A long-distance relationship between Vienna and Tokyo, sustained by video calls at the wrong time of day. Explicit short story. 18+.
Yuto lived in Setagaya, I lived in Vienna, on Lerchenfelder Strasse. We had met seven months earlier in Berlin, at a conference on science communication, and we had both known that if we did this, we’d be in a long-distance relationship over seven thousand kilometres and eight time zones — with absolutely no idea when we’d be able to turn it into a close-distance one.
We decided to try.
Eight time zones means: when I get up, he’s having dinner. When he gets up, I’m still asleep. We had two options — writing, or one of us breaking their routine.
We wrote a lot. But we also called, and we mostly called when it was either very early or very late for me, while Yuto was always in the middle of his day, which made it easier for him and harder for me.
Three in the morning was one of our times. Three in the morning in Vienna is eleven in the morning in Tokyo, a civilised time. Three in the morning in Vienna is the time when you’re either fast asleep or you haven’t fallen asleep at all.
I was someone who didn’t fall asleep.
We’d call two to three times a week at three. We’d developed a little routine — I’d make tea, he’d make coffee, I’d open my laptop at the kitchen table, he’d open his at his kitchen table. The first ten minutes we’d talk about the day. Yuto would tell me what he was doing, which café he was at yesterday, who he’d met. I’d tell him what I was going to do tomorrow.
But at some point, almost always after the first twenty minutes, the conversation would tip.
“You look tired,” he’d say.
“It’s three in the morning.”
“You could sleep now.”
“I could.”
“You don’t.”
“No.”
Every time there was a pause, where one of us would think about what exactly it was we were doing, by refusing to end the connection at this hour.
In the fifth month of our relationship, Yuto had started reading to me around half past three. He read Japanese short stories in German translation, because that was his field of study, and he read them to me because he’d noticed that by half past three I was no longer capable of following a conversation.
By the seventh month, we’d escalated. He read me. He described to me what he would do if he were with me. It was different from what I’d expected — not crude, not explicit, but slow, almost literary, as if that too were a Japanese short story in German translation. He told me how he would lift the pillow I was clutching to my chest at half past three. He told me how he would move my hair aside so it wouldn’t fall in my face. He told me how his hand would be on the back of my head now, and his other hand I’d have to imagine.
But one night, as the moon fell through the kitchen window and I was trembling with exhaustion, it tipped. Yuto was in his kitchen in Setagaya, I was in mine in Vienna, and suddenly he wasn’t saying what he would do. He was saying what he was doing. He opened his belt on the screen. I saw his fingers pull down the zipper, how he leaned back in his chair, how he pulled his hard cock out of his boxers.
“You’re tired,” he said softly. “Let me keep you awake.”
I saw his cock standing upright in his hand — long, thick, the head dark red and glistening. He wrapped his fist around it and began slowly pulling the skin over the head and back again. I heard his soft gasps through the speaker.
“I want to feel you inside me,” I whispered, and my hand slid under my pyjamas. I stroked my wet cunt, already soaked with desire. My fingers found my clit, hard and swollen, and I began tracing small circles while I watched him on the screen.
“Show me your pussy,” he said. “Open it for me.”
I took off my pyjamas, lowered the camera. I spread my legs, grabbed my labia with both hands and pulled them apart. On the screen I saw him getting faster, the anticipation glittering in his eyes.
“You’re so wet,” he groaned. “I could stick my tongue in you and drink it all.”
“Do it,” I begged. “Tell me what it feels like.”
And he began to tell me, while he worked himself. His tongue, he said, would circle my clit, lick it until I screamed. Then he’d go deeper, penetrate my wet hole, suck on my cunt as if he’d never drink anything again. I listened and felt my fingers inside me, two, three, as deep as I could, while I imagined it was his cock.
I came with a scream that echoed through the kitchen, while on the screen he shot his cum across his stomach — thick, white drops running down his skin. We were both breathing heavily, our foreheads almost pressed against the screens.
Afterwards, as we collected ourselves, he asked: “What will you do when you really come?”
“Which really?”
“When you’re on a plane and they say we’re landing at Narita.”
“I think I’ll be nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you so well and I don’t know what we’ll look like when we’re in the same place.”
We met after eight months. I flew at the end of November. Yuto picked me up from Shibuya station, because I’d taken the train from the airport. We hadn’t seen each other in 3D for over four months. I recognised him immediately. He recognised me immediately. We’d both expected it to be strange — and then it wasn’t strange. We went to his apartment in Setagaya, thirty minutes by train, I was tired from the jetlag, and we’d both planned to go out for dinner that evening.
We didn’t go out for dinner.
His apartment was small, three rooms, one with the bed, one with the kitchen, one with the bathroom. We went into the living room, which was also a bedroom, and we sat down facing each other. We looked at each other. It wasn’t conversation. It was a kind of recognition.
“Yuto.”
“Yes.”
“We had eight months where everything was in the subjunctive.”
“Now it’s reality.”
I stood up, stepped in front of him. My hand trembled as it touched his neck. He smelled different from how I’d imagined — warmer, somehow earthier. I leaned forward, and when our lips met, it wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, almost wild. His tongue pushed into my mouth.
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