You type my number into your phone and then pause, unsure about whether to press the dial button. You think about how much you’ll regret not calling and press the button before you can change your mind.
The phone rings four times before I pick.
“Hey!” you say, trying to sound confident.
“You called!” I reply. You can hear my smile down the other end of the line. I wasn’t sure if you’d go through with it.
“I said I would…”
Your sentence tails off and you hear silence in reply. You worry that the relationship that’s been developing online is going to flounder in the real world.
“That Facebook conversation was getting pretty intense,” you continue, trying to find a way to break the ice.
“Yeah… well… sorry about that,” I say.
“No, no. Don’t apologise. It sounded like you’ve had a rough time of it, and I like to talk, and to listen, so…”
“Thank you. It was nice to talk. And now it’s nice to hear what your voice sounds like.”
You blush. “You too,” you say, and then, after a pause, “You’ve got a lovely accent.” You hope that returning the compliment will raise the colour in my cheeks too. You wish you could see me, to see how I’m reacting. The only pictures we have of each other are those from Facebook profiles.
You laugh. “Is that what you say to all the girls?” I ask. I continue before you can reply. “But I told you I’ve lived all over the place. First Wales, and then England, and now Sweden. You can’t help but pick up a bit of a varied accent.”
“I suppose so…” You tail off, not sure how to follow up. “Still, it’s lovely to hear. Very melodic.” I smile at the compliment and butterflies stir in my stomach. It’s been a long time since a man paid said something so nice to me, and so eloquently. I can’t think how to reply.
“You’re much quieter on the phone than the Facebook messages,” you say.
I laugh, thankful that you’ve broken the tension. “Oh, just you wait until I get going. Terry, that friend I was telling you about. Although actually, she’s my niece, but a friend as well. Well, Terry, she says I can talk the hind legs off a donkey. When I’m relaxed and wotnot.”
You smile to yourself, and realise that you’ve just gotten a glimpse of how I can be when more relaxed. There’s another pause.
“So, are you relaxed now?” you ask.
“Not really… I mean, it’s not every day I get phone calls from strange men off the Internet.”
You laugh. “I don’t know about strange.”
I laugh too. “I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much.” The mood has lightened slightly.
“Besides,” I continue, “you sound very relaxed. Like you do this all the time. How many strange girls off the Internet have you called up lately?”
You realise that I’m half joking, and half fishing for information.
“You’re the first,” you say, and I think I believe you. “But maybe I’ll start to enjoy it and make a habit, you know?”
Your laugh makes me smile.
“Anyway,” I continue, “you sound nice and confident. Not nervous at all.”
“And you’re still nervous?”
“Yeah… a bit.”
“Anything I can do about it?”
The line goes quiet and then you hear me giggle.
“What ya wearing?” I ask. I can’t believe I just blurted out one of the clichés of Internet chat. It makes you laugh, though.
“Oh, nothing much…” you say teasingly. I raise an eyebrow, forgetting you can’t see it. “Just t-shirt, jeans, socks… how much detail to you need?”
I laugh. “Maybe I’ll imagine the rest,” I say.
“And you?” you ask hopefully.
“You can stop that right now, mister!” I say with faked outrage. You laugh, suddenly desperate to know the answer but not willing to push. I like that you don’t. The line goes quiet again.
“Has that helped?” you ask.
“With the nervousness.”
“Well, a bit…” I say, “But there is something that would help.”
“What? I’ll do what I can.”
I giggle. “You could take your t-shirt off. That might help.”
“Take my t-shirt off?” you say, somewhat confused, “On the phone? How will that help? And you can’t even see?”
I laugh. “Oh yeah. It’ll help. Definitely. And you did ask…”
You wonder how the conversation suddenly took this turn.
“So if I take my t-shirt off, you’ll be less nervous? How does that work? What if I just say that I have without really doing it?” you say.
“I’ll know,” I say firmly.
“Women’s intuition. I know how a man sounds without his shirt on.” I smile to myself, hoping you’ll fall for that line.
You put the phone onto the table, think for a second about just pretending you’ve taken your t-shirt off, but then pull it over your head and throw it onto the chair next to you. Why not? You think. The curtains are closed so no-one can see. You pick the phone up again.
“Okay. It’s done,” you say. You hear another giggle as I summon some more courage.
“Photo? To prove it?” I say hopefully. You laugh.
“Uh-uh, missie,” which raises a laugh, “And besides, I can never work out how to do that on this phone without hanging up first.”
“What a lame excuse! But, don’t do that,” I tell you, “Send one afterwards instead.”
You laugh. “I will if you do first,” you say.
“Oh sure, I can send you a photo. What do you want one of? A cat? My books? The Eiffel Tower?”
You laugh. “You know what I mean,” you say, “You without your blouse, or t-shirt, or whatever you’re wearing, and if I get a photo from you I’ll send one too.”
“I’m wearing a tight stretchy top,” I say, “but it’s staying on. You’re trying to stop me feeling nervous, remember? I don’t want to be at a disadvantage.”
“But you want me at a disadvantage?”
I bite my lip. I would love to have you at an even greater disadvantage. “Yup. That’s how it works.”
You still don’t understand how that works, but never mind.
“Well, no photo for you”, you say. I groan in exaggerated disappointment. “But is it working yet?”
“Is what working?” I reply.
“Being less nervous?”
I giggle. “A bit,” I say, “But maybe… you could take your socks off. Because, now I’ve got you on the phone, I’m worried you’ll get distracted by something and then run off mid-call. If you take your socks off then I’ll know you’re not about to run out.”
You laugh. That has to be the thinnest logic anyone has ever used to justify anything.
“How about I promise not to run out?” you ask.
“Nope. I need to know it’ll take you a minute to put your socks back on.”
You laugh again. “And what if I just say I’ve taken them off.”
“I’ll know. Women’s intuition.” Maybe I shouldn’t overuse that, but it worked on you last time. The line goes quiet for a second.
“And what do I get in return?” you ask me hopefully.
“Well,” I say, “Maybe I’ll think about taking my top off. Maybe.”
“But over the phone how will I know?” you ask and I can hear the grin in your voice, “Without photo evidence…”
“Dream on if you think that’s happening! You get plenty out of it already. Since I like thinking of you sitting there in just your trousers…”
“… and underwear…” you interrupt.
“Yes, and underwear…So maybe you’ll like the thought of me sitting here without my top too? Even without seeing it?”
You feel a twitch in your groin. The image you conjure up is appealing.
“Okay, okay,” you say, “There’s one sock coming off… and there’s the other. Now, you’re turn.”
“A deal’s a deal,” I say, “So, here goes.” You listen for the rustle of fabric but hear nothing. “I’ve thought about it as I said, and I’ve decided not to.”
“What! You cheat!” you say.
“I didn’t cheat! I said I’d think about it, and I did! Now take back calling me a cheat or I’ll hang up!”
“Okay okay, you’re not a cheat! But you’re more devious than I’d have thought.”
I giggle. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I’ve got plenty more devious left.”
There’s another pause. “Well, you sound more relaxed at least,” you say.
“Yeah, I am a bit…”
“A bit?” you ask, “Still only a bit?”
“I mean, I’m talking to this strange man I met on the Internet, and what if you’re trying to trick me into something? How do I know I can trust you?” I wish you could see how wide my smile is as we’re talking, but you’re glad I can’t see the exasperated look on your face.
“What on earth can I be trying to trick you into? I don’t even know you?” you say.
“How do I know? Maybe you’re in a room with your mates and they’re all laughing away at how you’re leading me on. How do I know that’s not happening?”
You laugh. “You know you sound quite mad?”
“Not mad,” I reply, still grinning, “I just want to know I can trust you. And if you took your trousers off, I’d know you were on your own, because why would you take your trousers off in front of all your friends?”
You laugh again. “But you can’t see if I…” you start.
“I’ll know,” I say.
“But I could just lie…”
“Off with them”
“And I’d be here fully clothed…”
“And surrounded by…”
You sigh. “This makes no sense,” you say and I hear you put the phone on the table. I’m not sure if I can make out the sound of a belt and a zip, but sound of rustling makes me think you’re doing as you’re told. You pick the phone up.
“Okay. They’re off. Happy now?” you ask.
“Mmmm very,” I say, “I feel much better now.”
“Good. I’m glad, because I’m not sure I do,” you say, although the bulge in your underwear is offsetting the feeling somewhat. “So you’ve got me where and how you want me, now what?”
“Well, you’re not quite where, because here would be better…” I say. You feel your groin twitch again. “But it’s nice to be talking to a man in his underwear when I’m here all prim and proper.” I giggle again, and then another pause as we both wonder how this has happened and where it’s going.
“What are they like?” I ask suddenly.
“What are what like?”
“Your underwear? What’s it like?”
You laugh, but you don’t sound as confident as before. I’m happy to have the upper hand now.
“Kind of… I don’t know, briefs, I guess.”
“You guess?” I say, “Can’t you see them from where you are? Do you want to take a photo and I’ll identify them for you?”
“No I don’t!” you say. “So, yes, they’re briefs.”
“Nice and tight ones, I hope?”
You look down. Your cock is pushing up against the waistband. If it grows much more and you won’t fit into your briefs at all.
“Er, yeah, you could say that. Especially at the moment.”
I giggle again. “Mmmm that sounds perfect,” I say, “I’m just imagining you now, sitting there, almost naked. Or you could save me imagining, because it’s hard work, and take a photo for me?…”
“No photos!” you say rather too quickly. I laugh.
“But they’re nice and tight?” I ask again.
“Far too tight now,” you say with another nervous laugh. “So come on, what about you? Anything coming off? Or at least tell me what you’re wearing?”
You poor man; you’re too distracted to try any kind of subtle approach now, and rushing straight in is going to get you nowhere.
“I’m wearing more than you, I know that” I laugh.
“Not fair!” you say, “I’ve taken nearly everything off, and you’re still fully dressed!”
“And… it’s not fair!”
“Well, how about if I pull my top over my head,” I say and the line goes quiet for a few seconds, “Then if I slid my skirt down my firm thighs.” Another pause as I let my words sink in and you tuck at the waistband of your briefs to relieve the increasing pressure. “And now I’m sitting here in nothing but a black lacy bra, stockings and gorgeous sheer knickers.”
You dream for a second and then let out a sigh. “That’s not true, is it?” you say, “You’re still dressed, aren’t you?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps you can just imagine, eh?” You know I’m just leading your mind astray. “Okay, honestly, I’m still wearing my top, but is slightly low cut, if that helps,” I say with another laugh. You’re like putty in my hands now, albeit putty that I hope is hard in all the right places.
You blink and try to summon an image of me on the other end of the phone. There’s another pause for a few seconds.
“Are those briefs any tighter now?” I ask teasingly.
“Very. You are an evil torturer,” you reply. I smile to myself in satisfaction and there’s a pause in the conversation again.
“What colour are they?” I ask.
“You’re asking what colour my briefs are?”
“I need to imagine better.”
“Erm, okay… Blue. They’re blue.”
“Blue? Mmmm, I like blue. A nice rich, dark blue?” I ask.
“Well, not really… more like a light blue.”
“Urgh! That’s no good!”
Your heart sinks; you hate the feeling that you’re disappointing me.
“Off with them!” I say, “I can’t have them spoiling my mental picture.”
“Wait, you want…” You try to protest.
“Off. Get them off, or I’ll hang up now.” I don’t want to give you time to think, time when you’ll realise how empty a threat that is.
“Okay, okay, they’re coming off,” you say as you quickly put the phone on the table, hook your thumbs into your waistband and, with a quick movement, slide your briefs onto the floor. Part of you wanted to protest more, but in truth you’re glad to finally have relief from the pressure of the waistband squeezing your cock. Now free, it bobs in the cooler air.
“You’re done?” I ask, not quite believing you went through with it.
“Mmmm, thank you,” I say, “Doesn’t that feel better now?”
“And there’s nothing I’ve missed?”
“What do you mean?” you ask, distracted by the craving for release and the ache to be touched. You feel it would take no more than a light touch, or even a breath, to bring you to climax.
“No clothes that you haven’t mentioned? You’re completely naked? Because I don’t want to find out you’re hiding something.” I try to make myself sound stern whilst smiling.
“Yes. Completely. Honest.” I can tell you’re having trouble forming a complete sentence, and how eager you are to please.
“Good. That’s a nice mental picture.” I pause to savour the mental image. “And now there’s just the photo…”
“No photo!” you say quickly again. It was surprisingly easy to convince you to strip naked over the phone, but I have a feeling that a photo will not be forthcoming today.
“Fine. I’ll have to take your word for it that you’re naked,” I say, “And I will. Just this time.” I add, emphasising the last two words.
“And one more thing,” I continue.
“Yes?” you ask.
“You’re not… you’re not touching it, are you?”
You look down at your engorged penis, knowing that, if you had touched it, you would be wiping cum off your chest and stomach already. And could you prevent yourself from making any sounds? Would I be able to tell what was happening? You crave to trigger relief but something holds you back.
“I’m not,” you say, “Promise.”
“Good. Because I’d know if you did.” Your mind, usually so sharp, is unable to focus. “And besides,” I continue, “I just want to imagine I’m there for a moment, sitting next to you. I do like my men to be naked as often as possible.”
Your penis twitches again. You’re not sure whether you can hold out much longer. You feel your heart racing and your breathing shallows and quickens.
“You’re very quiet there,” I say, “And still hands off, right?”
“Yes. No hands,” you say.
“Good. Because it would be such a shame to waste all that… well, you know.”
The line stays quiet. Your mind is elsewhere.
“It’s okay, I promise I won’t…” you start to say.
“I know. I believe you. You know, you were very easy to convince? Do you take your clothes off for every girl that asks you to?” I have a suspicion that most men would, if a girl were just to ask.
“Well, you said it would make you feel less nervous…”
“Oh, yes, I feel much better now, thank you! Very relaxed. How about you? Comfortable there, Mr Naked?” I giggle.
“Well, maybe not so much as I was.”
“Oh, I’m very grateful. If I were there you’d get a nice hug, and maybe a kiss.” Your penis jumps again. “And maybe not just a kiss on the lips.” I laugh, and you wonder if you’re going to cum without even being touched. I had never realised that teasing was so delicious, and you never knew that you could be teased so easily.
I suddenly noticed the time on my computer screen. “Wait, what?” I say, breaking the spell in my mind. “It’s 3 o’clock already? Shit, I’ve got to run. Look, this was fun. Maybe talk tomorrow? Skype? I’ll message you. ‘k, bye!”
“Erm, ‘bye…” you start to say, but I’ve already hung up.
You sit stunned, wondering what just happened. How did you end up naked on the other end of the phone? How can it have been such a turn-on? How had this near-stranger convinced you to strip, offering nothing in return, and how come you were feeling grateful for it?
Even though I’m gone you crave for relief and decide that, well, since the phone call is over, the “no touching” rule must not apply any more. You close your eyes and try to recall my soft, lilting accent and imagine my eyes on you as your hand reaches down.
Next chapter: The Skype Call