I ask, winding the hair that’s fallen from its tie. There’s a pause at the end of the line. Every minute of our calls costs, but we’re still finding our footing, so we allow the time.
Your typically upbeat voice finally quips out, “Can you be more specific?”
“Do I show up in your dreams?” I notice I’m biting my nail, move my hand to the couch, sit on it to keep still.
“Sometimes.”
I fight the urge to run—where, I don’t know. I’d be silly enough to bring the phone with me anyway, running from you with you on the line to hear my panting.
“What do I do?” I’m going to vomit. I’m 100% sure I’m going to vomit.
Another pause. Fuck me, I think, fuck I’ve fucked it I’ve gone and just fucking fucked it—
“I’m not sure I could tell you.”
Oh. Right.
“You can tell me anything.” It’s true. I say it to remind you, and to remember that we have something solid underneath us. I can’t feel the ground, but it’s somewhere.
“You’re not on your best behaviour, when you come around these parts.” I laugh. I love your carefully calculated humour—it’s how you love me.
“I’d like to know what I’m being accused of. What are your complaints?”
“I didn’t say complaints!”
“I’d like to know,” I confess. “If you’ll tell me.”
You sigh. Then silence. The distanced click of a door closing.
“I’m no good at this.”
“At what? Talking?”
“You know,” you stammer, “Phone sex.”
“I only asked you to tell me a story. You’re good at that.” For all I need your confidence in me, I’m still surprised by you needing mine in you. “Start at the beginning.”
You exhale and it crackles in my ear. “Last time was two nights ago.”
“Not last night?”
“Last night was a carnival.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t ask me to the carnival!”
“Maybe you said no?”
“I would never say no to the carnival.”
“Aren’t I meant to be telling the story?” I can hear your grin, the bubbling of your cocky, carefree heart. “Absolutely,” I nod, though you can’t see me, “Apologies. Go on.”
Another pause, but shorter than those before—just long enough for you to shift and settle down in something that creaks like a chair or a bed. “You were in my closet.”
“Hot.”
“No, I know, but, you were going through my tee shirts. And by the time I found you and stopped you, you’d found the best one, the softest old one with the hole in the shoulder, but—now I think, I don’t know where your clothes were, but it was just you, in my shirt, just my shirt.”
“So… hot?”
“Hot.”
“What about it?”
“Your thighs,” you answer, as if those two words are everything. “I mean, your legs, all of them. You looked so… comfortable. Like, you would be comfortable, to hold.”
“Was I?”
There’s just the tiniest groan and I think it’s my new favourite sound for all time. I instantly resolve to evoke it as often as possible. Then, quiet and soft, you whisper, “Yes.”
I search for something to offer you. “I sometimes imagine you’re carrying me, that you’ve bundled me up in your arms with my knees tucked in, or cradled me in your lap. Something like that?”
“God, I’d kill,” you sigh, and my heart somehow breaks and glows in the same instant. “No, you were, uh, a bit more forward.”
“Tell me more, please.”
“You took my hand and took me to the bed and then you… climbed up, on top of me. Your thighs on top of my thighs, and I could feel—” A pause.
“What?”
You actually cough. “You— naked.” It’s a good enough attempt. It’s the middle of the day here, and my whole neck and chest are burning; I can only imagine how you’re coping in the middle of the night.
“And that’s all I did? Crush you into bed?”
“No, I—well, first of all, ‘crush’ isn’t—” There’s a bit of a sigh as you refocus. “I asked if I could touch you and you brought my hand up to your, your, breast, and… it was soft.” You’ve gotten quieter, more heated. “And I couldn’t help it, I just wanted to touch you, to touch all of you, I pulled my shirt off you and—”
“What?” I hear my voice is a squeak, too.
“You were so soft, love. Just. Soft.” Your breath catches. “And you were just absolutely rutting against me and I could feel you, I could feel—” A swallow. “You were warm, and wet, and you wanted me—”
“I want you,” I attest.
“—and all I could do was hold you close to me and rut back and,” A choking sound comes out the line. “Little love, I—”
“I’m here. What can I do for you?”
You actually chuckle. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Nowhere I’d rather be.”
Then, your hesitation surfaces.
“This is okay?”
“This is okay,” I laugh, because nothing’s been so okay ever in the chaos of this little life. “But I want to know how the story ends.”
I’m met with a shaky exhale. “Mm. You’re feral, just absolutely vicious, but—in the dream, I mean—you kind of whine and I can tell you aren’t getting what you want, so I flip us over, so I’m on top of you, and start to grind into you—” A swallow. “—But you’re bucking up to meet me, I mean, there’s no stopping you, and you’re so warm and so wet and so soft that I can’t help it until I’m just as wild, and then we’re just fucking against each other and I know—” A catch on the exhale.
“Feeling you underneath me, I want it, I want it all the time now,” you spout, beginning to lose your grip. “I want your thighs against mine and your fucking nails on my arse and I want you to be smiling, you were smiling, I want you here.” Your voice is on edge. “And I just. So I keep. And I feel I shouldn’t but I keep.”
“Don’t stop. I’m smiling. Can’t you hear?” I ask. My joy always spills through my voice. “I want you, honey, weighing me down, chest on my chest,” I stumble, “I want you to come. Will you?”
I’m answered with a grunt. “Yes.” It’s feeble but clear of intent.
“I want to feel your skin on mine, you rubbing against my cunt,” I sing, “I want to feel you come hot across my stomach, between us, so that it slides when I catch you. I want to feel you. God, I want to feel you,” I confess.
It’s nearly silent.
“Can you feel me?” I breathe.
“Yes,” comes your answer, and then a ground-rupturing moan, and I can feel heat and endorphins and this massive, massive urge to be holding you, to put you back together, but all we’ve got are these phones, so I hold on as you breathe, letting that space exist.
After a minute of breathing, you smirk, “If only you could see me now.”
“I wish I could,” I manage. “Thoroughly debauched?”
“Never filthy, when it’s you,” you say, and my heart falls somewhere into the ocean. “But I need a shower.”
“In the morning? It’s late.”
“Yess,” you hiss, a yawn mingling with the rustling of cloth, “In the morning.”
“You deserve some sleep.”
“It’s creeping up rather quickly,” you murmur, the sounds of sheets rustling dying down.
“I’m shocked,” I quip. I can almost see you grin, eyes closed.
I’ve just begun to think you may have fallen asleep when you say, low and quiet, “I wish you were here.”
“So soon,” I remind you, and a little bit of it is reminding me, too. “Would you hold me?”
“You know I would.”
I don’t hang up until you start to snore.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/jtwnct/what_do_you_dream_about_mf_phone_sex_coping_w_the