by L. A. Witt
Yep. You do make an impression, amigo.
Likewise.
If I lived closer, I might have to do the same for you. You’re hot in your uniform.
I squirmed, suddenly imagining him on his knees, one hand on my blue digicam trousers, the other steadying my cock while he deep-throated me. Damn it, why didn’t we live closer?
You at work? he asked.
No. I’m off.
Why the fuck are you awake then? It’s an hour later here & I’m dragging. WTF?
I grumbled to myself as I wrote back, LOL Schedule’s weird. 7am = sleeping in.
Ugh. No thanks.
Could be worse, I replied. I only work 2-3 days at a time.
Must be nice. Some of us have to do the M-F, 9-5.
I work 12-hour shifts & have to be at the precinct by 0500.
You win.
Throughout the day, as I lounged in front of the television with my laptop on my knees, we kept right on texting. Around midafternoon, I replaced my coffee with some Jack on the rocks, and between Anthony and Jack, I had a serious buzz going before long.
Gotta run, he said at four on the dot—five, his time. I’ll be home in 20.
Drive safe.
I reached for my glass and took a long swallow. My head was spinning, but I doubted the alcohol had much to do with it. I hadn’t even had that much to drink. And, hell, I could’ve downed the whole bottle and it wouldn’t have screwed with my balance like those messages from Anthony. If I could’ve bottled what he did to me, I’d never need to set foot in a liquor store again. Shame he was so far away.
Almost half an hour later, my phone came to life again. Sorry. Fucking traffic.
LOL That’s what you get for living in an actual city. Life in a Podunk place like Anchor Point did have its advantages. Traffic happened, but not as often or as badly.
Yeah yeah. Pause. You were distracting the fuck out of me today, BTW.
We don’t have to keep texting.
We better keep texting. There was a pause, and then he added, I’d jerk off in my office, but I don’t think I could stay quiet.
I almost dropped my drink. God, Anthony was filthy when he wanted to be. Dirty talk had never really been a turn-on of mine because most guys sounded like they were trying to imitate phone sex operators or porn stars. It was at best hilarious, at worst, a mood killer.
But Anthony. Fuck. He’d said he loved when I talked dirty to him, and when he did it, he was so effortlessly raunchy, saying it like he wasn’t trying to mimic a porn star—just expressing what he actually wanted and felt.
I’d pay to see that, I wrote back, hoping it didn’t sound corny. Especially you trying to stay quiet.
The response was not what I expected: You’re at home, right?
Yes.
Do you have a webcam?
Oh dear God. I gulped as I repeated, Yes.
Want to chat?
I get the feeling a webcam chat with you wouldn’t just be a chat.
;)
Yes, please.
I squirmed on the sofa. I’d never done this before. The whole webcam thing had always seemed ridiculous to me. But everything I did with Anthony seemed natural and erotic, so why should this be any different? It was certainly worth a shot.
We exchanged Skype information, and within minutes, the call came through.
Incoming Call from Anthony Talbot.
I hit Accept so fast I was surprised I didn’t break the button.
And then . . . there he was. A touch grainy on the webcam, but unmistakably Anthony. His red hair was slightly tousled, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Was he wearing anything? The sight of him made my whole body vibrate with need, and the thought that he might be naked already sent my body temperature skyward.
“Hey,” he said with that mouthwatering grin. “I’ve got at least an hour until my roommate gets home, so”—he winked—“I’m all yours.”
“Yeah? Good. I’m, uh, alone. Obviously.”
“Perfect.”
My heart was racing with both arousal and nerves. Fooling around in bed was easy. On a camera? How did we do this? I cleared my throat. “So is this the part where I get to watch you jerk off without making a sound?”
Anthony fidgeted, biting his lip. “That what you want to see?”
“It is, yeah.” I paused. “Except I kind of like the sounds you make.”
He chuckled, and when he fidgeted again, something jingled. Was he— Oh my God. Yeah. He was unbuckling his belt. So he was at least half-dressed, and somehow that was even sexier than if he’d been completely naked.
The screen wobbled, and when it stilled, he was farther away, like he’d moved the computer to his knee. That was fine by me, because now more of him was visible. Specifically, his smooth abs and the waistband of his jeans, the belt unbuckled. His hand started working the top button.
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” I croaked, wondering when my mouth had gone dry.
“Baby, I’ve had a hard-on almost all freaking day.” He drew down his zipper. “Rushing would’ve been taking care of it before I texted you.”
“Fair point.”
“I’m glad I waited, though.” He slid his hand into his pants, and his spine straightened. Eyes closed, he pulled in a sharp hiss. “Jesus . . .”
“Yeah?” I licked my lips. “Why’s that?”
“Because I think this is even hotter.” He looked in my eyes in the same moment he freed his cock from his pants, and suddenly I was the one who couldn’t breathe right. It didn’t help that the webcam made his cock look slightly bigger, and as his hand slid up and down its length, my own cock was getting unbearably hard.
Fuck watching. I balanced the laptop on my knee and undid my pants.
Anthony gazed at me intently, biting his lip again as he slowly stroked himself. With some fumbling, I freed my own cock, and joined him.
This wasn’t nearly as hot as if we’d been in bed together, mostly because we’d be able to touch and taste and smell each other, but it was a damn good compromise when we had a thousand miles between us. Anthony was fucking gorgeous anyway, and knowing what he could do to me with that cock made me really, really want to do something about that thousand-mile gap.
Shifting in my seat, I pumped myself harder, careful not to come too fast, but desperate to relieve this craving for him. “Haven’t been able to jerk off without thinking about you,” I ground out. “Might as well make you watch, right?”
“Make me?” He half laughed, half moaned. “Yeah. Twist my arm.” He added a twist to his strokes, curling his hand around the swollen head of his cock. I didn’t know if it was a subconscious or deliberate reaction to his own comment, but whatever—it was hot, and it drew a groan out of him.
“God, you’re hot,” I breathed.
He grinned, eyelids fluttering. Then they opened, and his pupils were blown, eyes gleaming like they did when we were in bed. “You’re probably going to get me fired, you know.”
“What? Why?”
The tip of his tongue drew a languid arc across his lower lip. His movements slowed, but the veins and tendons on his hand stood out, so he must’ve had a hell of a grip on himself. Fuck.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his voice was vaguely slurred. “Because I can’t focus. I was supposed to be paying . . . paying attention to death by goddamned PowerPoint today.” He arched, exhaling hard, and a hint of shiny pre-cum coated the head of his cock.
I wasn’t going to last long anyway, so I pumped myself faster. “What were you thinking about instead?”
“You.” He swallowed again, and his ab muscles contracted as he sucked in another sharp hiss through his teeth. “And how much I wanted to bend you over the table and—”
And I didn’t hear the rest because my whole body suddenly tensed, then relaxed, and I shot cum all over my hand, my shirt, my keyboard, and even a drop on my screen. Fuck the mess—I felt too good to care.
“Oh my God,” I said as I started to co
me down. “Whoa.”
Anthony whimpered softly, and I realized he hadn’t come yet. His hand blurred on his cock. For the first time, I was beyond frustrated with the webcam because I couldn’t push his hand out of the way and take his dick in my mouth.
“Fuck,” I growled. “Too bad I’m not there to swallow all of that.”
Instantly, a long, helpless moan escaped his lips, and semen arced onto his hand and arm and somewhere off-camera.
A second later, he sagged back against the couch. We were three states apart, both covered in our own cum and panting hard as our cocks softened, and it wasn’t nearly enough. Not when I knew what it was like to be with him. Watching him come had nothing on feeling him come, especially when he was halfway down my throat or buried deep in my ass.
Fuck. I’d barely started to lose my hard-on, was still catching my breath from my orgasm, and I was already chomping at the bit for more.
“I guess I should let you go.” Anthony grinned. “And, uh, clean myself up.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I glanced at the drink I’d been ignoring, then back at him. “We should do this again.”
“Oh yes. Definitely. Otherwise I really am going to wind up rubbing one out at my desk.”
I laughed. “Make sure you video it.”
He winked. “Pervert.”
“I didn’t hear you complain once.”
“Nope. Not starting now.”
We both chuckled. After a few more lewd comments, we said good-bye, and I disconnected the call.
After I’d cleaned myself up—not to mention the computer and the edge of the coffee table—I put the laptop aside and picked up my drink. The ice had long ago melted, and all that was left was Jack-stained water, but I wasn’t quite steady enough on my feet to go refill it yet.
As I rolled the watered-down whiskey around on my tongue, I stared off into space and replayed our “conversation.” It had been ridiculously hot, but now I was twitchier and needier. Was it weird that I wanted to see him again? Like, really see him? We’d been texting, and now we were jerking off on the webcam together, but how long before we decided that was too frustrating?
How soon is too soon to say I want to be with you again?
This wasn’t fair.
It had been two weeks since I left Anchor Point, and I was losing my goddamned mind. Kind of like instead of leaving my heart in San Francisco, I’d left my libido and my ability to concentrate in Bumfuck Nowhere, Oregon. Or at least, my ability to concentrate on anyone who wasn’t Noah.
Okay, and my libido wasn’t exactly gone. It was present and accounted for . . . as long as I was thinking about him. Which I was. Almost nonstop. Even when I was supposed to be working. Or sleeping. Or watching TV next to my very heterosexual roommate who was totally cool living with a gay guy, but might not be thrilled about me getting a boner while we watched Sherlock. Though you never knew with Jay. Still, it was awkward for me to be getting those untimely boners because I’d never fucking done that until after Noah had fucked me senseless. Jerk.
In the afternoons, it wasn’t unusual at all for me and Noah to meet up on the webcam and watch each other get off, but it wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t doing me a damn bit of good during the long hours in between. At night—and in the shower in the morning—I’d tried like hell to jerk off to thoughts of anyone else, but it wasn’t working. Every fantasy I had would be fine, and get me hard and panting, and then he’d come strolling onto the scene, and suddenly it would become a mental threesome. And then a twosome again when the other guy vanished and it was just me and Noah. Hot, rough, insatiable Noah.
But he was in Anchor Point. I was in Denver. Masturbating to him was only going to drive me out of my mind because I couldn’t have him. Not that that had stopped me from jerking off to plenty of celebrities and porn stars, but it was different when I’d actually been with someone. When I knew it was more than a fantasy, and the sex with them really was that good. For all I knew, some of those guys had BO or made goat sounds when they came. Noah? I knew what he was like in bed, and I wanted more.
Clearly I needed to remind myself that hot sex had existed before him, and that I could absolutely get off without his virtual or imagined involvement. So, one Saturday while he was at work and my roommate was out of the house, I opened my laptop and went right to the folder labeled Mom I Told You Not To Snoop, and found the subfolder with all of my favorite videos in it. My spine tingled and my cock was already getting hard. Just thinking about the stuff I kept in this folder was enough to arouse at least something.
I went to my absolute hands-down no-competition favorite—a video I’d downloaded a couple of years ago of two tanned, be-six-packed men who had to be boyfriends in real life. They kissed like they meant it, and couldn’t get enough of each other as they fucked in forty million different positions on a gigantic sofa. I loved watching them make out and peel off clothes. And the way the black-haired one blew the blond? Every man should have his junk worshipped like that at least once in his life. Holy fuck.
Leaning back on the pillows with some lotion in my hand, I watched, mouth watering and cock fully hard. I stroked myself and tried not to drool over the close-up of the blond’s freshly sucked cock stretching his partner’s well-lubed ass. I loved that view when I was a top. Watching a man take me, inch by inch, was hotter than it had any right to be. Like when I’d had Noah bent over the side of his bed, and he’d begged me to pound him, but I’d had to just stare for a while at my dick sliding slowly in and out of his hole.
Wait. Noah? Why am I thinking of Noah when I’m watching these guys?
I shook myself. Porn. Focus on the porn.
Maybe what I needed was a video I hadn’t watched so much I’d practically memorized it. With the hand that wasn’t covered in lotion, I pulled up a website I frequented and did a quick search. As always, there were newly uploaded videos, and I clicked on one that looked promising. Oh yeah, this would do the trick. They were probably slightly younger than me—so, early thirties—with typically sculpted porn-star bodies. The video opened with them playfully rolling around on a couple of towels beside a swimming pool. Kissing. Laughing. Rubbing hands all over each other’s oiled-up body. I skipped ahead, past the fondling and the blowing and the rimming, until the slightly bulkier of the two was lubing up his cock while the smaller guy spread his cheeks.
Of course it was always the bigger guy on top. Because smaller dudes like me couldn’t pound a man his size and make him beg.
Tell that to Noah, amigos. Because he’s—
Not here.
I gritted my teeth and stroked myself, focusing hard on the close-up penetration shot on my screen. I turned up the volume, letting their exaggerated moans drown out my own breathing, but ended up muting them after a minute because the bottom’s “Oh, oh, oh, oh” was getting annoying, and the top’s growls of “You like that cock?” just made me roll my eyes. Dirty talk was only fun if it came naturally and— Oh to hell with it, why am I even trying to not think about Noah anymore?
He could talk dirty. Well, when he could talk at all. Usually he was reduced to gasps and moans, and they never sounded theatrical. The sounds he made were as addictive as his cock, and goddamn it, I didn’t want to hear them through my speakers. I wanted to hear them right there in my ear, echoing off his bedroom walls or slightly muffled by the pillow or muted by the rushing shower. I didn’t want to watch him shudder. I wanted a shudder to drive his cock deeper into me, or make him clench around mine until holding back an orgasm became impossible. The view was hot, but I wanted to feel him explode.
I wasn’t paying attention to the two guys fucking on the screen anymore, so I shut my laptop and pushed it away. Porn wasn’t doing a damn thing for me. Okay, it was hot, but my mind kept going back to Noah. Why bother with the video at all?
Because I don’t want to be this obsessed with a man I had for a handful of nights.
One who lives in another state for God’s sake.
And fuck that
noise. I hated long-distance things. I hated flying. I hated being away from someone and only getting together once every few weeks for two or three days of smoking-hot sex and—
Well, okay, the weekend hookups were pretty awesome. It was just the gaps in between and the travel back and forth. And, to be fair, I did have plenty of porn and a pretty good grip, so I could theoretically keep myself sane during those gaps.
I eyed my phone, gnawing the inside of my cheek and wondering if I was a complete and total idiot, or if it was worth taking a chance.
Hell. What was the worst that could happen? Same as when I’d texted him in the first place—he’d delete me, block me, save my contact under Clingy Fucker-Do Not Answer. If he was done with me after the time we’d spent together, aside from jerking it on the webcam and sexting while we worked, then so be it. But what if he was sitting by his phone, wondering the same thing and pondering the idea of sending me a message?
Maybe I should give him some more time to beat me to it.
Oh for fuck’s sake. Coward.
Finally, I grabbed the phone and texted him before I could think twice. I want to see you again.
As soon as the message was gone, my heart went into my throat. Maybe I should’ve opened with something less direct. What if I scared him off? What if he’d been thinking about messaging me, but then saw my message and went, Whoa, hit the brakes there, buddy. And then deleted me or changed my name to Clingy Fucker-Do Not Answer after all. And deleted me from Skype too, because this would make our virtual masturbation sessions too awkward for—
When/where?
The message startled the hell out of me. My heart wasn’t in my throat anymore, but it was going wild.
ASAP? I wrote back. Your place, mine, I don’t care.
While I waited for a response, I opened the laptop again and quickly browsed a travel site for plane tickets. Flying out on a Friday and back in on a Sunday wasn’t the cheapest option, but whatever. It wasn’t that bad, especially from Denver to Portland. Didn’t look too expensive or complicated for him to come my way, either. Damn. Maybe we could make this work.
You’re welcome here, he replied. Or I can make the trip.
