I log on and you are there. Waiting, almost for my presence. You are looking straight at me.

You are alone. So it’s just you and me. Usually, you are with someone: sometimes a guy, sometimes a girl; and sometimes with both. You have been on your own before, but you have never looked directly into my eyes like this. You have never gazed at me, never been aware of me, never acknowledged my presence. Until now.

Our eyes make contact. We connect. We are together in this moment. Just us.

As I gaze at you, there’s no getting away from one key fact: you are incredibly beautiful. Simply trying to describe this beauty is almost beyond me. Your face is pretty. That word pretty sounds trite, I know. But it’s true. Your features are perfect: nose, lips, cheeks, chin. All just perfect. Your dark hair looks great, especially the way it curls down one side and tumbles over your shoulder. And your brown eyes look amazing, especially when you smile.

The word ‘pretty’, however banal, works for you. It has a wholesome ring to it. And that is you. You have, as my mother would say, a kind face. You look as if you say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ a lot. You probably wear polished shoes. Your bedroom, lounge, kitchen are all really tidy – I am sure. You eat your five – no six or more – a day. And you put your knife and fork neatly on the plate when you have finished eating.

You are sitting there in your flat with the morning sun lighting up your shoulders. The light brightens your white slip, and picks out the lace edging.  There’s a charming warmth to your smile. Everywhere around you it is light, airy and welcoming.

Where I am it is dark and cold. Many hundreds of miles separate us. You are so far beyond my reach. But right now, right at this very moment, we are together and I am lonely no more.

And then you speak. I have not heard you speak before. I have heard you gasp with excitement, I have heard you moan just before you come, and I have heard the visceral noises from deep within when you are pushed – or you push yourself – over the edge. But now you speak – to me – and with it, your words heat my cold world.

And as you speak a naughtiness seeps through your prettiness and slowly asserts its presence. You ask me to share your breakfast, but your whisper adds an eroticism to your question. You play with your shoulder strap; you are probably going to touch your breast soon. I have seen your breasts before, of course. They are tight, delicate, petite, with bold nipples that react wonderfully to a tongue and grow considerably as they harden.

As my gaze is directed below the table I see your thighs. And then you part them to reveal the merest hint of your pussy

You speak again. Your strong Spanish accent energises the English words.  You talk about when we were together last and how soft my hands were. You want to lick my body. You want me to be with you.

You touch that heavy string of pearls that hangs below your neck, their smoothness the perfect accompaniment to your silken skin. “We can do all,” you whisper as you part your legs and you take a sip of your tea. And then you smile, that wonderfully pretty smile of yours.

You hook your leg over the arm of a chair. I can now see your pussy. There it is, all of it on show. You want me to see it. And it is as perfect as the rest of you.

Only, it looks different to the last time I saw it – I am sure that there was a little more hair (I make a mental note to check that later). Today, however, it is gloriously smooth. Just how I love it. Thank you.

But what flips a switch inside my groin is not the sight of your pussy, pleasing though it is. It’s the way you wipe the tiniest droplets of tea off your lips with your finger, and then wipe them with a serviette. I am suddenly aware of my cock; there is a tingle in my balls.

You start to stroke your other lips down below with your fingers. You tell me that the best days of your life are when you are with me. With me! There are no rings on your fingers; no band on the third finger of your left hand. So, you are unattached? Perhaps there may be the tiniest chances for me after all?

I feel a tightening in my groin. My cock is hardening. Normally it would take some strokes of my fingers to get it to this state, but not now. Not with you whispering like this.

You continue to masturbate. The word has a pejorative ring to it. It is condemning what you are doing. You should not be doing that. It is wrong. It is rude. Pretty girls don’t masturbate. Good girls don’t masturbate. Girls who neatly stack their cutlery and wipe their mouth with a serviette don’t masturbate.

But, Carolina, you do. And you masturbate gloriously. You are picking up a rhythm as you stroke your lips. You round your fingers over you’re the tip where both sides meet, and then insert two of them into your cunt. I know I shouldn’t use the c-word for someone as perfect as you. I shouldn’t stoop so low. But that is how you are making me feel. I want those fingers – your fingers – to be mine. I want to feel inside your cunt and to be part of that sticky, slippery, smooth warmth.

You talk about your favourite sexual position with me – when you are ‘up’ on me. I just love the way you speak. ‘Up’ is so much better than ‘on top’. And then you talk about my dick being in your pussy, and my hands drop to my dick and I start to stroke it.

Yes, you like being on top. You like being ‘up’. You were up on Juan[1] so gloriously and were so in control with your a reverse cowgirl on Andy[2]. In fact, I am sure you were ‘up’ almost the whole time with him.

You take your fingers away from your pussy and put them in your mouth. Are you tasting them? Or adding some saliva to moisten them? I don’t really care. I find that I am rapidly stripping off and my right hand is rubbing the tip of my cock and that little area just under the glands that does for me what your clit does for you. I recall how you worked this area on Juan’s dick. God – you knew just how to tease him and just what this blissful spot can do for a guy. Those little pumps, high up his shaft, and the repeated flicks of your tongue must have pushed him so close – I can see it, feel it now.

I notice a touch of dampness as pre-cum seeps from the tip of my prick. And then you put an idea in my head. You licked your fingers. So I am going to lick mine. I have never done this before. I have never tasted my pre-cum. But your luscious sexuality is encouraging me to push this boundary. I squeeze the sides of my glans and a bubble of sticky, clear liquid oozes out. I put an index finger on it and as I lift it to my lips a string of the fluid hangs like a cobweb, joining my digits and my prick.

And so to my mouth and I taste, like you, my own juices. It is so difficult to describe the flavour: slightly salty, with treacle-like textures– a bit like an expensive hors d’oeuvres. You tell me that when I tasted your pussy it tasted ‘so sweet, like honey’. With that, you spur me to taste more of the liquid that is now flooding out of my prick.

You put two fingers deep into your pussy. I know you like that. In Reflection, you did it a lot, and also put a finger in your arse at the same time. You frown as your self-pleasuring begins to take hold of you. I notice that I am beginning to pump my prick hard, squeezing it tight as I do so. You continue to work your fingers inside your pussy – your G spot I guess – and as you focus on this you become quiet – apart from an increasing number of ecstatic moans.

You ask: why am I so far away? and you say that you miss me. But, Carolina, I am right here with you. I am bringing myself to the same point as you. As you near your orgasm, I near mine.

You say that you want to feel my breath on your body, on your pussy. And as you say it I am aware that I am breathing rapidly and deeply.

It is now, just as I approach my own explosion you ask: ‘Do I want my come?’ You plead, ‘Tell me yes, tell me yes.’ And then you squirt. I have hardly ever seen this before, and not from you. The control you have over your own body to bring it on with your fingers is amazing. You must practice a lot. You ejaculate so much, too. You slap your pussy and lick your fingers one more time and my own ejaculate spurts from my dark red prick.

I can’t remember the last time I shot my spunk. It happened all the time when I was younger; now it is a rare and treasured event.

‘Oops,’ you say in feigned apology for your outpouring, and you smile that pretty smile of yours. That cheeky smile reminds me of that naughty laugh of yours at the end of that threesome[3]. My cock jerks one final time and the last dregs of semen seep out.

I will remember these last ten minutes for a long, long time, Carolina. I may be far away, you may be so far out of my reach. But we were wonderfully together – almost literally – just now.

Thanks, Carolina, for these precious, delicious memories, which have warmed my cold world and shone light into ever darkening times.

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