I hate talking on the phone. The ubiquity of twitter and WhatsApp has made communicating without speaking so much easier and means often you don’t phone people, ever.
On the other hand I can do a killer sexy voice that can turn the listener to jelly in sixty seconds flat so I really ought to try harder not be petrified by the lump of metal and plastic in my hand.
My first time, like all first times, was not good. Regarde:
He’s hundreds of miles away, visiting family in London. It’s his middle brothers’ engagement party. We haven’t been seeing each other long so I’m not bothered he didn’t extend the invite. He hasn’t yet informed me bluntly that I will never meet his family. That comes later.
For now we’re messaging on and off between his bouts of drinking. At about half eleven he tells me he’ll be walking home soon, and to stay awake. I’m tired, electrified, ready for sleep but he tells me he’s going to call after midnight and to be ready, have toys nearby.
Half an hour of agony.
He’s walking through London at night – over Wimbledon Common. I only know Wimbledon Common through the Wombles. When I ask friends if this is a posh area their eyes widen and they nod at me like I’m stupid. That’s not unreasonable.
He once told me he’d turned up at a girl’s house wearing a Womble costume. This was when he was trying to prove to me he’d fucked other fat girls, had pursued them, and found them desirable.
He calls from the middle of the park. He’s sat on a bench in the darkness and tells me exactly what he’s doing, masturbating. That’s what he wants me to do, to dip my fingers into my cunt and follow his orders.
This is a shock to the system – I try to do what he says but though my knickers are slick with arousal, my hands are shaking and my body won’t cooperate. His words are harsh and demanding. I can’t stop shaking, I’m so scared that he’s there alone. What if a police officer walks past? He could be charged with indecent exposure. Would I be called to testify? How would I explain my role in his crime?
I can’t come. My fingers are clumsy and I’m so wet my clit feels lost.
I hang up.
I try to calm down. Leave it. Leave it. He’s drunk and he’s alone. Let him concentrate on one thing at a time. I stare up at the ceiling as my phone rings.
I could ignore it.
He’d be angry though.
We’re not strictly in a D/s relationship, not even in a relationship at all if you ask him, but this is the summer I actively begin to learn about my submission and who I am. The summer he leads me on. Not yet though. Right now I’m this permanently aroused doll. I am his. This summer I am his.
“You hung up.” His voice is low and breathy, I can hear the determination bordering on desperation because he wants to come and I’m getting in the way.
“You’re not going to hang up again.”
“Good. Now let’s start again.”