Behind the Scenes

Chapter Nine

[Author's note: NSFW. If you are related to me, please do us BOTH a favour and skip this chapter, thank you.]

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My phone vibrates in my back pocket as soon as the elevator doors open on my floor. I open my messages. 

          I'm not sure I can sleep after that. 

          It's like he's hooked a finger behind my navel and tugged. It's the feeling seconds after cresting the hill of a rollercoaster, the impossible weightlessness of the drop.

          I work my bottom lip between my teeth as I walk down the hall typing out my reply.

          Anything I can do to help? 😜

          His messages come one after the other in quick succession:

          Depends

          How soon can we do it again? 😜

          They arrive once I'm safely in my hotel room, so I fall against the inside of the door when they make me weak in the knees. I slide down until I'm sitting on the laminate floor, smiling stupidly at my phone. 

          I should've just put on my brave girl panties and invited him up. How very, very dumb of me. 

          I press my tongue against my top row of teeth as I consider just how risqué I want to be. There's an urge to throw caution to the wind and bear my heart on my sleeve, but I'm not sure I'm quite ready for that yet. Instead I toe the line, sending one message and then the next. 

          Oh I'll be on the lookout for the next chance

          Now that I know what I've been missing...

          The text gets delivered but it goes unread for longer than the others, and I can only assume he's making his way back to his hotel. I wait a couple minutes before pulling myself up off the ground and crossing over to the bed. I keep the lights off, the curtains open to let the glow of the city light my way. I toss my phone onto the bed and strip down to my bra and underwear, then climb under the duvet. 

          His silence gives way to my anxiety, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to spam text him impatiently. However, my mind is also able to wander to how I could take this conversation from flirty to downright spicy. 

          Against my better instincts, I type out two more messages-- 

          I hope i comes before Friday 

          --followed by, 

          *it

          Poor grammar aside, if my plan works, he'll picture me coming--thanks to something he's doing to me, ideally--while believing I made an innocent typo. 

          It feels like my heart's shot through with lightning when I see my messages get delivered and know there's nothing to do but wait for him to see them. The waiting is agony. My underwear is so wet, and my body tingles in anticipation. I slip my hand down into my panties and massage my clit in slow, gentle circles, unable to hold out any longer. 

          I open TikTok and find one of my favourite sounds from the kinkier corner, then close my eyes and listen as a man's deep, husky voice tells me to show him how I play with it. I resist the urge to pick up the pace. That kiss with Joe has me so wound up, it's a wonder I wasn't nearly there before I even started.

          My phone buzzes against my leg with a new text. It feels like time stands still as I pause what I'm doing to check Joe's message. 

          The pattern continues with two:

          😳

          I'll do my best.

          Fuck.

          It's suddenly very unnecessary--and annoying--to be wearing underwear. I tug them down at the waist and wiggle my legs until they're around my ankles. I resume what I started as I read his texts over and over again. Apparently, he's just as good at innuendo as I am. 

          Still the matter of what to do with myself now tho

          The stunted phrasing and short-form spelling is unlike him. Could he possibly be texting me one-handed, too, while his other hand is busy...handling...something else?

          The throbbing in my clit grows as I massage it between my fingers. I moan as I type my reply, imagining his mouth taking the place of my hand. 

          Anything you could do to relax...?

          The slickness between my legs makes it easy to slide my hand further down. I insert my finger into myself and stroke the swollen raspberry that sits on the cusp of my entrance. My message is delivered, and read, but no ellipses come up, and I like to imagine he's doing exactly what I am.

          I flick back over to TikTok and close my eyes, imagining it's Joe commanding me to pleasure myself in front of him. I drop the phone to the pillow beside me, letting the sound play on repeat, as both hands go to work, one inside and one out. The pressure builds until I think I might explode, and then waves of pleasure erupt from my G-spot with Joe's name on my lips. 

          My back arches away from the mattress and I rock my hips in time to the thrusting I imagine him doing inside me. It lasts two minutes, maybe three, before I collapse against the bed with my hands stilled between my legs, breathless and spent. 

          His reply comes after I've used the bathroom, and I collapse fully naked onto the bed to read it. It's a simple smiley face emoji, no actual text. I grin, because does that mean what I think it means? 

          I think it does.