I Was Writing for Her When She Called Me at Dawn

It was almost eleven at night and the screen of my computer was the only thing lighting the room. I had the usual document open —the one I called “permanent draft”— and my fingers were moving on their own across the keyboard, building a scene that had been going around and around in my head for days. It was raining outside. The music was playing low, almost like an excuse not to listen to the silence.

I was writing about Daniela, though I would never say that out loud.

It wasn’t the first time. For weeks I had been filling pages with a fictional version of her: her long hands, the mole just beneath her left shoulder blade, the way she tilts her head when she hears something that truly interests her. Daniela lived seven hundred kilometers away and I turned her into a character to survive the distance.

When the phone rang, it took me a second to come back to reality.

I saw her name on the screen and smiled before I could stop myself.

“Hi, writer,” she said when she answered. She had that voice she used when she was already comfortable, unguarded, the one she kept for long nights.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” I asked, though I was glad she wasn’t.

“I wasn’t sleepy. What are you doing?”

I hesitated for a moment. The cursor was blinking over the last sentence of the paragraph I had just written. A sentence about her, about the curve of her neck, about what I would want to do to that curve if I were less than seven hundred kilometers away.

“Writing,” I answered.

“About what?”

There was a pause. Not mine: hers, waiting.

“About a woman,” I said at last, “who has the most perfect mole I’ve ever seen in my life.”

On the other end of the line, Daniela didn’t say anything for a full three seconds. Then she laughed, but it wasn’t a normal laugh.

“Read it to me,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

I put the phone on speaker, propped it against the glass of water I had on the desk, and started to read. Slowly, with the voice I use when I want the words to land properly. I described a hotel room, the blinds half-drawn, the sheets cool against hot skin. I described two women who had been avoiding each other all week and could no longer hold back.

Daniela listened. I knew because I could hear her breathing, and her breathing had changed.

“Keep going,” she whispered when I paused.

I kept going. The scene deepened: fingers sliding down a side, a mouth finding the nape of the neck, the way the body responds before the mind has time to object. While I read, I felt something too. A heat beginning below my navel and spreading slowly outward.

“What are your hands doing right now?” I asked her without looking away from the text.

“One is in my hair,” she said. “The other... is going lower.”

I closed my eyes for a moment.

“Tell me.”

And she did. In that long-night voice she described what her own hands were doing, and I listened and kept building the scene in the document as if the two stories were one and the same. The one I was writing and the one she was living on the other end of the phone merged into something that was not entirely fiction.

I started touching myself too. Almost without thinking. One hand over my chest, on top of my T-shirt, feeling the heat of my skin through the fabric. The sound of her voice did things that can’t really be explained in a story.

“Are you still there?” she asked.

“Still here,” I said. “And I’m very here.”

***

It was Daniela who suggested the video call. The line cut out for a moment —the time it took her to switch apps— and then her face appeared on my phone screen. She was in her room, the bedside lamp on, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. She was wearing a black lace bodysuit I knew well: she had sent me a photo of it the day she bought it, asking if it fit her right.

It fit her very well.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” she replied, biting her lower lip.

That gesture. That fucking gesture that had undone me since the first time I saw it.

I set the phone against the glass of water, at an angle, so I’d have both hands free. Daniela had her hair loose —that dark, curly hair that fell over her shoulders— and she was looking at me with an expression that mixed desire with something harder to name.

“Were you writing about me?” she asked.

“I’m always writing about you,” I answered without thinking.

She smiled slowly. Then she spread her legs, planting one foot on the mattress, and the bodysuit stretched over her body. The lace fabric showed just enough to imagine the rest, which in this case I didn’t have to imagine because I knew it by heart.

“Show yourself,” she asked me.

I took my shirt off slowly, looking at her on the camera as I did. I wasn’t wearing a bra and the room was cool, which showed. I saw her react to what she saw: her eyes changed.

“God,” she murmured.

“Good or bad?”

“Shut up.”

I laughed. I lay down on the bed with the phone propped against the headboard, tilted downward, so I could see her and she could see me. It was strange and perfect at the same time: the little screen full of her, her room lit warmly, her real body and yet unreachable.

Daniela slid one hand under the lace. I watched her move slowly, feeling out her own breathing before her body. Her fingers moved lower with a confidence that left my mouth dry. She arched slightly when she touched herself between the legs, pressing over the fabric and then slipping her hand deeper, searching for the center with a patience that contrasted with the urgency on her face.

I did the same. I spread my legs over the sheet and brought two fingers to my clit, first in slow circles, then with more pressure, feeling the heat gather in my belly. Daniela’s image on the screen had me pinned in place: her mouth parted, her shoulders tense, the wet shine along the line of her lips when she bit down hard and let out a small sound.

“Like that,” she said, almost voiceless. “That’s how I like it.”

I answered with a short moan, because I was touching myself faster and the friction was starting to turn desperate. The tips of my fingers were soaked almost immediately, sliding over sensitive skin until I found the rhythm that made me tremble. Daniela watched me do it and gave a rough laugh, dirty with desire.

“What a fucking face you’re making,” she told me.

“Same as yours.”

“No, mine is worse.”

“Show me.”

She lowered the camera a little and pulled the bodysuit aside just enough to show me how her fingers were going in and out of her, slick, shining under the yellow light. The wet sound came through more clearly when she picked up the pace. You could see her clenching her jaw, breathing through her mouth, rocking her hips in small jolts against her own hand.

“Fuck,” I said.

“That’s it, fuck,” she replied. “Look at me properly.”

I obeyed. I pushed two fingers into myself, slowly at first, feeling the pressure inside as my thumb kept rubbing my already swollen, sensitive, almost painful clit. My body responded with a brutal need, raw and unsoftened. Daniela started masturbating harder, with a dirty, steady rhythm, and I watched the lace darken with wetness until it was almost transparent where her hand covered it.

We didn’t talk for a while. There was no need. The room filled with our breathing and that sticky noise of skin against skin. I opened myself wider with my fingers until I felt the tremor in my legs, the heat climbing up my neck. She leaned forward and touched her breasts with her other hand, pinching her nipples under the camera, and I wanted to lick her screen.

“Are you wet?” she asked.

“Soaked.”

“Good.”

Then she did it: she pulled a small vibrator out of the drawer, switched it on with a dry click, and pressed it straight against her cunt, no longer pretending. The vibration came through even in the sound, a sharp hum that mixed with her panting. Her hips jerked on the mattress involuntarily and she threw her head back, exposing her neck, her throat taut, her mouth open as if asking for more.

“Put it in,” I told her, without thinking, my voice broken.

“It’s already inside me,” she answered. “Did you put something in yourself too?”

I laughed, almost choking on my own breath.

“Yeah. And I’m running out of patience.”

“Then fuck yourself with your fingers,” she said, filthy, direct. “I want to hear you lose control.”

I did. I pushed in three fingers, deeper, driving in with a firm pressure that left me breathless. The other hand kept working my clit, faster and faster, until my whole body started to tremble. Daniela was no better, maybe worse: the vibrator pounding against her cunt, her thighs tense, a string of saliva at the corner of her mouth. She grabbed the headboard with her free hand and started moving her pelvis from side to side, hunting for the exact spot, obsessive, hungry.

“Yes, like that,” she moaned. “Like that, fuck. Don’t stop.”

I couldn’t stop even if I’d wanted to. I felt the orgasm approaching like a big, inevitable wave, pushing from my lower belly to the tips of my fingers. Daniela looked at me through the screen, saw my face, and laughed with animal satisfaction.

“You’re coming already.”

“Shut up.”

“Say it.”

“No—”

I cut myself off because the first spasm shot through me whole. I arched on the bed, squeezing my fingers hard inside myself while my clit throbbed furiously under my thumb. The orgasm rose in short, intense waves, blurring my vision. When I opened my eyes again, Daniela was still watching me with a ravenous expression.

“That’s it,” she said, almost at the same time as she trembled all over.

I watched her lose herself too. First her chest moving fast, then the moan that came out of her unfiltered, lower and longer, and finally her whole body breaking into small spasms over the mattress. The vibration was still pressed against her cunt, and she held on to it until the end, twisting, saying yes, yes, fuck, please, over and over.

When she calmed down, the room fell silent except for both of us panting.

I wiped my hand on the sheet and rested my head against the pillow. Daniela stayed still for a few seconds, eyes closed and mouth parted, then lowered the vibrator and set it aside as if it were an ordinary object and not something that had just torn her body apart.

“Hi,” she said softly, still half gone.

“Hi,” I answered.

We both laughed at the same time.

***

We talked a little longer, now covered, now calm. Daniela had put on an old T-shirt and had her hair messed up and was still the most attractive person I knew. She asked me how the story I was writing ended.

“I don’t know yet,” I said.

“And where are you now?”

I looked at the cursor on the computer screen, still blinking over the last sentence.

“Here,” I answered.

Daniela nodded. She bit her lip again —that gesture, that fucking gesture— and leaned back a little more into the pillow.

“When will we see each other?” she asked.

The question hung between us, across the seven hundred kilometers and the small screen. I didn’t have a good answer. I had tentative dates, calendars that never quite lined up, the kind of distance that weighs more some days than others.

“Soon,” I said.

“That’s what you said last month.”

“This time I mean it.”

She looked at me for a moment. Then she smiled, that slow smile that takes over her whole face when she decides to believe me.

“Okay,” she said. “Soon.”

We ended the call at twelve twenty. I went back to the document open on my screen, to the blinking cursor, to the unfinished scene. I started writing the ending.

It was better than the one I had planned.