I watch his hand glide, slow and tight, all the way to the base of his cock before sliding up again, and when he pushes his swollen head against his own snug hold, I can see in his pleasure-slack eyes the deep black of desire. I know, as he looks into the camera, seeking my gaze, that it is the warm wet hug of my pussy he is thinking of.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you’d be tight,” he’d said, all those months ago, gasping as I snugged my vaginal muscles close and hot around his thick cock.
I smile at the memory of Then as my breath quickens, Now, my aching channel grasping, throbbing for the feel of his thick penetrating my wet.
Soon. So soon.
I slip one finger between my flushed lips, teasing only to the first knuckle and rubbing gently against the base of my G-spot as he changes his strokes to short shallow fucks into his fist, stimulating just his sensitive tip. I clench against the sensual onslaught of memory heightened by anticipation. I know what that feels like, I think as I watch him push. I know the massaging thrust of his head stretching my entrance, forcing past the tight barrier, stroking again and again and again against my swollen tissues as I rub my clit, seeking desperately to both find and fight release.
I know what that feels like, and that is exactly what I am feeling now. Again. Still.
The friction of my fingers and the fuel of my imagination combined with the spark in his eye when he sees I am close to cumming sends a jolt of heat to my core. I feel my climax like a cyclone, gathering speed behind the clenched muscles of my belly and shooting lightning outward, making my skin sizzle, my legs shake.
My eyes roll back in my head and my vision goes white, the sight of his expression locked in my mind as I fall out of time. I know nothing in that moment except his name, and I repeat it again and again and again, holding it as my tether to reality as I fall over the edge into bliss.
When I come to, my blurred gaze finds focus when it meets his, and I roll on shaky limbs to kneel before the camera. I raise up, tightening my thighs, and lower myself again in straddle position so he can see all of me. The thatch of damp kinky hair at the apex of my thighs pulls a choked sigh from his lips, and the act of raising and lowering myself in front of the camera like this makes me think of riding him. I lean forward as though that is exactly what I am doing, twisting my torso as I bend, cupping my breasts, one at a time, offering them up for his pleasure.
Something he wrote recently – You appear before me – pops immediately to mind, and I am, now, exactly as he described when he penned his piece: Sweaty. Slick. Tight. The thought makes me smile, and I let my hands roam across every inch of skin his eyes rake. It is only moments until his breath catches under this visual assailment, and as I watch, enraptured, his body trembles under the force of his own release.
It is such a simple pleasure, this. Watching. Seeing.
I say good night, sleepily sated, and later, when I send my daily prayers of gratitude into the universe, I grin to myself after the usual acknowledgments and say…
“Thank you for Skype.”