as I yanked them up into my oversensitized, puffy crotch.

Next thing I knew, I had the door unlocked and opened to look him in the eye as we talked because I had been taught proper manners as a kid – and because I really didn’t want Michael to think that I was doing anything… unseemly behind locked doors. Bad enough that I was locking my bedroom door at all! Like I had something to hide!

“No, uh, I haven’t seen her since this morning!” I told him with a voice that surely proclaimed innocence in big, flashing neon letters.

The light from the hallway was bright. I squinted a little against it and tried to ignore the tingling of sweat on my upper lip. Trying to casually hide my lower half behind the door so that Michael would at least not see a wet spot, I clenched my legs together. Fuck, bad idea. At this rate, a drop of pearly-white liquid would soon be running down the inside of my legs.

“Neither have I,” Michael said, leaving me stumped for a second as to what he was talking about. Catlynn! My twin sister, his girlfriend, her absence the reason for his being here at my door – right!

“Can I come in? I want to see what you’ve been up to in here.”

I swear I heard him ask it. My body heat skyrocketed as an entire scenario unspooled in my head. “Uh, what?!”

“I said ‘Neither have I’. Seen Cat since breakfast, I mean,” Michael repeated and looked me up and down once perfunctorily, brows furrowed. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said too quickly and too loud and wiped my face with the back of my hand as casually as humanly possible. “Just… The duvet is a bit too warm for my, uh-- I have a high body temperature and your floor heating system really drives up the overall warmth in my room.” Oh, God, Casey, shut the hell up. “So, Cat. Uhm. I’ve seen her this morning during breakfast. I think she told me something about her colleague’s birthday dinner or something?”

“Oh, yeah!” Michael perked up. “That was today! I forgot all about that. But she isn’t answering her phone, either. I’m sort of worried.“

“There’s a charger dangling from the socket on the kitchen counter,” I told him, relieved to see the end of the tunnel that was this stupid, stupid conversation. “I think that’s hers? She probably forgot to take it, and her phone ran out of juice.”

“You’re right!” Michael smiled at me, and my stupid heart leaped and the heat rose through my body from the soles of my feet upwards.

99.9% of the time Michael was basically the brother I never had and in my brain. I sometimes even got a bit confused when my twin sister was being romantic with him.

But then there was the .1% of the time, when my body was already keyed up and my thoughts were all red-hot with residual heat, my head echoed with a man’s deep voice saying ‘Tell me you want to touch yourself and come on my cock’, and Michael smiled like that, mere days after fucking his own fist in the TV room at night while secretly watching porn, and I could swear he was thinking about pushing the door open and grabbing me by the--

“Alright. Thanks, Casey. Sorry for waking you up,” he said, and his voice didn’t betray whether or not he knew that he had not, in fact, woken me up.

Whether or not he had been listening by the door. And for how long, or how closely. How much he had heard.

But his eyes seemed just a bit hotter than normal.

I closed the door as he walked away and didn’t dare lock it again for fear of what kind of message that would send. I shut my browser, cleared my browsing history, shut down my laptop, and lay in bed with my eyes open and my panties still soaked.

 *

A door opening.

Only now I realized how cheap that sound effect was. Like a heavy oak door in an ancient castle or something.

“Babe, I’m home!”

Are you, really? How high were rents for ancient castles these days, I wondered? In any case, this reminded me to call my former landlord and settle our issues. God, that smarmy asshole.

“Babe, where—?“

Even those two words suddenly seemed like such a weird thing to say. If he was actually wondering where his ‘babe’ was, he would have yelled.

“What are you doing there?”

What does it look like, dude? Masturbation cannot be forbidden if you’re at work all damn day and I’m sitting around alone in my castle. Castles are a drafty bitch to keep warm, and girls got to do what girls got to do to keep the body heat up. Don’t you judge me!

I opened my eyes and frowned up at the ceiling. Why did these thoughts always happen?

It had taken me two days and Michael and Cat going to a party with some friends this evening, leaving me all alone in the house, to dare and give audio porn another go. But while my body remembered exactly what that disembodied voice had done to it two days ago, my brain was apparently trying to punish me for not riding that first wave to the end.

I sat up, surrounded by fat pillows on my bed and illuminated softly by that one lamp on the other side of the room again, and scrolled lazily around the webpage, clicking on this and that file and listening to the first few seconds of it.

So many horny guys and girls recording the noises of their masturbation. So many badly written erotic theatre plays about coming home and catching someone masturbating, or being caught masturbating, or masturbating to someone with or without their knowledge and approval. The only thing that got an actual reaction from me was a user comment saying ‘Every time a girl calls her boyfriend Daddy, Sigmund Freud’s ghost gets a bit stronger’. It made me laugh so hard.

I was about to close the page entirely and maybe try again with conventional porn when a link attracted my attention.

‘Are you listening?’ it asked me.

I clicked on it and settled against my biggest pillow.

A movie playing in the background. Soft, wet noises, quiet humming. People kissing.

I pressed my own lips together.

A small laugh. A giggle in return.

I closed my eyes where I sat and imagined it. A man and a woman on a sofa. In the background, a TV showing a movie that was increasingly unimportant.

He was pulling her legs over his lap, caressing the hollow of her knee which made her twitch and giggle. She was slipping a finger over the slice of naked skin on his waist where his shirt had ridden up. Their kisses were playful yet, turning a bit spicy now and then but mellowing out again.

Foreplay. Emphasis on ‘play’. My toes curled and I hugged the second pillow to my body, jostling the laptop onto the mattress.

The wet sounds of suckling little kisses down someone’s neck.

“We should stop,” the woman hushes. “You know she’s right next door.”

Who’s ‘she’? A nosy neighbor, maybe, behind a very thin wall? Their baby girl, sleeping in her cot?

Her sister, overstaying her welcome at their huge house after a mental breakdown?

I licked my lips.

“Don’t care,” he replies, his voice muffled by her skin. “Let her eavesdrop if she wants.”

A sucking, popping sound. He has given her a hickey and she gasps at the lingering sensation.

“I know you like it too when she’s listening,” he speaks directly into her ear and licks the delicate pink shell.

Shhhit. I pressed my headphones into my ears just to hold on to something.

“No, I don’t. Shut up,” the woman protests, but it sounds unconvincing.

The man chuckles. He knows. “Can’t. You know you both get off on my dirty talk.”

So cocky, but his voice was perfect for dirty talk. Not too deep, friendly-sounding, with just the right amount of rasp.

“And she also gets off on hearing you moan and scream my name-“ he continues, then is interrupted by a slap.

She has swatted him on the shoulder and pushes him away a little to catch her breath and get a word in edgewise. “God, don’t say that…! It’s so wrong-!”

“You like it when it’s a little wrong,” he reminds her. “Admit it. You liked wearing that collar.”

He kisses her on the neck, exactly where that collar sat that one time.

“You liked having my finger in your cunt on the bus.”

His hand slides between her legs and strokes her once with the tip of his index finger.

“You liked giving me head at the theatre.”

I shuddered.

What if Michael hadn’t been alone that night? What if it wasn’t porn making the noises I had heard-?

“You only get this wet when it’s a little wrong, babe,” he says.

His index finger is hooked into the crotch of her panties. The fabric is drenched and slippery.

“You’re soaked when you have an audience.”

“But- ahh,” she starts, yet her sentence melts away as he does that thing with his finger. “Whoo- God!”

“That’s right. I’m actually taping this right now. I’ll put it on the internet and thousands of people will get off on your sweet moans, and on the noise of my cock ramming into your holes. Do you like that idea?”

“Shit, ohh- please-“ She bites her lip, torn between reason and pleasure, then gives a surprised little yip when he flicks a particularly tender part of her.

“Do you like that idea, babe?” he insists, and she calls, “Yes! Shit, yes, I like it!”

He laughs, pleased, and she laughs along, slightly embarrassed but also too horny to care.

“Come here. Kiss me properly and then I’ll fuck you ‘til you scream.”

So demanding. I imagined Michael, sweet, mellow Michael, bossing around my headstrong, perfect sister, thrusting his tongue into her mouth like he owned it, putting a collar on her and yanking on her leash, playing with her body in public and forcing her to stay still and silent, and pushing her head into his cock as he reclined in his home cinema seat, knowing full well that I was right outside the door, and fuck- Oh. Fuck-!

I rocked forward and my crotch made brief contact with the stiff seam of the pillow I had been hugging.

I had a split second to think ‘oh fuck’ once more, and then I imploded.

Every muscle in my body jumped and contracted, and I collapsed in a spastic shiver, burying the pillow underneath me, between my thighs. A loud, if strangled ‘Fuuuuck’ echoed across the room as days and weeks and months' worth of tension burst from me, along with a spurt of wetness that immediately soaked my underwear and my cotton pajamas on the insides of my thighs. I hurriedly reached down and clamped my hand around the epicenter of this earthquake, trying to hold the gushing wetness inside, which caused aftershocks that were almost as wracking as the thing itself and made my thighs tremble violently.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” I heard myself chant, and the woman in my ears joined in as her man slid her panties aside and sank his cock into her pussy.

I could have sworn I felt it, too. I clamped my hand around my throbbing crotch.

“Are you listening?” he asks over his shoulder, turning his head toward the door or the wall, toward the eavesdropper. His tone is victorious, almost viciously pleased. He thrusts forward. “Are you hearing what I’m doing with her right now?”

Yes, I thought – or maybe shouted. “Yes, I am listening!”

Listening, and not done. There was more coming, more of it rolling down that hill. The earth was already trembling. My lower belly quivered.

The woman moans, and the sound stutters with each hard thrust.

“I want her-- to hear you—come- on- my- cock,” he tells her.

I jerked my hips in the same rhythm, bunching the pillow up underneath me and between my legs. Rutting, my thoughts supplied, fuelling themselves, riling themselves up to a fever pitch. Ramming. Pounding. Humping. Fucking.

“Fuck me!” the woman begs as he tells her to. “Fuck me harder!”

“You gonna cum?” he asks.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I sobbed and jerked my hips fiercely enough for my headphone cord to get caught somewhere and my phones to slide off my head – rutting, ramming, pounding – and then there was not enough air in my lungs to cry out my second release, which was several powers of magnitude larger than the first.

Going… going… gone.

My heart, my brain, my blood – everything seemed to stop, and then to dance and whirl for an endless second. More wetness soaked my clothes and spotted the pillow I was abusing. Stars fell out of the sky and I felt like I was dying. My mouth was wide open, but no sound came out.

Suddenly, I was just a wrung-out fish caught on land, sweat-soaked, cum-soaked, gasping for air. A hot tear made its way down the bridge of my nose.

I rolled sideways off the pillow, lay there with my arms and legs spread out, and looked up at the ceiling, breathed deeply, heard my body hum and sing, and laughed.

I guess I should just have listened sooner.


FIN


Hello. So, yeah, I am back(ish? I think? Is that what I am? Not entirely sure yet, we’ll see).
This thing meandered around rather pointlessly, didn’t it? You won’t be surprised to hear that it’s partially autobiographical (I won’t tell you which parts…). Humor me and this story, please. It’s just me trying to find my proverbial sea legs again after having been figuratively stranded for so long.
(‘Stranded’ because ‘dry’. Get it? Too much information, huh? Sorry.)
Be kind, leave a comment.
xo cydia
P.S.: If you have a sexy voice and do audio porn – the good kind where you put some effort into it – and put it on the internet for free, may the gods bless you and your kin. Seriously.
PP.S.: Sorry for having potentially ruined that Kimmy Granger/Chad White clip for you forever ^^; Yes, it exists. Yes, the dialogue is Oscar-worthy. Then again, it's not nearly as ridiculous as "Warum liegt hier überhaupt Stroh rum?" (German speakers will know), so I guess everything is relative...