The memory of his voice – rough, tired, through her phone’s speaker – was born that night in Vienna. She sat in her tiny apartment, knees pulled to her chest. “I miss you,” he had said, and something inside her had loosened, like a knot that had been tied for years. Eight months later, she sits in the same chair. The laptop flickers. His face fills the window. The past fades – the present becomes harsh, concrete.
“You look tired,” Lara says, tilting her head. Her gaze drifts over his chin, the slight stubble he hasn’t shaved in days. Ben laughs softly – a sound that echoes in the depths of her chest, as if he were right next to her.
“I thought about you all night. Couldn’t sleep.” His eyes, that intense blue, seem to burn through the camera. Her heart pounds, a dull throb that makes her breath catch. She breathes shallowly, feels her chest rise and fall, and knows he sees it.
“Me too,” she confesses. “I felt your hands on my skin, your mouth…” She hesitates, embarrassed, but his expression encourages her. “Tell me what you saw,” he asks. “In your thoughts.”
She smirks, a mischievous look. “That you kiss me. Slowly. That your fingers wander down my back, pull me closer. That you kiss my neck, right here…” She points to the spot below her ear. Ben swallows audibly.
“And then?” he asks, his voice hoarser.
“Then you lift me up, carry me to the bedroom. Lay me on the bed, very gently. Your weight on me, your warmth…” She closes her eyes, as if to intensify the image. When she opens them again, a smile plays on her lips.
The Approach Through the Screen
Lara pulls off her sweatshirt – not for warmth, but to see him: his reaction, the twitch of his mouth, the desire widening in his pupils. A thin top is exposed, straps falling over her shoulders. Ben leans back, his hand reaching for something outside the frame. A glass of water? She doesn’t know. She only wants him.
“Show me more,” he whispers. The whisper crawls through the cables, wraps around her, traps her in its pull. She obeys. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, she slips off the top, until her breasts lie bare in the cold light of the monitor. Her skin gleams pale, her nipples hard – an invitation he cannot physically accept. But her gaze, her breath fogging the screen, that is enough.
“God, Lara,” he forces out. His Adam’s apple bobs. She hears him swallow, a dry sound that makes her wet. Her hand glides down her neck, over her collarbone, rests on her breast. She circles her nipple with her thumb – slowly, deliberately. Ben’s breathing quickens. He opens his pants, the belt clinking.
“Let me see,” she begs. He doesn’t hesitate. The camera pans down, capturing his naked upper body: his sinewy arms, flat stomach. His hand rests on the bulge in his underwear – a promise she wants to fulfill now. She watches as he pushes the fabric aside, reveals his cock, already hard. A shiver runs down her spine.
“You’re so beautiful,” she says, and the words come from the heart. Ben blushes, a hint of pink on his cheeks. “You drive me crazy,” he replies. “Do you know that? When I see you like this, I could reach through the screen.”
“Do it,” she whispers. “In your mind.”
She closes her eyes and imagines his fingers stroking her cheek, down her neck, along her spine. In her fantasy, he kisses her shoulder, sucks gently on her skin, while his hands grip her hips. She opens her eyes and sees that he too has closed his, his hand resting on his cock but not moving.
“Wait,” she says. “Let me.”
She reaches for her lube, a bottle that has been next to the laptop since their last video call. She drips some onto her fingers, spreads it over her breasts until they glisten. Ben’s eyelids flutter. “Yes,” he breathes. “Show me how you touch yourself.”
Lara strokes one hand over her breast, circles her nipples, squeezes them gently. With the other hand, she moves lower, over her belly, under the waistband of her jogging pants. She moans softly as her fingers find the wet warmth between her legs. She spreads her legs wider, pushes the pants down a bit, until her labia are visible, glistening with arousal.
“I want to taste you,” Ben says, his voice rough with desire. “I want my head between your thighs.”
She imagines it: his tongue gliding over her, the thrusts driving her to the edge of madness. Her fingers follow the rhythm of her fantasy, sliding inside her while her thumb rubs her clit. She watches Ben’s hand move faster, the foreskin gliding over the head, slippery with sweat and his own arousal.
“Tell me what you see,” she begs, her voice just a whisper.
“I see you opening up, your fingers disappearing inside you. I hear your moans, it drives me crazy.”
The Touch Through the Line
She closes her eyes. In her imagination, it’s his fingers gliding over her skin, his mouth enclosing her nipple, his weight on her. She opens her eyes again, sees him stroking himself – and the image becomes a mirror of her own lust. She strips off the jogging pants, legs bare, thighs opening before the camera. An impulse that knows no shame.
“I want to feel you inside me,” she says, her voice deep and husky. She slides her hand between her legs, her fingers finding the wet slit, slipping inside. A moan escapes her, soft, but he hears it. “Yes, just like that,” he pants. “Think of me. That it’s me.”
She obeys. She thinks of his scent, of the day before he left, when he pressed her against the wall, his hand in her hair, his mouth on her neck. The memory becomes the rhythm of her fingers. She rubs herself, slowly at first, then faster, while his screen flickers, his hand moving in sync. The sound of his breathing, the soft squelch of his hand on his skin, fills the space between them.
“Lara, I’m so close,” he groans. “Come with me. Please.”
She feels the wave building in her belly – a pressure that grows until she can no longer ignore it. Her pelvis lifts toward the screen, her fingers press deeper, and then – a cry that breaks from her throat. She hears his shout, simultaneous
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