I invented the countdown on a Tuesday, baby, and I have been ruining men with it ever since. Here is how it works. You stroke. I count. Ten down to one, nice and slow, and when I reach one, you get to come. Simple. Except for one small problem. I am touching myself too, and I do not always make it to one.
Last night's caller thought he was ready. They all think they are ready. He was already hard when he called, already breathing funny, telling me he had been thinking about my voice all day at work like a good little addict. I love that. I reward honesty like that.
"Lube," I told him. "Lots of it. I want to hear how wet you are for me."
While he got ready, I got comfortable. Legs spread on my bed, my favorite toy beside me just in case, fingers already circling because honestly, baby, I do not need much warming up when a man is this eager. My body responds fast and it responds loud, and if you have never heard me get close, you have never heard the best part of this phone line.
"Ten," I said, and I heard his fist start moving. "Nine. Slow down. I said slow. Eight."
I make the numbers stretch. Between each one I describe exactly what I am doing to myself, two fingers sliding in, thumb working my clit, my back starting to arch off the bed. I tell him how soaked I am getting listening to him obey me. This is mutual in the truest sense, baby. We are not taking turns. We are climbing the same hill, and the only question is who falls off the edge first.
"Seven. Six." My voice started doing the thing it does, getting breathy and broken between the numbers. He heard it. Of course he heard it. "Molli," he gasped, "you sound like you are going to..."
"Five," I managed. "Do not stop. Four."
And I did not make it. I am woman enough to admit it. Somewhere between four and three the wave hit me, the real one, the one that starts deep and takes everything with it, and I squirted so hard I soaked through to the mattress, crying out his name and the number three at the same time while my whole body shook apart. I could hear him losing his mind on the other end, because hearing a woman cum like that, really cum, no acting, no faking, just a body completely overwhelmed, it does something to a man. It should. It did something to me too.
"One," I whispered, when I could talk again, laughing and breathless and dripping. "Come for me. Now. Give it all to me."
He did. Loudly. Instantly. Like the number was a trigger I had installed in him, which, let us be honest, it was. Then we just laid there on the phone together, both of us wrecked, both of us laughing a little, and he told me nobody had ever gotten him off by counting before. Baby. It is not the counting. It is knowing a woman is right there with you, losing control at the same speed, holding nothing back. That is my whole gift. I do not perform pleasure. I drown in it and I take you down with me.
So. Do you think you can outlast me? Do you think you can hold on through all ten numbers while I am falling apart in your ear? There is only one way to find out, and it costs a dollar a minute on PhoneBuckFuck. Ten numbers, baby. I will even let you pick how fast I count. You will regret that too.