You lie on your bed. Your phone warms your chest. Your cock fills your hand.

The rest, I forge in prurient fire.

You listen through the room's solitary restlessness. On your back. Undressed. Aroused.

Some are words. Some are not. Both are whispered, out of real time, yet immediate as the throb agitating your grasp. In breathless flow from your high-tech heart of glass, they echo the frequency spun from your corrupt corners.

You close your eyes and let them fondle you.

I breathe of forbidden excitement. Warm, sugary tickles of displaced cotton at my ankles. Cool air lusciously lapping at moist heat, where my touches have conjured yours into existence. The depraved ache in the pit of my stomach your messages have planted, like virtual sperm.

My lips long to connect where your phone rests, replacing the radiant stress of a file load with softly smoldering caresses.

Instead, they chant a perverse playlist's lyric.

Mid-verse, it breaks off, then drop kicks you to the beginning.

You squirm, frustrated. Though your grip remains firm, the tickling wisps withdraw, just when they were feeling so good.

Foreplay's breezes brush your nakedness anew. Subtle tremors along the fault line of my femininity cause me to lose a syllable here and there. More than my words do, those omissions tell you how much you're turning me on.

As coherently as dizzying distraction allows, I address your provocative rhetoric. Yes, my friends would be shocked to discover the wicked things I do behind this locked door, without my clothes, with a dirty minded man I've never met. 

Turning the tables, I taunt you as the object of your mates' envy if they found out you were playing pleasurably illicit games with a budding slut like me. Does the very idea of rousing their jealousy, inflate you even more?

Perhaps ambient volume is too faint to be heard over your answering gasps. You coccoon in ear buds.

I'm looking at your bare, hard cock.

You know I have to be quiet, because of roommates. I haven't told you about the neighbor on his ladder, less than twenty feet from my shut window. He could hear me, if I let him.

Which would make you harder - unleashed cries spilling into a stranger's curiosity and triggering unintended urges, or muffled moans you alone can hear while I edge to your filthy fantasies and swollen screenshot?

Again, the interruption, the reset. And each time, like a peep show fed with fresh tokens, the replay lengthens.

I read you with the hunger of the besotted as you rub and undulate in your darkened bedroom. It might yet be daylight where you are, as it was when I undressed and transcribed my tingling vices into the incandescent whispers on your chest.

But darkness is our color - the drape of secrecy, the blurred dimness of webcam stills, the filth of our conjoined cravings - and save for my proxy's glimmer, your form takes on the hue of dusk.

I want to displace the mirrored blue, nuzzling you while I study your compelling technique up close.

Do you feel curious glances alighting, then teasing up and down?

Want your little slut to lick it for you?

A rush of sucked breath jiggles the meter. You think you hear the swoosh of clutched pillows, the silky thrash of legs over a mattress.

Your strokes accelerate, gain traction. You're bursting to unload onto my tongue.

The audio cuts abruptly and flips you off to the start. You exhale and throttle back, thwarted again.

Coccooned, you are, as you were on the train that morning. Professional. Nondescript. Not a thread out of place. Checking messages. 

You knew better than to open, when you saw mine. But, like your erection, your swipe had a mind of its own. Surrounded by others, struggling to disguise the sudden tumult in your lap, you tormented yourself with the exquisite tension from unrequited pleas.

Want your massive cock to spurt all over my tits.

Did the selfie-taking coed opposite you snap your raging ridge instead? Did her knickers dampen as she stared? Did your manhood drool into your drawers as you wondered if she'd take them off after class and masturbate to your unguarded moment?

Could she be me?

Want to suck you off.

The cloud of my voice begins to shear as I visualize your rigid need reveling in the prone, pressurized friction of a taut bedsheet. Or bucking greedily against the equally quivering, purloined bulge of her rabbit. Or inundated with tonguings probing the sweet spots you teach naughty girls like me about, when she's not looking.

I would transmit each sensation telepathically, beneath your boxers, on that train. Where you couldn't fight back, or conceal their inevitable consequences. Where the only way out, was touchless ejection from the turmoil in your spreading balls and through the engorged, velvet corded ecstasy of your...

You can't help sliding your throbbing cock where it feels good, can you?

Your phone leers mere inches above the tip that surges up your belly and leaps to impale your spread wide whore through your pulsing palm. It's resting where I want my tits to be crushed as you mount with coarsened motives, fill with thickened possessiveness, fuck with the crazed momentum of incessant lust.

Does your dirty little slut's hot, tight cunt feel good on your thick, hard, pounding...

My frenzied flight swerves and explodes into one name: Yours. Yours.

YOURS.

Your thrust rends my throes.

Your moan smothers mine.

Your meshed fingertips become my enraged embrace rippling your stiffness. With each incantation, you are clasped in the clandestine compression you crave...until you cast off into a turbulent wake, and your skin feels the liquid lash of hurled ropes.

Two sybaritic sighs merge, in and out of real time.

Want to make you feel just as good, you hear me pant, before I sign off.

I click the recorder back to life, then come even harder.