She answered the phone with the soft raspy voice of a woman sleeping alone. The light in her bedroom was off and all was dark, but the beam from the red numbers on her alarm clock gave a tinted glow across her night stand where the telephone rang.
She answered, “Hello,” with an unsure voice.
“Did I wake you,” he asked.
She cleared her throat. “What time is it?”
He informed, “It’s a little after 1:30.”
“Why are you calling so late?”
He answered, “Because.”
She responded, “Because why,” with a half-amused but half-sleeping voice.
“Because I wanted to hear your voice,” he told her.
The girl propped her head on the pillow as she rolled to her back. She looked up at the dark ceiling. The curtains over the bedroom window were slightly cracked open down the center of the two drapes. Through the opening, she could see that a light cold rain was falling as raindrops crashed on her window in a diagonal direction. Outside, the wind was blowing. It was wintertime. Her small town world was sleeping and her tucked away side-street was quietly still.
She was happy to hear about his reason for the phone call.
“Well,” she giggled. “At least you called for a good reason.”
“What are you doing,” he asked.
His voice was toned with a deep bass. From the depth of his soothing voice, she could feel a sensational vibration deep within her body. She could feel the vibration as if his voice had a direct connection to the center of her legs.
Responding to his question, she answered with a sleepy, but still flirtatious reply.
“It’s 1:30 in the morning, what did you think I’d be doing?”
She answered with a hint of sarcasm, however, she was not angry that he called. To her, the sacrifice of a few hours sleep was less important than the chance to hear his voice.
To him, she sounded sweet. She had a slightly high-pitched velvety sound to her voice. She spoke to him as if she always wore a smile when she heard his voice.
She spoke as if she were almost fragile, or innocent. And it was her innocence that turned him on most. She was more than a simple conquest. She was precious like a flower, but yet, his mind was set on pushing this girl beyond her limits.
After hearing the answer, “It’s 1:30 in the morning, what do you think I’m doing?” He told her, “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I mean how are you laying right now? Are you on your side? Are you on your back?”
“I’m on my back.”
She answered him with an assured curiosity, as if she knew which way this conversation was about to steer. She enjoyed him because he had a way of making her feel in ways that no other man could make. But mostly, she enjoyed him because she had the same feelings. She had the same needs. And all was mutual.
“Are you under the covers? Partly covered? Are you wearing anything? A shirt, or anything beneath it?”
“I’m wearing a white t-shirt.”
“And nothing else?”
“And nothing else,” she promised.
He liked the way she sounded in moments like this one. He knew this was dangerous for her. He knew that she saw phone play as an easy form of taboo. It was risqué and wild.
She described the scene so that he could picture her.
“I’m lying on my back. I have one leg under the blanket and the other leg is on top of the blanket.”
As she described her position, he thought about her bedroom. He thought about the white walls and the headboard on her queen sized bed. He thought about the wooden nightstand beside the bed, and the dresser against the wall, as well as the alarm clock with bright red numbers
Then she asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m sitting here thinking about you.”
He loved that she was not like other women. He liked that she was not seasoned by so many other men. She was a good girl. And he liked her as a good girl. He liked her as a good girl because she was pure and pretty. He also liked her as a good girl because with even the best of intent; he had the insatiable desire to push her beyond control. He had the incredible thirst to drink from her and taste her body.
He wanted her to submit. He wanted her to whither like a leaf in the early September winds and sway to the ground. This way he could view her in total splendor. He could see her truest colors. He could feel her melt in his arms—and like an animal stalking prey—he could feed from her as if she were to be his last and final meal.
There was no game to this. His goal was not to divide and conquer. His goal was to take her and make the young girl his.
“I want you to do something for me.”
She whispered, “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to slowly bring your hand down between your legs. But don’t touch anything yet.”
He instructed, “I want you to take the back of your fingertips and tickle yourself.”
“Do it softly,” he instructed.
Then he enforced his instructions with the commanding words of, “Do it now.”
She never felt so given to anyone. She never felt so wonderfully helpless and aggressively taken at the same time.
As directed, the young girl dragged the back of her fingernails down the side of her body. She began at her right side and then moved the back of her right-handed fingertips across her stomach and down to the top of her left leg.
She let out a shaken exhale—the kind that informed him that she was not only doing as she was told, but in addition, his spell was quickly working.
“Do you want to touch yourself for me?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“I want you to run your fingers between your legs.”
“Let them glide between your lips,’ he told her.
“Are you wet for me?”
“Are you ready for me?”
She promised him, “I am so ready.
As she placed her finger on the spot between her legs, the young woman gave out a slight moan. Her legs spread open as he instructed her to continue. He coached her to speak about her wants and needs.
“Tell me what you want!”
“I want you,” she told him.
Her body tingled with desire. She could barely breathe as if she were overtaken or hypnotized by the strength of his voice. He had yet to touch her—but she knew. She knew that no one could ever touch her as he could. She knew that no one could have her do the things that he could.
Opening her mouth, she moaned, “I want to sit on top of you.”
“I want to ride you,” she said. “I want to feel you deep inside of me.”
“I want you to stretch me open.”
“I want to feel your hands grip my body.”
“I want you to bite my neck . . . “
Her moans grew louder.
As she described her needs, the girl moved her hand quicker. And as her desires became more intense, her fingers jammed harder and deep inside at a more furious pace.
“Do you want me,” he asked.
“I want you,” she screamed.
He asked again.
This time he spoke as if his teeth were grinding in anger.
“DO YOU WANT ME?”
“I do,” she screamed.
As she curled her head backwards, her back arched and her eyes rolled before closing. After each muscle in her body tensed and then gave, her moan quivered in the sound of a girl most satisfied.
He told her, “I love it when you cum for me.”
Out of breath, the tired girl answered, “What a coincidence. I love it when you make me cum.”
“Sleep tight,” he said