The hum of the laptop is the only thing breaking the silence, until Mona’s breathing overtakes it—shallow, fast, a hunting dog catching a scent. She sits in the dark, the bluish light of the screen tracing her contours, every line of her face steeped in shadow. On the display: Ben’s face, sharply focused, every pore visible, the stubble he missed this morning. He licked his lips, a reflex she knows. She hears him inhale—deeper than necessary—and feels her cunt grow wet. A warm surge gathers between her thighs, and she presses her legs together to savor the friction. Her panties soak up her moisture, clinging to her slit.
The Waiting
Three weeks since their last meeting. Three weeks of voiced messages, postponed caresses, a litany of longing. Mona has stopped counting how many times she pulled his T-shirt from the closet, pressing the fabric against her face until it smelled of nothing but detergent and a faint echo of him. Now he sits before her, virtually, but closer than ever. His voice scratches through the speaker: “Hey.” “Hey,” she replies, the word trembling, a leaf in the wind. Her nipples tighten under the thin fabric of her shirt, two hard buds pressing against the cotton. She feels her heart hammering against her ribs, a wild, impetuous rhythm.
He leans back, the shirt straining over his shoulders, and she sees the vein pulsing in his neck—a second heart. “I missed you,” he says, and the words are a confession that crawls under her skin. “Show me how much,” she breathes, and the sentence hangs between them, heavy and sweet, like ripe fruit waiting to be picked. She slides a hand under her shirt, letting her fingers wander over her flat stomach, approaching the waistband of her panties. The fabric is damp, sticking to her cunt, and she can smell the sweet, salty scent of her own arousal.
Mona leans forward, her breasts almost touching the edge of the table, and she feels her heart pounding against her ribs. She takes a deep breath, taking in his scent that isn’t there, one she imagines—a mix of soap, sweat, and something smoky. Her body reacts before her mind thinks: her nipples tighten, a warm pull spreading in her lap. She shifts on the chair, the fabric of her panties rubbing against her sensitive skin, and she enjoys the slight friction. She can feel her cunt starting to pulse, her labia swelling, becoming thick and sensitive. A drop of moisture runs down her thigh, and she shivers slightly.
The Connection
Ben lifts the camera, slowly gliding it over his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, down to his chest where the shirt opens. Mona follows every movement, her pupils dilated, the darkness of the room drinking up the light. She feels the warmth rising from her own body, the damp heat between her thighs. She didn’t hold back today: a thin lace panty, her breasts free under the loosely buttoned shirt. She opens one button, then a second—the fabric falls apart, revealing the curve of her breast, the hard tip pressing against the cloth. Her breasts are heavy, full, her nipples deep red and hard, ready for his mouth.
Ben’s breath catches. A sound, half sigh, half moan. “Mona…” he murmurs, and her name in his mouth is like a touch—he touches her, strokes her skin. She places her palm on her breast, feeling her heartbeat beneath the thin skin, wild and impetuous. “I want you to see me,” she says softly. “All of me. Completely.” She takes her nipple between thumb and forefinger, squeezes gently, and a shiver of pleasure shoots through her body, straight into her cunt. She moans softly, a sound echoing in the dark room.
She slips the shirt off her shoulders, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath, her nipples hard, erect, two small towers. Ben’s gaze is hot, hungry, a fire that warms her from within. She sees him shift in his chair, open his belt, pull down his zipper. His hand disappears into his pants, and she can see the outline of his movements. “You’re so beautiful,” he forces out, and the compliment hits her deep, where the longing gnaws, a sweet sting. She knows he’s holding his cock in his hand, stroking it, rubbing it, making it ready for her.
The Approach
Mona’s fingers wander over her ribs, feeling the bones under her skin, down her belly, playing at the waistband of her panties. She closes her eyes, imagining it were his hands—rough, demanding, tender. “Tell me what you would do,” she whispers. “If I were next to you now. If you could touch me.” She slides her hand under the fabric of her panties, dipping into the wet, slippery slit. Her fingers glide through the moisture, over her swollen labia to her sensitive clit. She circles it slowly, letting the pleasure wash through her body in waves.
Ben leans forward, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot: “I would lay you on the bed, very gently, and then I would kiss your breasts. Every spot, every millimeter, until you tremble. I would circle my tongue around your nipples until you arch your back.” His words paint pictures in her mind, shrinking the void between them until it’s just a breath. Mona moans loudly, pushing her panties aside completely, dipping a finger into her wet cunt. The walls of her vagina are hot, slippery, and she feels her muscles clench around the finger, welcoming it. “And then?” she asks, her fingers circling, slowly, so slowly it hurts. She pushes a second finger inside, feeling her cunt stretch, closing around them.
“Then I would go deeper,” he says, and his hand disappears under the waistband of his pants, the movements beginning, a rhythm she can only guess at. She hears the soft, wet sound of his hand rubbing his cock. “I would open your legs, taste you, dip my tongue into you until you can’t think anymore. Until only I am there, only us.” His breath comes in gasps, the camera shakes, the image flickers. Mona sees him moving, and the thought that he’s touching himself too, that his hand is wrapped around his hard, thick cock, drives her on, a motor that won’t stop. She smells her own juice, running down her fingers.
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