“What makes you so sure you’re not ‘Mr. Right’ yourself?” I tease.
I can feel his dark smile through the headphones.
“Because I’m all wrong for you,” he reminds me. “That’s why you like this so much.”
I wish he wasn’t right. The reason I’m already melting in my chair, softening, is precisely because he’s nothing like the many guys I’ve tried to date. Try as I might to wrestle the deep part of my psyche into liking good guys, it just isn’t working.
“Now, put those pretty fingers inside your panties and tell me how wet you are,” he orders.
His words yank me out of my funk, and I grin. “Err, unfortunately, I can’t do that, sir. You see, human beings don’t possess hygroreceptors, and as such, we can’t actually detect wetness—”
His dark chuckle cuts me off. “I missed your big brain and your smart mouth, baby girl. But I’ve got a long memory, and you’ve used this one before. We don’t have hygroreceptors, but wedohave the ability to detect changes in texture and temperature. So pull your fucking panties down, put those fingers in that gloriously soft cunt, and tell me if you’re all hot, slick, andwetfor me.”
My mic is sensitive enough that I know he hears the tiny hitch in my breath as I squirm on the seat. My thighs rubbing together isn’t helping the situation, and I bite my lip as I spread them. My hand bunches the hem of my sleep shirt, raising it enough to expose the neon-green pickle-covered panties I chose to wear, before delving beneath the elastic.
I’m wet, not that I needed my fingers to tell me that. My forefinger slips and slides directly over my clit, and I gasp as even the light touch sends a bolt of need through me.
“Still waiting for the verdict, baby girl,” Dodger reminds me.
“Yes,” I hiss. “I’m wet for you.”
“Good. Pull your panties off and hook your legs over the arms of your chair.”
I circle one finger around my clit, and don’t bother hiding my rebellious moan.
All part of the game.
“Baby girl.” A dark warning.
I reluctantly remove my hand, yanking down my panties and kicking them away before hooking my knees over the cool armrests of my gaming chair. The move spreads them obscenely wide—thanks gaming chairs designed for men—putting my pussy on full display.
“Done,” I whisper.
“Now give those tits a squeeze for me, just the way you like.”
My hand slides up my body, skating up my ribs as I try to ignore the slight soft pooch of my stomach and focus on the generous swells of my breasts. In my eagerness, I’m rougher than usual, and my breath hisses out.
“Tell me how it feels,” he commands, and I hear the rip of a zipper in the background.
“It’s not enough,” I complain. “I want more.”
“Always so greedy.” He tuts. “You’ll get more when I say you’ve earned it. Now play with those pretty tits, lift them up nice and high and lick your nipples through your shirt.”
Ever since he found out that my flexibility and boobs allow me to do it, sucking on my own tits has become a regular part of our play.
The dry cotton of my sleep shirt dampens quickly, the warmth of my own mouth adding to the sensations bombarding me. The contrast of cold air on my pussy and warmth on my breasts sends a shiver up my spine, and it emerges as a shocked gasp.
Dodger’s answering groan is quiet, but it’s definitely there.
At times like this, I wish I had a webcam, but no one in my business trusts those things. Too easy to hack.
Besides… I kind of like the thrill of knowing it’s just his voice and the darkness. If I close my eyes, I can pretend he’s right here in the room with me.
“My shirt is damp,” I murmur, knowing he’ll like the visual. “And my pussy is soaked.”
“You making a mess of your chair?” he asks, voice husky.
I don’t need to look down to know that I am. I can feel my own body’s slick dripping down my thighs.
