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Me: It’s great! I’ve barely remembered to eat.
Hugo: Glad to hear it. I thought it might be something you’d like.
Me: How so?
Probably too pointed a question to what could have been a perfectly innocent statement, but I wanted to know.
Hugo: Just a feeling.
It was a little eerie, but somehow I liked it.
Me: Well, you got that right, at least.
Hugo: Glad to hear it.
Me: Is this the first time?
Hugo: For what?
Me: That you’ve talked to someone. Not about work. This isn’t about work, is it?
Hugo: Right, you’ve caught me. Yes, to both. This wasn’t about work. Not entirely, and no, I haven’t really talked causally to anyone in a while. Seems like I’m doing a decent job.
Me: You are, actually. Better than decent.
My hand was already rubbing my pussy through my pants. I knew it was unprofessional, but that was the advantage of working remotely, I guess.
I couldn’t really explain it. Nothing particularly arousing had been said, there was just something about talking to him. Even distantly, even over text, it had made me really wet. Probably because I kept thinking about that sexy photo of him.
He probably didn’t look like that anymore but that was the image I had in my head. The 25-year-old him. Looking out at the world, not with defiance so much as an interested amusement. Like he was in on a joke he wasn’t telling.
Me: I’m still curious how you knew.
Even though typing one-handed, the other quite occupied down the front of my pants, I was still pretty adept at it.
Hugo: Promise not to laugh?
Me: No, laughing is an involuntary reflex. Besides, we’re at a safe distance. I promise not to do the digital version. How about that?
Hugo: Deal. The thing is, you remind me of a character from a book I like. She’s My Witch by Stewart Home.
Me: I don’t think I’ve heard of that.
Hugo: Wouldn’t be surprised. He’s kind of underground. Home is actually trained as an art historian and artists. Has lots of non-fiction books and installation pieces. Sometime in the 90s he got into writing novels and has mostly done that since. Some really weird, next level stuff. Anyway, long story short, you’re younger than the character I’m thinking of, and seem more stable, but there is a similarity in spirit. She could be your sister. Spiritually anyway.
Me: I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended, especially considering you’ve never actually even met me.
Hugo: Flattered, for the most part.
As both my hands were full, one of phone, the other with pussy, I made a mental note to look up Stewart Home, and She’s My Witch as soon as I could. I must have really been going to town on myself, because his next text was uncanny.
Hugo: Turn on your webcam.
I gasped and flushed. The shame that he might know, colliding with the thrill that he seemed to want to watch. Did it mean I’d been chosen for his special project? Or at least that I was in the running? I was nervous, but not so much that I wasn’t willing to take the chance.
So I hit the button and answered his video call.
“There you are.”
He looked much the same as in the old photo. A bit wiser and somehow milder, but no less handsome. I’d left my hand down my pants, not wanting to hide what I’d been doing. I decided to own it.
“Yes, sir,” I said, my breath still a bit heavy from the exertion.
“I thought so,” he said, looking where I guess my crotch would be on his screen.
“Good?”
“Great.”
I could have powered a house with my smile. The relief turning into elation.
“Take off your pants,” he instructed, “I want to see you.”
My head spun. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. “O-okay.”
My heart slamming inside my chest, I stood from the chair, filling the camera with my hips and crotch. Backing up a bit so he could get a clearer view, I took down my jeans and my panties. Clad in only a black turtleneck, I sat back down in the chair, putting my feet up on the desk, on either side of the computer so the web cam looked right down between my legs.
Slowly, I started to touch myself again. Lightly at first, two fingers working the outside of my pussy. My taut vulva barely moving with the motion. Almost no one saw my pussy, short of the occasional check-up at the gyno, but I kept it clean and bare. Not a hair anywhere.
It was mostly a matter of comfort. My pussy was so sensitive anyway, I could be really irritating to have hair down there. Particularly when I wore pants, which I loved. I never really took to dresses and only owned two. Both of them bought for me by my grandma.
When I’d gotten back into things, and my pussy was even wetter, I slipped a finger in. Resting the other three on the side of my pussy, near my inner thigh, I stated to move it. Gently fucking myself, stroking my hard little clit, moaning with pleasure.
