It was after midnight, and an October storm raged outside. A thunderous crash of booming thunder accompanied by a blinding flash of white light illuminated the entire yard. I sat in my favorite chair reading Insatiable Appetite, a story of lesbian desire. Reading is my cure for a sleepless night.
I wore a basic black sheer top unbuttoned. My firm breasts rested on my chest in the ambient light, exposed with my nipples which were very aroused. Then there is the matter of a pair of black satin panties, which were a bit moist and nestling my crotch. I am captivated by the story of a woman’s desire which was akin to my own. Her desire for another woman to share her bed, to feel a warm breast, to kiss a stiff nipple, and to touch a pair of silky wet lips at the confluence of a pair of shapely legs and as I read those words, I was oblivious to all else.
The house was dark. A solitary floor light illuminated my chair as I read the author’s decadent words and felt my body react. A quick squeeze of my ripe breast, a simple flick of my hard nipple would cause me to shudder as I vicariously shared the author’s hunger.
The wind howled, the rain beat against the window, and my heart was beating faster, and my breath came in labored gasps when my hand slipped under the waistband of my black panties. I could feel the sensual wetness trickling from my swollen lips, while not enough to be an orgasm, but enough to keep the silky satin material that nestled my crotch wet with my nectar. When it happened, it was a deafening ring, or so it seemed to me.
Enslaved to my sexual pleasure, entwined in the story of insatiability, I jumped at the sound of a loud ringing bell of the old-fashioned telephone that resided in the corner adjacent to my chair on an old corner table.
It was a cordless phone that sat in its charger in the corner of the room. That number, under some yellowing scotch tape, was never used, and was now ringing boisterously, shattering the quiet of the early morning hour. The phone was there for emergencies, a left-over relic from days gone by had now come to life. No one had this number, or so I thought. My cell phone served as my lifeline to the outside world.
My hand shook as I reached for the handset and tried to remember how to use it. I fumbled with the buttons but finally managed to answer. A timid “Hello” tumbled from my lips. I hear a low husky voice of a man, or so I thought.
I had to strain to hear the voice that proclaimed he was watching me. I demanded that he reveal his identity
I received no response to my demand, just a simple request, “Rachel, what are you wearing?”
I stammered, “None of your business, but I am wearing sweatpants and a Tee shirt,” I lied.
“I can see you, Rachel, don’t lie. Do you want to know what I am wearing?” the man said.
“No,” I quickly issued my firm declination. “I suppose you will tell me anyway,’ I replied.
“Sweet Rachel, you know me all too well.”
That was the problem; I did not readily recognize the voice on the other end of a never-used line. It is a bit terrifying to have an unseen voyeur tell you he can see you, but it is another level of fear when they know you are lying to them. In some depraved way, I found this to be arousing. The evidence was undeniable as my panties were now soaked, and I could smell my pungent scent in the air.
The voice rasped, “Rachel, I am naked and my cock is so hard, just like you always liked it when I fucked you. I know you like a wet juicy pussy to suck on rather than my thick nasty, crooked cock. You are quite a cunt licker, Rachel.”
