The laptop flips open and Marlene’s knees sink into the carpet, her thighs spread wide as if she’s about to feel him. Four months without his hands, his mouth—the longing has nested in her joints, a dull ache she ignores during the day, but now, in the pale glow of the screen, it explodes. On the display, Jonas’s face flickers, first pixelated, then sharp: stubble shadows, eyes red from jet lag but bright when he sees her.
The First Touch Through Glass
“You’re late,” he says, his voice rough as sandpaper. Marlene hears the smile in it, the crackle of his satisfaction at having her before him. “The class ran over,” she lies, because she needed five extra minutes in the bathroom to cream herself, loosen her hair, pull on the thin T-shirt without a bra. None of it was necessary, but she needed the ritual of making herself ready for him.
Jonas leans back. His shirt gapes open—two buttons, three—and she sees the chest hair she’s stroked so often. “You look good, Mar. Too good for this hour.” He yawns exaggeratedly, but his eyes wander, linger on her neck where her pulse flutters like a trapped bird. “You too,” she says, and the words are heavy with meaning.
“You know what I did today?” he asks, and she feels this won’t be small talk. “I found your perfume in the closet. The bottle you forgot. I sniffed it until I almost went crazy.” Marlene swallows. “Jonas…” “No, listen. I imagined how you smell when you’re wet. How your skin tastes. And then I took myself in hand.” His gaze is direct, dark. “And I imagined you.”
A wave of heat shoots through Marlene’s belly. She shifts on her knees, sits back on her heels, feeling the pressure of her own weight. “You too?” he asks softly. “Yes,” she admits, barely a whisper. “Every night. Sometimes at noon when I can’t help it.” She breathes shallowly, her fingers playing with the hem of the T-shirt. “Show me how you do it.”
His hand disappears under the desk. Marlene hears a faint rustle of fabric, then his stifled groan. The sound pierces through the tiny speakers, straight into her, vibrating in her chest. She bites her lip, her own hand gliding between her thighs, over the thin panties. The fabric is already damp. She pushes it aside, fingertips on the hot skin. The touch is an electric shock.
“Let me see,” he whispers. “Please, Marlene. Tilt the camera lower.” She hesitates a second, then lifts the laptop, places it on the coffee table. She kneels before it, her face half in the frame, but her body is now the focus: thighs open, T-shirt pushed up, panties pulled aside. Jonas’s breath is heavy. “God, you’re so beautiful. So wet.” His eyes are wide, focused. His hand moves faster, she sees it in the edge of the image, a blurry rubbing.
Marlene dips two fingers into herself, a soft sound escapes her—not shame, but lust. The camera captures everything: the gleam, the slight flush. “As deep as you,” she says, and it sounds like a challenge. He groans louder now, impatient. “I want to fuck you, Marlene. Pull you over the table and be so deep inside you that you feel nothing else. I want your taste on my tongue while you come.” His words are a blow that makes her muscles clench. Her fingers glide easier, the rhythm becomes more urgent.
“Tell me what you want to see,” she gasps. “Everything,” he pants. “Make yourself come for me. I want to see you cum, your face, your pussy, everything.” Marlene lies on her back, the laptop on her chest, the image wobbles, but she keeps the camera aimed at her hand, at the slippery play of her fingers. She can no longer see his face, only his voice guiding her. “Slower first. Stroke yourself. Think of what my tongue would be like.” She obeys, the touch growing softer, circling. “Yes, just like that. I’m licking you, from bottom to top…” His voice is a tremor. She imagines his mouth, the warmth, the pressure. Her pelvis lifts, an unconscious craving.
“I’m close,” she moans, the words a breath. “Wait,” he commands. “Me too. Wait for me. Together.” She feels the tension in his voice, the gasping. Her fingers circle faster, the pressure builds, a wave rolling in, unstoppable. “Jonas…” “Yes, now. Come for me.” That’s the trigger. The wave breaks—a flood of spasms shaking her body, her moans uncontrolled. She hears his cry, a rough “Fuck!”, then his panting, synchronized with her own, a duet from afar.
For a minute, only breathing. Marlene lets her hand fall, feels the wetness on her belly, the pulsing slowly fading. She lifts the laptop, his face reappears, sweaty, happy, eyes heavy. “I love you,” he says. “I love you too, you idiot,” she laughs, but her voice sounds tearful. “Four more weeks,” he whispers. “Four weeks, then I’ll be with you. And then I won’t let you out of my hands.”
Afterglow and Longing
Marlene wraps herself in the blanket that still smells of him—a faint scent faded after months. On the screen, he runs a hand through his hair, a familiar image. “Tomorrow? Same time?” he asks. “Same time,” she confirms. The window closes, his image freezes for a moment, then goes black. She sets the laptop aside, fingers still damp, heart still heavy. But lighter than before. The longing hasn’t vanished, but it’s found a vent. And in four weeks, there’ll be no glass between them.
But the night is still young. Marlene stays lying on the carpet, the blanket wrapped around her, the tingle still in her skin. She thinks of his face, the way he said her name. The silence in the room is loud, but she fills it with memories: his scent, his warmth, the way he looked at her as if she were the only thing in the world. She closes her eyes and lets the images come—her on the bed, him over her, his hands everywhere. Her hand wanders involuntarily again between her legs, strokes the sensitive skin that still twitches. A soft sigh escapes her as she repeats the touch, slower this time, savoring. She imagines he were here now, taking her hand and guiding it. The fantasy is so strong she almost feels his breath on her neck. She turns onto her side, presses her thighs together, rubs them against each other until a second, smaller wave rolls over her—gentler, but no less sweet.
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