I lived abroad in a European city for the first part of the pandemic, arriving as the crisis was initially unfolding. During one of the ill-advised relaxation periods after the first wave I went for a drink with someone from an app. We talked and laughed and – I think to our mutual surprise – spent the night together. For the remainder of the summer I saw Kate often. In the long evenings she showed me the hidden parks and bars of her city and when the sun set we devoured each other in her bedroom. Perhaps the progress of our short relationship was hurried along by the end of days atmosphere of the pandemic or by my looming departure date. It was painful to say goodbye but we were both glad of our time together and promised to stay in touch. Like many young people who have had their plans spoiled this year, I returned to the warm but decidedly unerotic bosom of my family.
In the summer Kate and I were not regular texters, probably because we were frequently seeing each other in person. Most of our virtual communication had been to arrange rendezvous. I had tried some sly innuendo once or twice but she seemed reluctant to play. No problem, many people aren’t comfortable detailing their carnal desires on a device that could easily go missing, or feel embarrassed about writing them down in the first place. But with this precedent set and the way we left things I assumed our future text conversations would be strictly platonic. I was mistaken.
We checked in with each other every week or so, discussing books we were reading and recommending albums to each other. Personal and familiar ground. But one day when wrapping up my work the message light on my phone winked at me. I opened WhatsApp and to my surprise found a a full length mirror selfie of Kate in blue lingerie, her long legs slightly apart and blonde hair carefully brushed. Heart beating faster, I told her I remembered unclasping the bra in the photo and made some rather tame suggestion about what I would do to her were we in the same room together.
She reset the tone. *No. I need you to get on your knees and lick me,* she replied. Back in the summer, in the kitchen of her houseshare after an evening at a bar filled with drinking and flirtatious touching, I had impulsively squatted down, lifted her dress up and started kissing her purposefully through her underwear. As she got wetter I pulled the silky material to one side so my lips could meet her flesh and I could slip my tongue inside her. She gasped but remained standing, reaching down to pull my hair. I was dimly aware that she was looking out through a head height window into the street below, which spurred me on further. We continued into the bedroom where she straddled my face and lost herself while fucking my mouth. When I read her text I replayed this memory again and again, relishing the thought that one day she would order me to repeat it.
A few weeks later we concocted some half-baked role play which quickly degenerated. *I want to fuck you on top and moan in your ear*, Kate wrote. *I have two fingers inside me.* I hoped she was thinking about when she pinned me down and I pressed myself up and into her. Together we had created a slow, unbearable rhythm. Her warm breath on my neck. Scratches on my chest. My hips pushing upwards to go deeper. Her cheeks flushed with exertion and pleasure. And, intertwined with this, I visualised her stroking herself in her bedroom hundreds of miles away.
Other times I have taken control of the narrative. *I want to bind your wrists, then tease and spank you*, thinking of the lazy morning where I had tied her hands to the bed and repeatedly ran my hands up and down her legs before finally entering her. She had tilted her head back and panted but when we next see each other I want the anticipation to be so heightened that she is crying out to be filled. Days later on our chat thread during some other innocent conversation she admitted she had been thinking of the spanking all week, which was *arousing in whole new ways*. Keen to provide more material, I planted an image in her head of *a red hand print still lingering on you as I slide in and out*. I was rewarded by a photo of her on all fours wearing stockings and suspenders, in position to receive my hand and shaft. In the madness of lust I tried to transport myself into my screen, recalling her smooth legs and the luscious sensation of pulling that long blonde hair as I took her from behind.
The messages and pictures and the memories they evoke now mean it’s difficult for me to open the chat without starting to get hard. As I read and write I imagine Kate lying on her bed in her open night robe while she circles her clit with her little pink vibrator. And now, of course, I think about you reading this precis of our messages and sliding your hand into your knickers (or boxers, but unfortunately that isn’t my cup of tea) and wish I could join her, or you, and we could explore each other until we are glowing and aching. I was lucky to enjoy my summer, and I feel for all of you who are missing sexual intimacy. Fuck this pandemic, stay safe and bring on 2021.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/knd60b/lust_in_the_time_of_covid_revisiting_a_delicious