Here is something most girls will not do for you, kitten. Last night I got myself off first. Completely. Start to finish, shaking and breathless, while he listened on the other end of the phone with his hands exactly where I told him to keep them. In his lap. Not touching. Just listening.
Those were my rules and he begged for them. Is that not the delicious part? He called me. He paid for me. And then he handed me all the control like a gift, because the hottest thing in the world to him was not permission. It was the wait.
Let me walk you through it, because if your heart is already doing something funny, you might be built like him.
I started slow. I always start slow, because anticipation is a drug and I am a dealer. I described my room first. The lamp low. The door locked. My legs stretched out on the bed in nothing but a little pair of lace panties that were already a lost cause. I told him to picture my hand sliding down my stomach, taking its time, and I made him describe what he was imagining back to me. His voice was already shaking. We had been on the phone four minutes.
"Hands," I reminded him, sweet as sugar. "Where did I tell you to keep them?"
"In my lap," he whispered. "Please, Brooklyn."
"Please what?"
That is when I touched myself for real, and I did not hide a single sound. I let him hear the exact moment my fingers slipped inside my panties and found how wet I already was, for him, because of him, because making him wait was making me drip. I circled slow. I breathed right into the phone. I told him every detail, the heat, the slick, the way my hips started moving on their own, because with mutual masturbation the words are the touch. My voice was the only hand he was allowed, and I used it everywhere.
He was whimpering by the time I sped up. Actually whimpering, kitten, this grown man, begging me in broken little pieces. Not yet, I told him. You get to touch when I come. Those are the terms. My orgasm is your starting gun.
So he listened to me build. He listened to my fingers work faster, listened to my breathing go ragged and high, listened to me say his name like it was the only word I still knew. And when I finally went over the edge, I did not muffle a thing. I let him hear all of it, the gasp, the long shuddering moan, the way I kept touching myself through it until I was twitching and oversensitive and laughing that breathless little laugh I do.
"Now," I said. "Now you may."
I will tell you something. He did not last two minutes, and I mean that as the highest compliment either of us could get. Twenty minutes of listening to me had him so wound up that the second I gave him permission and started coaching him, stroke by stroke, he came apart like I had lit a fuse. That is the power of a real tease. Denial is not the opposite of pleasure. It is the multiplier.
He stayed on the phone after, quiet and happy and ruined, and he said the part he will think about all week is not even his own orgasm. It is the sound of mine, knowing his hands were obediently in his lap the whole time.
So here is my question for you, kitten. Could you do it? Could you keep your hands where I put them and just listen while I touch myself, close and wet and shameless, right in your ear? If that thought has you hard and aching already, you know where I am. Find me on PhoneBuckFuck, where a call with me is only a dollar a minute. One little dollar to find out how much discipline you really have. I am betting it is less than you think, and I cannot wait to prove it.