I Thought He Had Forgotten Me Until That Night

A whole month went by without a single word from him. Thirty days in which work kept moving, meetings piled up one after another, and I answered emails on autopilot, but part of me was always somewhere else. In the conversations we had had. In the way his messages changed my body even though we were thousands of kilometers apart.

I tried to keep myself busy. I signed up for yoga classes, went out for walks after dinner, filled my calendar with things that didn’t matter to me. Nothing was enough. The afternoons stretched on forever and the nights were cold in a way winter couldn’t explain. I wondered if he was all right, if he had met someone, why he had disappeared like that, from one day to the next, without a warning or an excuse.

I knew him as Bruno. It wasn’t his real name, I suppose, just as mine wasn’t for him either. That was part of the silent rule between us: discretion covered everything, and inside that discretion we had built something strangely intimate. He paid me for photos. That was the raw truth of how it started. What wasn’t part of the deal was everything else.

Because at first that was all it was, a transaction. I sent an image, he said thank you, transferred the money, and each of us went on with our lives. But somewhere between photo number ten and twenty we started talking. Really talking. About what our day had been like, about what kept us up at night, about the things we had never told anyone. And without even realizing it, waiting for his messages became the best part of my week. When they stopped coming, the silence hurt in a way it had no right to.

And then, on an ordinary Tuesday, my phone buzzed on the desk.

“I transferred fifty. I thought about you the whole time,” it said, with a wink emoji at the end.

I felt a wave rise from my stomach to my throat and sink back down, straight to my cunt, with the force of a short circuit. It wasn’t the money. It was the signal. The proof that he had thought of me again, that this month of silence hadn’t erased whatever it was we had. I reread the message four or five times, as if the letters could wear out, as if I were afraid it might disappear again. My thighs tightened under the desk without me deciding to.

He’s back. He really came back.

“Everything okay?” a coworker asked when she saw me smiling at the screen by myself.

“Everything’s perfect,” I said, and for the first time in weeks I wasn’t lying.

***

That night, the moment I stepped through the door of my apartment, I knew what I was going to do. Something different. Something I hadn’t dared to give him before. I got into the shower and let the hot water run down my back for a long time, as if it could wash away a month’s worth of anxiety. Steam filled the bathroom and fogged the mirror. Under the spray, I slid soapy hands over my tits, felt my nipples harden against my palms, and couldn’t resist slipping one hand between my legs to check that I was already wet, soaked, and it wasn’t the water. I forced myself to pull my hand away. Not yet. I wanted to arrive hot, but not emptied out.

While I dried my hair with the towel, the idea was already taking shape, warm and dangerous.

Up to that point I’d sent him careful photos, suggestive but safe. Underwear, cleavage, strategic shadows. Nothing that left me fully exposed. That night I decided to open the door all the way.

I cleared off the dresser, adjusted the lamp so it cast a warm side light, and stood in front of the bedroom mirror with my heart battering my ribs. The first photo was of my tits, barely covered by my own hands, with my fingers spread just enough for the hard nipples to peek between them, pink and erect from the cold and from wanting. My pulse trembled. I took three or four until I liked one: skin still damp, the light tracing the shape, a thread of water running down from my sternum until it disappeared into my navel, the exact promise without giving away everything.

The second one I planned from behind. I turned around, arched my waist, pushed my ass back, and let the reflection in the mirror give me the side of my breast, a strip of skin, and the shadow of my cunt between my parted thighs. It wasn’t accidental. Every centimeter was calculated, and that idea—the idea of manufacturing desire with such precision, of imagining Bruno’s cock hardening on the other side of the world because of me—turned me on as much as the photos themselves.

The third was front-on, my whole body, face included, my legs only slightly apart so the cropped hair over my pubis and the pink slit between my already swollen lips would show. That one was the hardest. I stared straight into the lens as if he were the one on the other side, not a camera. I wanted him to see desire, yes, but also something more fragile, that nameless thing that had kept me thinking about him for a month. I lowered my arms, let my shoulders drop, and let my body say what I didn’t know how to write.

And then there was the video.

***

I propped the phone against a stack of books, adjusted the angle two or three times, and sat on the edge of the bed with my legs open toward the lens, still with wet hair dripping onto my shoulders. Nervousness and arousal mixed in my chest until they became almost the same thing. I hit record.

I started slowly, my hands on my tits, my fingers brushing the skin still warm from the shower, pinching my nipples until a real moan slipped out of me. I closed my eyes for a second, not for the camera, but because the contact sent a shiver straight down to my cunt. I sucked two fingers, got them good and wet with saliva, and ran them over my nipples so they shone in front of the lens. I knew he’d see every detail, and that certainty—the certainty of being watched, of knowing Bruno was going to jerk his cock to this—turned me on more than my own hands.

One hand slid slowly down my stomach. I spread my legs wider still in front of the camera, without shame, and touched my clit with the tip of my middle finger, first in soft circles, then pressing harder. I was so wet it could be heard, that sticky, obscene sound a cunt makes when it can’t take any more. I slid two fingers inside, slowly, curling them, and let the camera see how they came in and out glistening with my own juices. With my other hand I spread my lips so the lens could see me properly, pink, swollen, leaking. I thought of him, of his face when he opened the file, of how he was going to pull out his cock as soon as he saw this, of how he was going to cum looking at me. I bit my lip and drove my fingers deeper, pressing my ass against the bed, arching so the angle would be perfect.

The video lasted longer than I had planned, a long three minutes in which I fucked myself with my fingers in front of the lens thinking only of him. When I stopped recording, I stayed still, thighs slick and breathing shallow, staring at the screen without quite daring to send anything yet.

I sent it. The photos first, then the video. And I waited.

***

The answer came quickly, as if he’d been on the other side with his phone in hand and his cock out.

“God. You left me speechless,” he wrote. And immediately after: “I can’t stop looking at you. You already made me cum and I’m still hard.”

I felt every compliment like a caress directly on my skin, every word like a tongue passing over places he had never touched. My hand, which hadn’t fully stopped yet, started moving on its own again, slowly, remembering the sensations from the video, sinking once more between my still-soaked legs.

“I’m glad you like it,” I answered. “I imagine your cock hard because of me and I go crazy.”

“I’ve got my dick in my hand and I can’t let it go. I want you. Every time I see your photos I can’t think of anything else but burying myself in you.”

“I want you inside me too,” I wrote, and it was true, a truth that kept growing inside me with every message. “I want to feel you all the way down my throat.”

I didn’t want it to end there. After exposing myself like that, after giving him something I had never given anyone, I felt an urge for more, to push a little farther. The dark room felt complicit. I pressed the microphone button and recorded a voice note, letting my voice come out low, hoarse, trembling, saying out loud what I never dared to write. I said his name. I told him I wanted him to fuck me from behind, to pull my hair, to fill my mouth with cum, to fuck me until I couldn’t walk the next day. I told him I had my fingers inside me thinking about him and it was dripping down my thighs.

His audio came back almost instantly.

“You have no idea what I’d do if I were there,” he said, his voice rough, restrained, the heavy breathing of a guy jerking off giving him away. “I’d kiss you centimeter by centimeter. I’d start with your neck, then your tits, I’d bite your nipples until you screamed. I’d go down on you slowly, spread your legs and lick your cunt until you begged me to stop, and even then I wouldn’t stop. I’d make you cum three times with my tongue before I put my cock in you. And when I got in, when I finally drove my dick all the way in, I wouldn’t let you go until I emptied myself inside you.”

The words filled the space between my ears, loaded with an urgency I could almost touch. Every sentence was an imaginary hand moving over me, a mouth pressed to my cunt, a cock pushing inside. A shiver ran down my spine and settled in my clit, throbbing. Feeling desired like that, through a cable and a screen, made me feel more alive than any real-life encounter in months.

***

I touched myself again while I listened to his audio over and over. I settled back against the pillows, opened my legs as wide as I could, and shoved three fingers inside while my thumb beat at my clit to the rhythm of his voice. My fingers found the beat his voice set for me, that cadence he was dictating without knowing it from the other side of the world. Every word was a spark. I imagined his mouth there, his tongue going in and out, his beard scraping the insides of my thighs, and I fucked myself harder with my fingers trying to imitate what his cock was going to feel like.

The tension built in every muscle, a knot of pleasure tightening and tightening without letting go. With my free hand I grabbed a tit, pinched my nipple hard, almost to the point of pain, imagining it was Bruno’s mouth biting it. My cunt clenched around my own fingers, sucking them in, and I pulled them out and shoved them back in, three, four fingers at a time, with my palm slapping against my clit every time I drove to the deepest point.

I closed my eyes and let the images he had painted with his voice become almost real. “I’d lick your cunt until you begged me to stop.” The phrase floated in the thick air of the room, mixing with the throb in my chest and between my legs, with the wet splashing of my own hand working me over. Time stretched and warped, as if only his recorded voice, my fingers buried in my cunt, and the ever-more unbearable need to come existed.

The end arrived like a collapse. A whirlwind that dragged me up and held me there for one eternal second before letting me go. I felt my cunt clench violently around my fingers, once, twice, three times, and a warm gush run down my hand to my ass, soaking the sheet. A long moan escaped me without permission, filling the silence of the room, and I screamed his invented name as if he could hear me. I felt my whole body shake, every fiber vibrating with an intensity that brushed against unbearable, my legs trembling out of control, and I lay there on the tangled sheets, my chest rising and falling, fingers still inside because I couldn’t bring myself to pull them out, while the pleasure slowly withdrew in smaller and smaller waves and left me in a strange, clean calm.

When I finally pulled my hand out, it was shining all the way to the wrist. I brought it to my mouth without thinking and sucked my fingers one by one, tasting myself, imagining it was him making me do it.

In the silence that followed, my head gradually cleared. The words still echoed in me, but now tinted by something else, the echo of an intimacy we had built without ever touching. I remembered the voice note I had sent him, my own voice asking what he would do if he were there, asking him for things I wouldn’t have dared ask for in real life. His answer had been more than words: it had been a promise that I ended up fulfilling myself, with my hands, in my bed, kilometers away from him.

“That was incredible,” I finally wrote, still breathing unevenly and with my fingers tasting of me. “I came like I hadn’t in months. Thank you for making me feel that way.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “I came listening to you too. You’re something else.”

I set the phone on the nightstand with a tired smile. I knew this, whatever it was, was going to keep giving us nights like this. I pulled the sheet over my naked, sticky body, settled onto my side with my thighs still clenched and my cunt throbbing in the last echo of the orgasm, and closed my eyes with the new certainty that a month of silence hadn’t broken anything. It had only stretched the wanting until it became unbearable.

I fell asleep thinking about next time. About what I would give him then, now that I had discovered how much I liked opening my legs in front of a camera for someone who couldn’t touch me.