At His Command

I told him words wouldn't do it.

Not X-rated emails.

Or sizzling phone sex.

Or "You know how much I love you, babe."

And certainly not, "I'm sorry I have to give up three weeks of great sex with you to go to Europe to kiss client ass for my fat boss who will pocket all the profit and maybe if I'm lucky give me a measly bonus at the end of the fiscal year"—although a little honesty about what's really going on here with his new job would be a step in the right direction.

What I needed was flesh. Heat. The music of his moans in my ear. His sturdy hands stroking my breasts. His finger teasing my asshole. His cock buried so deep inside my red, grasping mouth of a cunt, I didn't feel hungry anymore.

He couldn't take me there with just words.

To his credit, he did deliver the goods the evening before he left for London. It was just like the early days when we spent whole weekends tangled together in the sheets, staggering out of bed only to get another bottle of wine or pay the pizza delivery guy. He made me come five times, twice riding his cock, twice on his tongue and once as he pinched my nipples and spanked my ass while I "secretly" rubbed my pussy against the mattress. I treated him to a postprandial crème de menthe blowjob, along with my usual repertory of tricks to tease his tender parts. I liked the way he groaned and called out my name, but I really hoped our fuck-fest would make him say other words.

Such as: "Fuck them, I'm staying with you."

Instead, he stumbled off to the airport, with a bleary-eyed wink and a promise he'd email every morning and night, and we'd have a nice long phone call—on the company's dollar--every Saturday afternoon.

Still floating in the afterglow, I convinced myself that was enough, that we could make it through three weeks apart with just words.

Until I got his first email.

He wrote that he was really looking forward to our "date" on Saturday, but in the meantime he wanted me to refrain from any self-pleasuring activity—he actually used that lady librarian expression--for the rest of the week. To make it all the hotter when he finally brought me off over the phone.

Yeah, right.

I gave a nasty little laugh, pulled my nightgown up to my waist and jilled off right in front of the computer. Now and then I'd take a break and type a few more sentences of my reply.

Hey, lover boy. I think it's time for a little confession. When you're gone I keep myself plenty satisfied with the help of two tireless lovers. At night they take turns: one strokes my nipples into hard little points, while the other goes down to do the slip-slide in my wet pussy. Every morning, I wake up with a tight ache between my legs—don't kid yourself girls don't rise at dawn, it's just hidden away inside. So me and my fuck buddies do it then, too, and I'm feeling so sexy from my morning quickie, I put on a short skirt and boots, or the jeans that push right up in my crotch to go to work at the bookstore. You'd never let me out of the apartment dressed that way, but you aren't here to stop me, are you? I get so itchy I can't help but shake my butt when I guide the gray-haired married men over to the finance section. And I always make sure the cute young guys need a book from the lowest shelf, so I can bend over and give them an eyeful of ass or cleavage, depending on the angle. Yesterday I snuck off to the alcove by the poetry journals where I let lover number one climb under my skirt, while number two yanked my sweater over my tits and tweaked and pinched them until I came so hard my head practically blew off. Moments after I straightened my clothes, a really hot guy—one of those pony-tailed literary types--walked in and gave me a long, knowing look. I'm sure he knew what I'd been doing. He could probably smell me, too. The idea got me so turned on, I had another encounter in the ladies' room. But maybe next time I'll just fuck the guy against the bookshelf. The truth is I'm having such a wild time, I don't miss you at all. Why would I give up all this fun for an hour of yackety-yak phone sex with you?

Think again, buddy.

I clicked the send icon, spread my legs wider around the chair and climaxed right then and there on my dancing finger. Loudly.

Sure, maybe I was taunting him, but it served him right. Besides, a lot of what I wrote was true. I did get turned on when I was working at the bookstore. I wouldn't admit it to him, but it wasn't the so much the customers as the words that excited me, especially when they were packaged between the covers of a new book. I loved to stroke its crisp pages, then spread it open wide and bend to breathe in the perfume of fresh paper and ink. I rarely started reading it at the beginning, I wanted to take a book by surprise, slip right inside its soft middle. The good ones always got under my skin to lift me, transport me, to another time, another place, another body. A steamy sex scene would always send me straight to the staff ladies' room for relief.

And when he was away, I usually did soothe myself to sleep with some action between my legs, then woke up horny and took the necessary steps to quench that fire, too. But busy as they were, my hands never quite stilled the longing deep in my belly, the way he could do with his fingers, tongue and cock.

And so, I had to admit, the last part of the email was a bald-faced lie.

I did miss him. Bad.

When I saw his reply in my in-box the next morning, I felt a twinge of worry that I'd gone too far with the insatiable slut revenge fantasy. But he didn't seem mad. In fact he apologized and agreed he had no right to put limits on my private activities, especially since he couldn't help jacking off after he read the part about me playing with myself in the poetry annex. While he stroked his cock, he imagined he'd been the one to catch me with my hand up my skirt and pictured all the ways he'd "punish" me for it.

But, he suggested again with all due respect, for my own enjoyment, I might consider abstaining on Friday night and Saturday morning. He'd come up with some new ideas for our date and he was pretty sure I'd agree they were worth waiting for. He promised to send instructions on how to prepare myself by Saturday morning.

I had to laugh again.

While he'd certainly picked up on my intention to make him jealous with the public masturbation scene, he was apparently slow to grasp my broader message of female autonomy.

Still, I had to admit the word "instructions" made me tingle a little down there. I even took a little vacation from tickling the clam as the weekend drew near.

Of course, I got up extra early to check my email Saturday morning.

As promised, my instructions were waiting:

I'll call you at noon on Saturday, your time. Exactly ten minutes before I want you to do the following:

1.Take off all your clothes and put on the Hello Kitty thong I brought from Japan last month. If you're cold, you may cover yourself with your bathrobe, but nothing else.

2.Place your hairbrush and hand mirror on the middle of the bed.

3.Lie down beside them and wait, hands at your side, until the phone rings.

Then you may answer it.

That was it. A bossy to-do list. No loving endearments. No "can't wait to hear your sexy voice." None of the things a truly caring lover should say to his long-suffering and very horny girlfriend.

So why was my heart going pitter-patter in my chest?

Of course, I told myself, no man gave me "instructions." I'd play along because I had nothing better to do—for the moment. At the appointed time, I stripped and put on the thong, a black silk triangle on a string with a silly, beribboned kitty face on the front. I'd gotten a giggle out of it when he gave it to me after his last trip, but I hadn't worn it yet. It was a wise choice for overseas foreplay—definitely snug in all the right places.

But the mirror and the brush stumped me. Was he planning some kind of weird naked makeover session? I suddenly remembered some amateur porn pictures I'd seen on the internet of a woman stroking her pubic hair with her hairbrush. She had this dreamy expression as if it were the most fascinating activity on earth, although at the time I suspected she was faking it for the photographer boyfriend.

Curious, I picked up the brush—screw the "wait with hands at your side" order—pushed down the thong and ran it gently through my bush.

No, I didn't blast off into orgasmic orbit at the first touch, but the sensation was interesting. Soft but rough at the same time, like the strokes of a cat's tongue.

The phone rang.

I jumped and tossed away the brush, as if he could somehow see me breaking the rules. It probably didn't help that I gulped, guiltily, in the middle of my "hello."

"Hey there, hot stuff, did you do everything on the list?" His voice was deeper than I remembered. And cocky. Too cocky.

"And what if I didn't?"

He laughed, warm and slow. "Then I guess I'll have to make you do as you're told."

"Sweetie, in case you didn't notice, you're thousands of miles away. How will you make me do anything? Not with words."

He paused. "We'll see about that."

In spite of myself, my cunt muscles fluttered, as if a secret butterfly were tickling me inside with its soft wings. But I didn't have to admit that to him.

"So, Part-time Lover, what am I supposed to do with the grooming implements?" I asked in my brattiest tone.

He laughed again, but this time he seemed embarrassed, as if he'd been the one caught with his hands down his pants. "Well, I got inspired after I read that first email. But I don't want to give away the surprise yet."

"Isn't it just like you to keep me waiting a long time for the good stuff?"

"Enough about me and my shortcomings, okay? I'd rather talk about you. Are you wearing the thong?"

"Uh huh," I said, but with a healthy dash of defiance.

"Is it pulled up high so it presses between your pussy lips?"

That shouldn't have taken me by surprise, but it did, as a little zing of lust between my legs. "Somewhat."

"Pull it up a little higher. So that you can't think of anything else but that pressure against your clit."

I was about to refuse, on principle, but my hands seemed to reach down of their own accord and tug the sides another inch farther over my hips. An involuntary sigh of pleasure escaped my lips.

"See, that feels nice, doesn't it? Can you feel it rubbing against your sensitive pink asshole, too?"

His voice was so sweet, it slipped into my ear like hot fudge sauce gliding over ice cream. Already my face was hot, partly because those dirty words were making me blush, partly because they were really turning me on.

"You didn't answer me," he scolded.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, what?"

"Yeah, it's rubbing up against my asshole," I murmured.

"Good. Now, I want you to open your robe and hold the mirror in front of your gorgeous breasts."

As I reached for the mirror, I noticed my hand was trembling. What would he tell me to do next? And would I continue to obey this easily, like a pliant little sex slave with no will of her own?

"Tell me, is your chest flushed and red, like it gets when you're all turned on?"

My "yes" slipped out before I could manage a lie.

"And your nipples? Are they hard yet?"

"Not really. The room's pretty warm."

"We'll have to do something about that. I want you to try a new trick. I want you to rub the mirror against your nipple very gently."

An unusual idea, but I figured it was worth a try.

I gasped as the cold, smooth surface brushed my aureole.

"Does it feel good?" His voice had a hopeful lilt.

"Great," I sighed as I moved the mirror in slow circles over one nipple, then the other. "It's cold at first, but then it feels hot. And then it feels like your fingers are touching me there." Not to mention the sensation of fire and ice was shooting straight to my pussy and made my hips do a twitching dance against the mattress.

Through the receiver I heard a little "hmph" of victory. "I'm glad it's working out so well. But I want you to stop now."

He couldn't mean it. This mirror trick definitely called for further exploration. "You're kidding, right?"

"I'm afraid not. But remember, good things come to she who waits. I want you to move the mirror lower. To the kitty picture on your underwear."

I considered mutiny, but had to admit that following orders thus far was bringing unexpected benefits.

"Okay, for this next part we have to get you wet. Very wet. But that shouldn't be a problem. I know how much you like to touch yourself."

"Yeah, and how about you?" I fired back.

"Guilty as charged, though I don't have nearly as many opportunities as you do, especially on the job. But right now I'm feeling fine--lying on my bed with my cock in my hand, a little lotion for lube, and a hot babe on the phone who sounds like she's getting hotter by the minute."

I frowned. For the first time he'd struck the wrong note. I couldn't help but picture him stretched out on a hotel bed, a blandly tasteful picture hanging on the wall beside him, pay-per-view porn on the T.V. And the woman of his dreams on the other end of the phone was so far away, so insubstantial, she could be anyone willing to read the lines.

"Wait a minute, lover boy, before we proceed, what's your credit card number? Phone sex services always make you traveling businessmen pay upfront to play out your fantasies, don't they?"

He was silent for a moment. "You are making me pay, babe, don't doubt it for a minute." The satiny seducer was gone. He was himself again. Lonely and a little sad.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I know I'm being a bitch, but it's tough for me."

"Yeah, I know. It's not easy for me either. Listen, I want to make you happy. Can you let me try? I know it's just words."

I felt another twinge, but higher this time, near my heart. He was trying, I could tell. In bed, in the flesh, he was more a man of action than words, but his new tongue technique was surprisingly effective. "It is making me happy. Really. Now where were we? I believe you were about to order me to masturbate."

His laugh was mixed with a sigh of relief. "That's exactly what I was about to do."

"I need very specific instructions, though. I promise to be a good girl and do everything you say."

"Hey, if that's what the lady wants. So, why don't you spread your legs for me? But just a little. Now I want you to touch yourself through the thong. Rub your clit until you make a nice wet spot on the kitty."

The hot fudge voice was back, pouring down my spine, pooling warm between my thighs. My finger pushed the silky cloth of the thong back and forth over my sweet spot so deliciously, I moaned into the telephone.

"Are you watching yourself in the mirror?"

I gazed down at the reflection of my finger wiggling away. Through my lust-fogged eyes, it looked like a stranger's hand, as if another woman were making love to me. The thought made my breath come faster. "Yes, I am watching."

"It's the best sight in the world, isn't it? A horny girl touching her pussy. But you have to take your hand away now."

I wailed in frustration. "Not again. Come on, I was just getting into it."

"Trust me," he cooed. "You're going to like this next part. I want you to give your clit a spanking. Not too hard. Just a few slaps to teach it a lesson for being so ravenous."

With a soft cry of shame, I covered my face with my hand. I suddenly felt so exposed, as if he'd reached through the phone and pulled me open to discover something darker and more secret than naked flesh. As if he heard that little voice deep inside me whispering, Yes, you do deserve a spanking for being so hungry for sex. You love it when he makes you do bad things, so you can do just what the teacher wants and be good and bad at the same time.

"It sounds like you're ready to begin. Shall we?"

Panting, I brought my flattened fingers down against my mons, once, twice, three times, groaning as the sharp jolt on my clit rolled through my whole body in waves.

"Again," he commanded.

I slapped myself once more, whimpering until the hot prickling pleasure faded.

"Very good. Now, we've got one more thing to try. I want you to pick up the brush, push the thong to the side, and press the end of the handle gently against your vagina."

I caught my breath.

"Um, I'm not so sure I can do that." My voice squeaked out, small and scared.

"What's the matter?" he asked, confused. "Don't you ever put hard things inside when you play with yourself?"

Should I tell him the truth? That, sure, I could talk like a crazed nympho, but when it came to push and shove, I was a pedestrian masturbator. Too chicken even to put my own fingers inside. "Actually, I don't."

"Hmm, I wouldn't have guessed that. Could you be a brave girl and try? For me?"

It really was magic the way he made his voice so warm and soft it sank under my skin to melt every muscle in my body. Including my tongue, which babbled out the answer I wasn't sure I wanted to give: "Yeah, sure. You know I'll do anything for you."

With a shaking hand and the help of the mirror, I guided the handle of the brush to my pussy lips. It probably helped that my only companions were his words, whispering inside me like the echo of my own lust. I don't think I could have done it if he'd really been watching.

I pushed the end of the brush slowly inside. My swollen lips parted with a faint, welcoming smack. He had made me wet with his talk. Very wet. I pushed deeper. The handle slipped all the way up to point where the brush flared into bristles. It looked silly, but it felt nice. And very naughty.

"It's in."

"Good girl. You don't know how jealous I am of that lucky brush. But now we get to put everything together for the grand finale. Do you think you can come around the brush if I let you play with your clit and rub the mirror on your nipples?"

A rhetorical question if there ever was one. I was certainly willing to try. I had to clench my legs together to keep the brush in place, but the rest was easy. He was right, too, it was magic how it all came together. The mirror was his one hand, twisting and tugging my nipples. The thong was his other, teasing the groove of my ass. The brush was his cock, so hard, so there.

And all around were sounds, moans and rhythmic grunts racing at the speed of light under the Atlantic, the squish of a lubed-up palm on his cock, the click of my finger finally snaking under the thong to bare, slick flesh.

"Tell me when you're going to come. I want you to come now," he barked.

"Yes, now," I called out just as his guttural cries shot back through the phone.

I could hear it was as good for him as it was for me.

Afterwards he told me how much he missed me and asked, uncertainly, if I missed him, too.

I touched my fingers to my belly. I was a little sore down there, deliciously tender and used. Like he had just been inside me, like he still was there, filling me with his voice, his cock, his love. I wanted to tell him I didn't miss him at all, because he was with me.

All it took was words.