Watching

The cotton gusset of my panties is drenched from our texts and I’m twitchy and eager when you appear, slightly pixelated at first, then crystal clear, on my lap top screen. I hover my mouse over the “camera on” button. No, not yet. I want to watch you. I want to watch you without you watching me. I want to watch you, undistracted, unfettered. I’m going to watch you get off and it’s going to get me off too.

I admire you as you smile shyly and respond to my voice. I can see your impatience as we talk. I know you want me to flick on the camera, I know you want to see me. Maybe later, maybe not. I coo instructions and your responses are quick and obedient. Unzip. Mmmm yes. Show me the lacy bits. Lovely, Baby. Take it out, touch it. No, no, slower. Mmmmmm. Yes, just like that.

Your hands pet and pump the swollen flesh of your cock. It’s straining with desire and I know by how you’re breathing that you’re already close. I slip off my tank top and sit cross legged on the couch, my whole world becomes the voyeurism of you. The sun is setting behind me, gloriously golden, but all I can see is the desperate yearning in your eyes as you obediently look across seven thousand kilometers into the black screen while I silently begin to touch myself in the fading light. I watch you, alone, in the purple twilight, no lights on, in the glow of my computer.

My eyes move from your hands to your face and back again. I try to look elsewhere, to take in the subtleties, my fingers riding either side of my fattened clit. I drink in the details of you; the flex of your forearm, the throb of the veins and tendons in your groin, the waxy longing in your eyes. I’m wetter faster than usual and my nipples ache; I realize it’s the watching that is doing it. Seeing you play, moving as I tell you, doing as I say, panting your devoted “Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.” after instructions has me slick and hot, rocking my hips as I lazily pet myself, my hand secured by my damp panties. I know I need to see your race to the finish, those furious strokes, hearing you beg and plead and watching the deluge of cum shoot up and over your chest. The tight, needy feeling in me grows. I hear you moaning and begging, and I know you can hear my breathing as I grind my fingers into myself. You want more of me, to see me in these last moments, or to hear me coach you, bringing you closer with the timbre of my voice. But I have said all I need to, all except one word. I watch and wait and then pounce, my voice clear and stern across land and sea, filling your ears with the only direction you are waiting for: Cum.

And so we do.


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