Sunday, 18 September 2011

'Not So Cold Call'

by Sandrine Lopez

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I hate being interrupted by the phone when I'm writing but sometimes...

Cradle the phone under my neck and still try to type.


"It's me."

Sometimes, some person, one person in particular at the moment, I don't mind. In fact...

"How are you?"

"Extremely hard. Exceptionally horny."

"That's always good to know." I reply, and try to imagine. You draw and paint, capture images. I've only got words so my thoughts become a stream of nouns, variations on cock, and adjectives like stiff and burning to describe it.

"Not with you absent, it isn't."

"I'm sorry." Type a bit more of my current erotic story in the pause. "Where are you?"


Ooooh, could you be outside, waiting? Writing has got me in the mood...

"Close by?"

"Sadly not."

Unseen by you, I pull a face. I've been typing all morning, and I could do with a break. And some inspiration. Not that I've got a block or anything but you always bring out the best, the filthiest, of my writing.


"No. Still away. In a hotel."

"Shame it's so far." I sigh, "A dirty weekend in a hotel sounds fun."

They tumbled into bed, late on the filthiest of Friday evenings. No plans to leave it through all of Sexy Saturday and perhaps most, if not all, of Sordid Sunday... in all for her it was going to be a Wicked Willy-filled Weekend.

"It's not the weekend."

"I'll make do." I laugh.

Another pause.

"What are you doing?" You ask.

"Writing. Still."

"Anything dirty?"


"I'm missing you, you know."

My eyes water slightly. A twinge in my heart. Butterfly fluttering in my belly, and lower down.

He left a gap in her days, her soul, her body, something only he and he alone could fill...

"I miss you too. Loads."

"Wish you were here."

"Me too."

Another awkward pause.

"Do you know what I'm doing, right now, while I'm listening to you?"

I blush. It seems fairly obvious.

Stroking his long hard dick. Slow, sensuous caresses, palm over veins, while thinking of her...

"A bit of a waste." I sigh, wishing I was there, more so than moments before. Then it would have been for a nice snuggle. Now...

You say my name, draw it out long and slow, making it into a question.


"You know how I painted you?"

"How could I forget?" You jerking off to get me to play with myself. The sharp intensity of suddenly climaxing in front of you, while you stroked paint onto canvas, stroked yourself yet didn't cum. Until I was ready. Then you, or rather we...

Coupling... long, slow, afternoon fucking...

"That was very inspiring." Another pause. "You use words. Paint me a picture with them?"

"Beg pardon?"

"You've inspired some very special paintings." You tell me. "Tell me what I inspire in you."

"You want me to talk dirty?" I glance around instinctively, even though alone. Typing on a keyboard, jotting notes in a pad, that's easy. Vocalising them, except in privacy and intimacy, I'm not so sure...

"That would be nice." You reply. "Think of it as my story. I paint you. You write me."

The words aren't difficult. They usually come easily.

"How do you want me to start?"

"Describe me. Don't be literal, be creative."

How would I do it with one of my characters? Conjure up a picture, and the most vivid, most recent, is you naked in the studio, as you undressed, standing erect. Ever so fucking erect...

"He was... " I begin, not wanting to fall on cliché descriptions. He didn't paint the surface me, it was always a subtle blend of what I could be, and what he liked, sensed, in me. So... "Being an artist, an expression of confident sensuality that life had painted in the shape of a man."

"That's nice. Not that dirty though."

"I'm getting there. Erotic writing isn't just one fuck after another."

"Now that idea I do like."

"You would."

"And you don't?"

"Didn't say that."

"Then say it. Express it. Get creative on me."

"Are you still jerking off?

I don't have to see his grin. "You tell me."

I've seen how you do it. I know your technique. Describing it shouldn't be... so hard?

So wonderfully, gloriously, deliciously, mouth wateringly - and other things wateringly - hard.

I don't even have to concentrate, call up images in my mind, you just penetrate my thoughts with it, whether I want it or not. And I do want it.

"And being a painting," I continued, savouring the words, my dirty talk, "An expression over reality, he was larger than life. And largest of all was his cock."

There's an appreciative murmur back.

"At least, that was how it expressed itself." My mind wondered, filled with it, "In his hand, stroking it and caressing it like a tame animal in his thrall, it was beautiful and livid, waiting to be unleashed. The ruddy, tight skin and proud, bulging red head as it stood high, made it seem attentive, anticipative, as his master caressed it, cared for it."

"Creative, but still not quite dirty enough..."

"Fuck you!"

"Yes, please!"

Right, you asked for it...

"To absent lovers," I mimicked his voice, by way of introduction "He said, raising his hand as in a mock toast, before bringing it down hard around the hot rigid flesh of his cock. Thinking of her, he kept his hand firm, tight as he knew her cunt was. Ramming his fist up and down, wanting it to be she he was pounding. That she was wrapping her thighs tightly round him, thrusting her hips, her soaked pussy, onto his dick, in time with him..."

A few grunts, a gasp. "Better... "

I could recall him in the studio again. He was almost vicious on himself. How could that not hurt? But then, I wanted that vigorous strength, no holding back, as well, for myself. That finest of lines between pain and pleasure.

As I held the phone to my ear, I could hear his breaths, tearing from his mouth with exertion. Strange to think his lips were almost touching the receiver, as mine were, but separated by so many miles. Kissed it, in the hope he might feel it close to his lips.

His panting, hot breath over the phone. I imagined him, mouth close to my ear, heaving against me.

My free hand falls from the keyboard to settle on my knee. Slowly finds its way up my thigh.

"Still there?" He gasps.

"He pumped his cock into the hot grip of his palm." I carried on, my own increasing breathless lowering to a husky whisper, "Burning dribbles of pre-cum were already issuing from the dark, bruise-coloured tip. As he fucked his fingers harder, he feel the savage sting of his climax busting from his balls, searing its way up inside his stiff shaft until... "

"Yes... ?" You gasp in reply.

"Until... " And I'm already losing myself to the fantasy of your cock, needing to bury itself under my belly and just have its own wicked way, or at least the way I imagine it wants me. My fingernails catch on the thin stretchiness of my panties, tug them out the way.

"Until... ?" You urge.

A slender digit, no match for him, even super-sized by how tenderly sensitive I am, slips inside my cunt. It is swelling and wetting with the thought of him. Hot with the flush of lust.

"Until... he could control himself no more." I murmur sultrily. Because I am losing mine too. "Until he was past the point of no return. No force on God's Earth or universe could stop him. It was a trigger pulled... a shot released... "

Another choked roar of effort, the need to satisfy oneself. Himself. Myself. Ourselves. It began by wanting to be the one to make him cum, so that separated from me he wouldn't wander. But now I'm caught up in his distant climax. I've got him to that point, the edge of that precipice, and I'm teetering with him.

"Ooooh Godddd... " I hear him gasp. Is he cumming already? I bring another finger, then a third, to bear inside. Cup my muff tightly in the heel of my palm. Rub it frantically, up and down, catch the swell of my clit, dry but suddenly awash with the wetness from my flickering, fucking, fingers. I want to be there when he is. At that same moment...

He begins to call my name, swallows on it in mid-syllable, his climax burning into his consciousness until he loses it in some parallel existence of pleasure. Neither aware or unaware, only knowing that total, consummating crash and burn. My hand blurs into how I imagine his moves, needing to free his cum, spurt hotly in the air. I wish I was there to catch it...

He finishes my name, and I know he is finishing his wanking, a fading noise in his throat, transmitted across the miles. And just when I think our crossed moments have passed, I find the trigger for myself, pulling my fingers out and flattening my palm, down, hard, dragging, then up in a long, slow rub over labia, clit and muff to my tum...

A twitch, a shudder, an unfolding, and I fall over the edge with you. You climaxing, letting go, ejaculating high in pulsed white squirts. Me rippling, flowing, trembling, relaxing as only orgasms can. As one, our voices become a single appreciative hum of bliss and physical satisfaction, sharing the telephone line between.

And we hadn't even touched each other.


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

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Sandrine's notes:

This is the long version of my Twitfic 'Call'. I was halfway through writing it when I decided to have a go at a shorter version for Twitter. Then I came back and finished it. Strange how things work out...

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