Masturbation Story

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Whenever the phone rings, I always check the Caller ID before deciding whether to answer. When I saw her phone number appear, it brought a smile to my face, for I always enjoy talking with her. When I answered, however, I heard not her bubbly, cheerful voice, but her breathy, aroused voice.

Instantly, the mood was set. In such times, during such “conversations,” she would almost always be in her bedroom, naked on her back on the bed in the darkness, the only light — if any — coming from her laptop’s screensaver. The corded headset of her cell phone would allow her to have access to both hands, and from the state of her voice, it was evident that she had already made good use of both hands for quite some time.

I simply listened, imagining a hand fondling a breast as her other hand toyed between her thighs, her legs bent sideways with her knees practically flat on the bed so she could have maximum access to her feminine charms. I wished that I could be there with her, watching her from the shadows, or perhaps sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning over her to kiss her softly as she slowly increased her lust.

“Tell me a story?” she requested quietly, the innocent request profaned by the breathiness surrounding the simple plea.

As I made my way to my favorite chair, I began to weave a tale of us, walking hand-in-hand alongside a moonlit river. I described the scene with the care of a professional artist creating a nude woman. I purposely added words such as “soft” and “caressed” and canlı bahis “erect” and “sensual,” and by the time the description of the undressing had been completed, I could hear in her voice that my purposeful word choices had indeed attained the desired effect.

“…and as I kiss you again,” I continued, “I finally place a hand between your thighs and give your wet sex a gentle squeeze.”

From the soft whimper which met my ear, a sound which had just traveled several thousand miles in the space of a heartbeat, I knew that my voice had just become her hands. In effect, I was masturbating her, as I had done on many occasions over the previous few years since our graduation.

“As your wetness seeps from you and coats my fingers, I dip a digit between your wonderful folds…”

In my mind’s eye, I pictured her doing exactly that. I could see a red painted fingernail disappearing as that finger pressed against the entrance to her core, and from the inhalation which reached my ear, I was certain that once again, she was following the “commands” of my voice.

Shamelessly and purposefully, I continued the tale. I spoke of a hand upon her chest, squeezing and caressing, pinching and scratching. My words told of how I drew her desire up to her clitoris, playing for a while before dipping down to obtain more of her flowing passion. I extended that single scene for as long as I could, enjoying how the enticing sounds changed as her hands played my role upon her body. She began to moan and whimper with bahis siteleri some regularity, and when I finally heard the bed give the first indication of its existence, I knew that I had reached a point of no return, that I had to continue the story to its conclusion, that she would never forgive me if I would not guide her hands toward the outcome she desired.

“Oh my God…” she whispered huskily.

“At last I draw my hand from your breast down your ribs and over your stomach, across the thin horizontal strip of short hair to your rather protruding clitoris…”

When her hand reached her clitoris, the gasp was beautiful. I wished that I could have recorded that single sound to use as the notification whenever I would receive an e-mail from her. But I quickly cast that thought aside, for I still had a story to finish and a wonderful woman to satisfy.

I taunted her with a scene of dual-handed masturbation, of one hand focusing on her clitoris and the fingers of the other hand providing just enough penetration to increase her arousal yet not probing her deeply enough to bring her the satisfaction she truly craved. The story hand changed from one of romantic moonlit masturbation by a river to one of orgasm denial in an idyllic setting.

I watched the clock. My words became fewer and fewer, just enough to provide slight variations to her “commanded” actions. Five minutes passed, and her moans and breaths were louder, harder, full of need. With the additional passage of time, those sounds bahis şirketleri became more desperate, punctuated with an occasional grunt. After ten minutes, she was softly begging, the innocent quality of her voice thwarted by her use of the word “cum” and the frustrated groan at my refusal to reply.

She masturbated, I listened. She begged, I ignored. This was a familiar routine — the means for reaching this cycle would vary from one phone call to the next, but it was still quite gratifying for us both even though I would not yet allow her the ecstasy her body craved.

Fifteen minutes had passed, and she was very much pleading, her voice sounding almost pained as she trued to hold back the impending release. Hearing her in such desperation brought a smile to my face, yet still I said nothing, “forcing” her hands to continue the last “command” I had given her in the tale.

After several more minutes, I finally gave her the last segment of the story: “With great fury, I fuck you with three fingers as my other hand rubs your clit as hard as possible.”

Her release was loud and strong and quite prolonged. As evidenced by the sounds of the bed, her body was wracked severely by the pleasure which could finally surge throughout her being. I cursed the distance between us, wishing I could be there with her, actually using my own hands to deny her and then satisfy her carnal need, but I at least had this means of connecting with her on such a deep, meaningful level.

It must have taken her at least five minutes to truly calm from her well-deserved climax. When she thanked me, her voice was feeble, shaky, uncertain, but I did not need to hear her voice to know that her heart had swelled.

…as had mine.

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