u wanan cybr?

I hate technology.

I am fiddling with the microphone, speaking into it, but T just cannot hear me. He can see me through the web-cam, but he cannot hear me. We cannot figure out why.

I have worked up the courage to type to him just how horny I feel. How I am filled with an urge to just be mauled and fingered and fucked and kinda... used.

Kinda, because, well, you know... How used can it be, when I want this so bad?

”What are you going to do about it?” he wanted to know, when I told him how I felt.
“Just sit here and tell you about it apparently,” I quipped. We laughed.

Or um, lols were exchanged.

“Well no, I’m going to cum. Soon. Probably now.”
“I want to hear it then. A recording, maybe even a video with sound...I’m bossy today...”

But I want him to see me right then and there instead. And anyways, my video recording software does not work properly.

But then apparently, neither does my microphone. Or it’s his speakers. We’re still not sure. We finally decide to use the phone for sound instead.

We say hi again on the phone. I am shy all of a sudden. I have a black strappy cotton nightie on with a cartoon pink flower splashed in the middle. My breasts are swollen and round because I am about to get my period. My hair is in a bun, and my glasses are sliding off my nose.

“What are you thinkin?” I ask, a bit tritely, biding my time.
“Hmm? Oh, I am thinking.... I’m wondering why I can only see you up to your elbows. I am thinking that I need to see cunt.”

I breathe a nervous laugh.

“Maybe later,” I say, lowering my eyes, my voice dropping to a quiet whine.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing...” I have already moved to adjust the camera, grinning.
“Maybe later my ass,” he snarls.

I angle the camera down so it looks straight between my legs. I have black panties on. I feel very quiet. Just breathing. My joking demeanor gone. I get up so that my mid-section blocks the camera’s view, and slowly slide my panties down. I sit back down, but I cannot help pulling my knees up in front of me. I touch myself a little, as I think of where exactly to put the camera.

“I can’t see your face, hon.”
“Yes, I know... I ..”
“You need to move back.”
“Yes.”

I try to get it right for what seems like forever. I am so horny. I do not have any mind to move either my camera or myself properly. I do not want to reason it out and do it slowly. I just want to throttle my web-cam, give it a kick or two so that it does what I want. Now. The damn pivot of my web-cam is loose, and keeps jostling back and forth. He jokes about getting motion sickness. I joke that I could never be a live chat girl.

And then finally, in one simple maneuver that I should have been able to get all along, I am there. I am sitting on my creaky orange computer chair, a meter or so from my computer, and on my screen is me, from my head down to past my knees. If I part my knees, you can see into my legs.

“Is this good?” I ask, looking up.
“Yes,” he says. “Very good in fact.”

I smile.

Now if I could just part my knees. I am struck into dumb timidity by how it looks. It is not something I see every day: the little triangle of bare, shaved skin below my hiked-up nightie, that curious hint of a slit. I keep moving my hands in front, like a serpent-tricked looking for a figleaf or two. I wonder if it arouses him to see me struggling a bit like this.

“I... feel suddenly reluctant, to show you...my...cunt...” I confess.
“Why?” he questions, both concerned and amused.
“I dunno,” I say stubbornly, with an exaggerated, childish shrug.

He laughs.

It is a ridiculous time to want to be demure. I lift up my chin, and part my legs determinedly, stretching my back up. I seek out my clit with my fingers and sigh.

"Remember," he reminds me, "to tell me when you're going to cum."

"I can make you cum any time I want." he adds off-hand. "But today I want it up to you."

To that, I have nothing to say.

The heated tension between my thighs, waiting patiently throughout the technical and personal difficulties, begins to infuriate me. I want to shake it off into pieces, like a terrier with a chew toy. Just gneah, now, be gone. My fingers speed up, urgent. I groan. My image groans.

The screensaver comes up.

“Hmm.. screensaver's popped up... Do I want to see myself?” I ponder to him out loud.

“I don’t know, you tell me. Do you like to watch yourself?”

“I guess that’s a yes,” he says, as I lean towards the mouse to move it.

It is. I put my hand back. Now, now, now.

“I want to cum,” I pout, after a couple of minutes of frantic strokes and sighs.
“Cum then, babe. What’s stopping you?”

Good question. I go back to it. I begin to build, but too fast, not right, like my insides are coiling too loosely. Or like I’m running with a drink, spilling it all over the place. I am just about to get there, but it’s not quite the there that I want, and I force myself to pull back, stop, panting.

My mind races as I try to figure it out. Performance anxiety? Camera-shy? The position?

I figure I might as well try to finger myself instead. I slide a finger in, pleasant and smooth.

“Need to go slower,” I admit to T.
“Why?”
“I...lose ...some of it ...sometimes...when I go too fast. I don’t wanna-"

My finger has started to feel surprisingly good, good enough to forget about discussing the hows and whys. I slide smoothly in and out, my hand contorted like a rocker’s at a concert, blocking and unblocking my cunt in a lazy flow.

I begin to just explore, all over, at a relaxed pace. Taking my fingers out, stroking my cunt lips upwards to nudge my clit, moving back down in another wet stroke, pushing back into my hole, and then back out to begin again. I do this for a while. So does my image.

It looks rather hot. It feels rather good. I can hear T begin to breathe harder.

As I go on, my eyes avert inadvertently from the screen, only glancing occasionally to make sure I’m still there, still in his eyes. My lashes begin to flutter down. I keep the phone to my mouth, moaning at the sweet, sliding, shivering feel, so capturing.

I am conversely completely relaxed and utterly excited out of my brains.

I feel I am alone. I feel him watching me.

He is watching me as though I were alone. He is watching me be watched.

Like the path of an infinite Mobius strip, I find myself- through the one straight line of my actions- slipping amongst the many red-blue sides of loopy perspectives.

All past awkwardness seems to have disappeared. I am just so buoyant and free. I am pulled equally in all directions, my whole being bobbing up and down, as my hand moves still faster, in and out, in and out, in and out.

I am thinking about fucking him, but even in that, I am rolling back and forth, never fastening to a moment, yet entirely held in each and every one. He is the fantasy, his cock head engorged inside, dipping into my hole, his shaft as my hand, my hips sliding down to meet his thrust, greeted with our grunts at each end. And then I am the fantasy, the woman with the cock inside her, being fucked by him. I am the woman with her hand jammed up her cunt, fucking herself. I am the woman fucking herself as she thinks of being fucked by him. And then he is the fantasy, watching the woman fuck herself, perhaps knowing she is thinking of fucking him. And then I am the fantasy again, the woman beginning to lose it, as I groan harder and harder, and then he is, it is him all along, breathing along the whole while, it is all beginning to merge to its pointed end.

The force of my soaked fingers increases, and I slow again, lifting up my ass, long in, quick out, long in, quick out. I am moaning very loudly now. My cunt begins to stun me in every slippery thrust, like liquid electrocution.

I remember that I must tell him. I remember that the phone is still held tight to my ear and mouth. It is time, not time yet to tell him. I open my mouth to say it. I close it again. I am closer. I am hitting closer. I whimper. I must say it. I spit a letter out, ah, I pull back, mm. He is hearing me as I roll close and pull, aghm, roll closer and pull, roll closer and closer and closer, stutter a, stutter a and pull, the sweetest sensation, over and over, tighter and tighter, so close it hurts and then pull, goddamm goddamm, fuck, fuck, fuck, sohorriblywonderfullyclose, and then I must say it, finally, even if it is too soon, I do not think I will be able to speak at all soon. So I stammer it, mmgoingtocum, I let it out, and I let myself go, my neck stretches back, the back of my computer chair screeches with the weight of my back on it, hammering my fingers one or two more times in to me. I feel my cunt clench, my fingers suddenly sucked further back, like a trapdoor opening below my feet, and I- just-scream.

Split as I am in this alone and not-alone, it as though I have caught him alone too, as I have imagined before; I have caught him listening to a recording of mine, and I get to hear the way his cry breaks as soon as mine does in my final release. But then in catching him, he is not alone anymore either.

My hand and hips wriggle for some time, in, out, around, feeling my drenched insides shudder, sighing and laughing and gasping it off, before finally slouching limp.

My head sags down, weak. My knees bow out. I try hard to catch my breath. I hold my fingers inside me.

“.... so... soaked...” I whisper.

I foggily hear him telling me, lamenting to me, how much I have turned him on, how badly he would like to fuck me. If he could just fuck me, maybe it would be ok with a condom, so tempted to just fuck me, but he is still not sure. His voice is panicked, hard and cold and loud in protection of his vulnerable need. The extent of his arousal has overwhelmed him for just a second, his control slipped for just a second from under him. I feel pain and pleasure all at once, my heart leaping into my mouth.

He tells me he will call me in a few minutes; he needs to cool down just a bit first.

I know he does not like to stay with me when he is like this. I wish for a moment he would. I wish he would break completely. I wish I could goad him, take him just a little bit further, his ejaculate on his surprised fingers like a hormone-soaked teenager, the irreversible mess on his chair that would just not do. I can’t help it... I will always want that power too. I want him opened up to me and entrusted into my hands.

But I am flung like a knitted throw over my computer chair, unable to move or talk either. And I am happy.

I smile ruefully after he is gone. I know he will cum when he calls back, and I will too again, with him. I see my smile on the screen.

I wonder why my screensaver didn't come up again during.

I love technology.

Note: I have an interview with Jericho to finish and friends to write to, but I just thought this place needed a bit of a pick-me-up.