“Hey!” the message popped onto your screen.
“It worked!” you type into the Skype window, “I wasn’t sure if I had the right contact.”
“This is the right one,” I reply, “if you’re who I think you are :).”
“I think I’m who I think I am :).”
You wonder what the protocol is for starting a Skype call with a stranger, or almost stranger. I’m certain that you’re going to be the one pressing “call” before I do. It feels like a big step; we’ve only swapped a few messages and one phone call so far.
You start to type something and then change your mind, and then start again.
“Ready for a call?” the message appears.
“I think so,” I reply.
You click the “call” button. I take a deep breath and answer. The window enlarges and a video pops into view. You’re sitting at a desk and the webcam shows you from the chest up. I notice the small thumbnail of my image in the bottom corner that must be a view of what you’re seeing.
At the sight of myself on video I suddenly turn very shy. You summon the effort to break the silence.
“That seems to have worked,” you say. I can’t help but look down at the table, wondering how I’ve ended up getting into a video call with a stranger on the Internet.
“Is the sound working? Can you hear me?” you ask. I forget that I haven’t said anything yet. You have a very soft voice and it makes me feel warm inside.
“Yes, all good,” I say, and then add quickly, “Can you hear me?”
“Perfectly!” You smile and my heart melts a little.
I’m lost for words as I try to take in your image on the screen, whilst trying not to look as if I’m staring. You take the lead in the conversation.
“We can… if you’re nervous, we can go back to a phone call, if you like?” you say.
“No, no!”, I say rather too quickly, and then look back at the table with a smile. “I’m just nervous. This is my first time.” I look up from under my eyelashes, trying to act coy as I make the joke.
“No!” you say with mock seriousness, “This is my first time too! Does this mean there’s going to be all kinds of fumbling, and questions like ‘does this go in here?’ and ‘can you feel anything yet? I can’t feel anything’.” I burst out laughing and you smile again, and then look away suddenly.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
You pause. “Your laugh,” you say, “it’s just… lovely to hear, and see that smile.” Can you pull on my heart strings any harder? I hope the camera doesn’t pick up how much I blush at the compliment.
“Thank you,” I say, “I don’t think… it’s a long time since someone said something so nice to me.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that,” you say. I can tell you don’t really understand how much I mean it, but I let it pass anyway, not wanting to spoil the feeling. I still can’t think of anything to say.
“Are you always so shy?” you ask. If there’s one thing that’s guaranteed to make a girl shy, it’s asking if she’s always so shy. It’s almost an invite to be extra shy.
“Well… maybe…” I say, “It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Talking to a stranger over video? Don’t you think it’s strange?”
“I guess I’ve done it for work a few times, so it’s not that strange for me.”
“And just for work?” I ask, fishing for information again. Are you sure you don’t do this all the time? I look up from beneath my eyelashes.
You smile again. “Just for work,” you reply, “I think so, anyway…” You try to think if that’s one hundred percent true, but you’ve answered the question in the right spirit at least.
“Well, it’s still strange for me,” I say as I fidget in my seat. I stare at your image on the screen; you look much better “in the flesh”, so to speak, than even in the photos I’ve seen. There’s another pause in the conversation.
“You’ll soon get over the nervousness,” you say, trying to reassure. We both know you’re saying that in hope more than belief. I look at your image and squirm in my seat again. I start to say something but can’t quite make it come out.
“What is it?” you ask.
“Nothing… I can’t,” I say with a small giggle. I bite on the side of my lip.
“Come on. There’s something. Spit it out, girl,” you say. I haven’t been called “girl” for quite a while either. Why does there have to be hundreds of miles between us?
“Well…You know the other day, on the phone,” I say.
You smile in recollection. “Yeah, how did you do that anyway?” you ask. That was a good question: how had you been so ready to strip, just because I’d asked you to?
I ignore the question anyway. “Well, it made me less nervous, so today…”
You laugh. “Oh no you don’t. I am not going to sit here naked talking to you. That is so not happening!” You secretly wish for it, but the rational side dismisses the fantasy.
“No, not at all,” I say, “But perhaps, I mean, it would help… if you… your t-shirt. Just your t-shirt. It would make me happy, and if I thought if it made you a bit more nervous, I’d be a bit more comfortable…”
You smile again. I almost wish you’d stop smiling like that: it’s such a distraction.
“You’re telling me,” you say, “That talking to a stranger on the Internet is making you nervous, but if that stranger takes his t-shirt off, then it’ll make it better?”
I nod. “Oh, definitely. I’m sure of it.” I giggle a little more. I wonder if my laugh is having the same effect on you as your smile is on me. I wonder if, if you asked me to undress, and did it with a smile, would I do it? Perhaps I would, if you were here. I can tell you’re thinking seriously, though.
“But this is it, okay?” you say, “No more ‘oh I’m so nervous, please take something else off’ like the other day. If this doesn’t work, I’m putting the t-shirt back on. Okay?”
I laugh again and put my hand over my mouth. I can’t help but lean forwards a little in anticipation. I really didn’t think you would, but I’m not going to say that.
You push your chair back a few inches, reach down and then pull the t-shirt over your head. You can’t believe you’re doing this, and I can’t believe it’s happening either. I’m transfixed by what’s playing out on the screen.
“That’s really nice,” I say vaguely. You blush, and it’s your turn to hope it doesn’t show on the camera. I refrain from telling you that it does, a little.
“And this really helps?” you ask. I can tell you need to try a little harder to sound confident, and it actually does make me feel better.
“Oh yes,” I say, “That’s so much better.” I sit back again and admire the view.
“So…” you say.
“Yes, so,” I say with a smile. Yes, now you’re slightly unsettled, I feel like things are on level terms.
“Isn’t it your turn now?” you ask hopefully.
I turn a deep crimson and look down at the keyboard in front of me.
“Erm, no, I’m fine like this, actually.” I laugh. Did you really think it would be that easy? “I may just be a girl from the valleys,” I say, suddenly conscious of my Welsh accent as I say those words, “but you’re not getting round me that easily.”
“Not even one thing?” you say.
“One thing? Like a sock? Will that do?”
“I don’t mean ‘one thing’ like that… One favour. For me. Can you stand up, so I can get a good look at you? I hardly know what you look like.”
I’d forgotten about that. I feel very self-conscious but I push aside the chair and step back a few paces so that the video frames me from knee to the top of my head. I flap my arms out in a “well, this is me” gesture.
“Oooh perfect,” you say. I can forgive the lack of imagination: I’m far from perfect, but I don’t mind hearing it anyway. I’ve had a regular morning around the house and I’m dressed in a short-sleeved top with a tightly buttoned cardigan over the top and trousers below. It’s far from my most glamorous outfit.
“And a twirl?” you continue.
I laugh a little and then spin round on my toes. I have a grin from ear to ear. Suddenly self-conscious, I rush back to the computer and sit down, pulling the laptop closer to me so it captures little more than my head and neck.
“Okay, that’s your lot,” I say. “Your turn.”
“My turn? My turn was taking my t-shirt off.”
“Na-ah.” I shake my head. “That was to make me feel better. Then you asked for a favour, and now you owe me one. Right?”
You’re unsure. There’s definitely something one-sided going on here, but you can’t think your way out of it.
“Up you get,” I say, “Come on!” The last seems to have some effect as you stand up and step backwards. I like to see a man without a shirt, and I resist telling you that if I were there now you’d be wearing a lot less. How much is a flight from Gothenberg to London, and is there one this afternoon?
As you stand there I’m transfixed by the screen again. You’re not exactly what would be called muscular, but you’re very lean. I’m happy. Your jeans are just tight enough too, and I try to work out if there’s a bulge appearing.
You sit back on the chair, although now you’re sitting some way back from the camera. I can see you from the knees upwards. It’s a wonderful sight. You swing sideways and put your feet up onto a table out of shot.
I’m suddenly very coy and don’t realise I’m biting the side of my lip again. There’s silence for a few seconds which, again, you break.
“You have a lovely voice, and a lovely accent,” you say.
I wonder how someone like you can even exist, and how come I’ve never met one before? I smile and look down at the keyboard.
“I still have a fair bit of Welsh in me,” I answer, “Even after a few years here.” I’ve managed to pick up the Swedish language in the few years I’ve been here, but not the accent.
“And the most beautiful eyes,” you say as you look directly at the screen.
Your gaze forces me to avert mine and I’m back to staring at the keyboard again.
“No, look up, please,” you say. I comply. “When you look up from under your eyelashes… it’s just, I don’t know how any man could ever resist.”
I wonder if you’re saying that because men are so easily influenced; my eyes are filled with obvious lust as they scan your bare torso. It must be obvious, even from where you’re sitting.
I smile. “Oh, I’m sure you could resist,” I say as I do my best to look directly at the small camera in the laptop lid. Does hypnotism work over video chat? Does it work even if one doesn’t know how to?
“Uh-uh,” you say, “I think you could have anything you want, if you look at someone like that. All you have to do is ask.”
I smile and moisten my lips. Oh, how I wish that were true.
My heart beats faster and I wonder how it’s managing it; it must surely have melted into a pool in my chest by now.
“Well…” I say, and can’t help but look at my keyboard again.
“Well?” you ask.
I remember to look directly into the camera. “If that’s true, then if I asked, say, that you take your jeans off, you wouldn’t be able to resist? No?” I can’t believe I managed to form that sentence. You can’t believe I was brave enough to ask.
Your mouth drops open. “Well… I….”
“Would it help if I said please?” I ask and then cover my mouth as I giggle.
The laugh really does cast a spell over you. A smirk grows on my face. Will you really go through with this? My smirk breaks into a broad grin.
For a reason that you’ll never really understand, you start to unbuckle your belt. I lean forward again, transfixed by the movement of your hands.
“But this is it, okay?” You resolve that this is it.
Your belt undone, you start on the three buttons. The first unpops and you pause, doubting why you’re going through with this, and look up at the screen. I’m leaning towards the camera and my eyes are wide with lust. Little do I realise how helpless this makes you or I would have asked for more.
You finish undoing the buttons then, with one quick movement, you slide your jeans down your thighs and push them off your feet, kicking them onto the floor. You swing your legs back onto the table and try to look as casual as possible, sitting there in your socks and briefs. You feel the pressure start to grow in your underwear and hope it isn’t noticeable on the camera.
I make a sound that’s half approval and half a self-satisfied purr.
“You have very nice legs,” I say with a smile and a supressed giggle.
You feel your self-composure slipping as you redden. You hope I don’t notice.
“Do you think they’d look good in heels?” you ask, trying to cover your nervousness with a joke.
“Oh, don’t you give me ideas,” I say, “You’ve no idea what I might ask for next.”
Your head spins at the thought. Would you, if I asked? It feels too soon.
“Oh no, this is it. I’m not falling for those doe eyes again, little missie,” you tell me. I decide not to believe you.
I act coy again. “Not even if I ask really nicely? Since you’re barely wearing anything anyway…” I try to flutter my eyelashes without laughing, but you find it as much amusing as seductive.
“No way. Not unless you’re going to come over here right now.”
I wish I could, but Gothenburg to London isn’t something I can quite do on a whim. My eyes turn skywards as I imagine myself sitting next to you, persuading you to remove those briefs. I think you would too.
“And I’m not even wearing those light blue ones so you can’t pull that ‘take them off they’re the wrong colour’ line again!” you say.
I laugh. It was a rather good ploy, and I still can’t believe it worked.
“Yes, they’re much nicer. You look good in black,” I say, “But still, it would be better…”
“No!” you say. I sigh in disappointment. “Anyway, it’s you’re turn now.”
“Oh no you don’t,” I say, “Kelly warned me about men like you. Men who try to get girls to undress on the Internet. And then next week I find I’m starring on some porn site.”
“Kelly?…” you ask.
“You remember? My niece. I was telling her about our call…”
“What! You told her about…”
I laugh softly. “Yeah. We share a lot. I mean, she’s a girl of the world now. She’s in her twenties.”
“But you told her everything?”
I nod. “Oh yes. She wouldn’t let me get off the phone without going through it all. She was very jealous.”
Your head spins at the thought of not only having been convinced to strip over the phone, but also imagining me relating it to my niece.
“Well, it’s stalemate then,” you say.
Not quite, I think, since I’m sitting here admiring your bare legs and torso whilst I’m buttoned up in my cardigan. But I’ll let that point slide and enjoy the view. “If you’re staying clothed, so am I,” you add.
I laugh: you’re hardly clothed at the moment.
I look down at the table and then up again. “So you mean,” I start, “If I took something off, you would too?”
Your head spins again. Would I really go through with it? Would you?
You nod, and somehow you seem too confident for my liking.
“I’ll take my cardigan off,” I say. It seems an easy swap: I take my cardigan off, and you take off your briefs? Why didn’t you say it was that easy before?
“Okay then,” you say, “But I’ll believe it when I see it.”
I smirk and then start to unbutton my cardigan. I don’t know if it’s possible to do it seductively, but your eyes follow my hands with rapt attention. I’m not showing any more flesh, but just the thought of my removing even one item turns you on. You can feel the bulge in your briefs growing again. Perhaps taking them off will be a relief after all.
When the final button comes undone I slide the cardigan down my arms and hold it out dramatically before letting it drop to the floor. I lean forwards and rest my chin on my hand, eager not to take my eyes off the screen.
“There we are,” I say, “I think it’s over to you.”
“But maybe I’ve changed my mind now?” you say with a smile. I can tell you’re joking and feign anger to go along with it.
“Don’t you dare, mister, or I’ll never trust another stranger on the Internet again.”
You laugh. “Well,” you say, “A promise is a promise…”
You slip your thumbs into your waistband and look at the camera. “Are you ready?” you ask. I nod enthusiastically.
With a quick movement, you lift your legs up and pull off first one sock and then the other.
“There we go!” you say triumphantly.
I can’t believe you did that! I’d forgotten about the socks still on your feet but out of sight.
“That is so not fair!” I say.
“A deal’s a deal,” you tell me. I can’t argue with the terms, but it seems to me that you’re going against the spirit of the agreement. It’s nice to see you down to one item, but I’d have preferred something else to go first.
“I want a rematch,” I say, squaring my jaw. “And no funny business this time. No wristwatch or whatever. It’s briefs or nothing.”
You laugh. You had a feeling I’d be asking for more. You consider your options for a second.
“Are you wearing a bra under that top?” you ask me.
I feign indignation. “What kind of a gentleman asks a lady if she’s wearing a bra! You wait until I tell Kelly about you!” I like to remind you that I’m going to be recounting every detail of this call to my niece later today. I feel like it gives me the upper hand, as if I didn’t have it already. “You’re just going to have to wait and see, aren’t you?”
The answer, of course, is that I’m bound to be wearing a bra beneath my top. It’s rare that I’d even hang around the house without one. Not that I have a great deal that needs support, but I’d like my breasts to stay in shape for as long as possible without gravity waging war on them.
You consider for a moment. On the one hand, you’ll be sitting naked, again, but this time I’ll be able to see you rather than having to imagine. On the other, the way your cock is growing as the conversation goes on you’re going to be bursting out of your briefs pretty soon anyway, and perhaps, once I take my top off, you could persuade me to go just a bit further…
The last thought makes up your mind for you. Your head is swimming with sexual tension and you can’t think very clearly, so a deal that would seem crazy in the cold light of day suddenly seems like a great idea.
“But a deal’s a deal, right?” you say, “And you go first again?”
I nod excitedly. I like this deal, and I’m glad you’re putting so much emphasis on the terms.
“Okay…” you say, “And no covering up either?”
I shake my head. “Nor you,” I want to confirm. You nod. “Here goes then,” I say.
I lean forwards slightly, reach down, and then dangle first one sock and then the other in front of the camera.
“There you go!” I say, with a wide grin. I might not even have thought of taking off my socks first if you hadn’t given me the idea. “Now, a deal’s a deal, you said?” I lean forward again with my chin cupped in my hands. My heart is beating harder again.
You try to think, but you’re too turned on, and you’re out of options anyway.
I watch as you pull your legs up onto the chair and close to your chest and then, lifting your backside slightly, you slide the briefs down your thighs, around your knees, off your feet and onto the floor. You’re naked now, but I can’t see any more than before with your knees in the way. Knowing you’re naked is a huge turn on as it is, but I think I can get a bit more out of you.
You sit there, naked and with your knees up against your chest, trying to think of a way out of this situation with some dignity intact. Your penis is glad for the release from pushing against your waistband, but now it craves a different kind of contact. You can’t help but glance down as it bobs in anticipation of something that your mind knows can’t happen.
I remind you of the terms of our agreement. “Erm, rule one point one point three specified no covering, I believe?” I smile.
You take a deep breath and start to slide your legs down, but not before putting one hand over your crotch. You press your wrist against your shaft to hide it. The touch of skin on skin is welcome and you can feel it pulse against you.
I bite the side of my lip as my eyes scan from your bare shoulders, down your chest, across your pelvis and down your thighs. Now there’s just the matter of the hand.
“Sorry to be pedantic, but…” I indicate your hand with my eyes. You know what I mean; it was only a matter of time before I insisted.
You sigh, defeated, but, as we both know, willingly so. You take your hand away and your penis springs free. I barely supress a gasp; I’d hoped you were going to be erect after all of this, but I had little idea just how big you would get.
“It’s… that’s huge!” I say involuntarily. Perhaps it’s the camera, or maybe I just haven’t seen enough of them, but the tip is well up to your belly button. As it turns out, telling a man that his penis is huge is pretty much a sure-fire win as statements go.
You feel yourself blush slightly, although you don’t feel as embarrassed as you’d imagined you would; your urge for stimulation overrides every other feeling.
“Well…” you mumble.
I smiled at you. I really do have the upper hand here. You don’t know what to do with your hands and you’re no longer sitting as comfortably. You swing your legs up onto the side table again and I admire their length. I get a much better view of you from this three-quarters angle. I lick my lips with the tip of my tongue and notice your penis bob in response. I almost have to stop myself panting in excitement.
“Are you comfortable now?” I ask, “And see how much better it is without those troublesome clothes spoiling the view?”
“Hmm. I wouldn’t know,” you say, and then wonder how, exactly, you did end up naked again, especially when I’m still clothed.
I can’t stop myself from moistening my lips again. I love the sensuality, and the effect it has on you each time.
“That… it does look quite long,” I say, “How long does it get?”
You look down and then answer in a surprisingly detached way. “Erm, I have no idea. It’s not something I’ve ever measured.” I thought all men were obsessed with the size of their penises, but maybe it’s better not to know some things.
I can’t help myself from giggling. “Have you got a ruler there?”
You laugh. “Er, no, and I’m not going to go and find one, thanks.”
I’m not going to drop the subject, though, not when I can tell that you’re not quite as comfortable as you act, and I’m having far too much fun.
“But usually, they’re like,” I say and then hold up my hand, “I mean, if I put my hand around, there’s some showing out the top.” I make a mime as if closing my palm around a shaft.
Your eyes roll slightly in your head. Am I trying to drive you mad here? You’re about ready to burst as it is and I’m talking about wrapping my hand around your cock. You don’t know what to say.
“Go on. Show me,” I say. This will be a real test of how far I can push you. “Put your hand around the bottom half so I can get an idea of scale.”
“You want me to…”
“I’ll ask nicely,” I say, leaning forwards and looking up at you again. I’m working out how to press all the right buttons. I smile slightly, conveying the mischief I feel. “Just so I can see.”
You haven’t the will to resist so you hook your left thumb under your penis to lift it slightly and your palm and fingers wrap the base of your shaft. I realise we’re both trying to imagine my hand in place of yours.
I was right about the size, though: there’s still much more than just the tip showing above your fingers. “That’s…, I don’t know…” I say. I really don’t know what to say or what to think. I have to moisten my lips again.
“What about the other hand as well?” I ask. Obediently, you wrap your other palm around the shaft. There’s still a large part of the tip visible out of the top. I look down at my own hands, wondering how they’d compare in the same place.
You sit there, feeling your pulse against your palms and your penis continues to twitch by itself, pushing your foreskin back and forth within your tight grip as you keep your hands still. You resist the urge to stroke your hand upwards, not sure if I’ll react well. You judge correctly; I want you to focus on me, not on yourself.
“You can take your hand away now,” I say. You do as you’re told. “And stand up for me.” You do so unthinkingly. I realise that you’ve reached a tipping point and I can get you to do just about anything, one way or another. “And step back a few paces.”
I admire the image filling my monitor screen. Your hands are by your side and your penis stands rock hard, pointing skywards.
“And just turn around…” As you turn I can see the way it arches away out from your body. I bite my lip again. “Keep turning… mmm, that’s a really nice bottom you have there.”
You blush again. Why did that one compliment trigger more embarrassment than standing naked? The male mind is a strange thing.
“Okay, you can turn back now.” You comply, but stay standing. I sit back and savour the moment, as if I’m assessing a very promising candidate in a job interview; a very promising, naked candidate.
“Did I mention my trip?” I say.
You look questioningly. It’s obvious I didn’t. I like that you don’t even think about sitting back down without me telling you to.
“Next week? The conference?” Your face is still blank. “I’ll be in London for a few days, so I thought we could…”
Your head whirls. I’m coming to London? We could actually meet?
“I’ll have a spare afternoon, so maybe…” Your mind can’t adapt that quickly from being a sexual object to thinking about your diary for the next seven days. You start to mumble something.
“I’ll message you. Make sure you’re free.” I have a feeling you will be.
Suddenly I hear a noise outside and look around. You look concerned.
“Oh shit,” I say, “My husband’s home early. I’ll message you later. Gotta go. Bye.” I quickly blow a kiss at the camera as I close the window. My heart is racing but I have to try to calm myself down.
Your brain goes from spinning around to doing backflips. Had I not mentioned my husband before?
You stand naked in front of your computer and wonder what just happened. You’ve stripped to instruction, you have a rock hard erection, and you’ve just learnt that I’m married. You think that should be a turn-off, but, if anything, it’s the opposite. And I’m going to be in London next week?
You’re not quite what’s going on, but the one thing you do know is that your erection isn’t going to go away by itself.
Next chapter: Hotel Room