This wasn’t the first time we’ve spoken… but almost.

The first time he called me, I hung up on him.

“Marianne? It’s me.”

“I’m afraid you must have the wrong number.” Click. Then I turned quickly away from my husband, who had just walked into the house unexpectedly, and I turned off my cell phone.

We managed to reconnect a short while later, and I giggled for several minutes, before I could start to listen to and enjoy his deep, sensual tones. That conversation was not very long. It was mere whetting of our appetites for each other.

This time, the voice conversation took place online, and he was surprised to see that I had also turned on my webcam.

“Oh. Wow. I hear you, and I can see you, too. Full screen.”

Full screen… once I stopped giggling and moving my hair about self-consciously with my nervous fingers, I remembered to look in the camera, not at the tiny square at the bottom of my screen where I could see my own smiling image.

“I like what you’re wearing.”

I looked down. The only thing he could see of my outfit were the pink straps of my bustier. I moved the camera down so that he could see more. I could hear his breathing become more rapid, as he spoke of touching all that he could see.

“Beautiful… I would love to see them, uncovered, my lips on them.”

I showed him. My head back, my hands pushing my breasts together, I showed him. He spoke in a rush of putting his cock between them, described the sensation of my tongue extending to touch the head as it pushed up toward my chin. He reveled in the sight of me licking one nipple, then the other.

“Fuck, Marianne, I need to fuck you.”

My hands moved as if by command to the crotch of my panties, pushed it aside, and discovered how wet I was already. Dripping wet.

“Baby, I’m so close. Already.”

“Show me.”

I grabbed the camera, centered it between my legs, threw myself onto my back, and hoped that the angle was correct. I was well past being able to make many technical adjustments. My hands were busy, holding the silky fabric aside, rubbing, spreading my lips, moving my fingers in and out, making my thighs slick with wetness.

“Can you see how wet I am? Can you?” My voice was hoarse, almost gone.

“Fuck. Yes. Come for me. Now!”

And I did. One.

“Baby, god, I’m squirting, oh my god, can you see?”

Two.

“Holy shit! I’m coming again! I can’t believe this.”

My hands moved frantically, and this time, yes, he did see. His exclamations were wordless, and culminated in his scream as his own busy hands brought him to climax, too.

Three. A stream of clear fluid arced past my probing and pressing fingers. No, not like in porn. Like a real woman climaxes… like this real woman climaxes.

Three.

He spent the next several minutes talking us back down to earth, while I mostly nodded, and broke out into occasional hysterical giggles. I showed him the lovely irregular wet patch on the bed beneath me. He told me I was beautiful. I laughed at the idea of my pussy in full-screen mode. He didn’t want to leave. I told him I wanted him. He said, “One day at a time, but I want you, too.”

With mornings like this, one day at a time is just fine.