Me: Fair. My turn. I took a contract once without asking enough questions and ended up guarding a charity gala full of drunk socialites in tuxedos.
Firecracker: That sounds painful. Like literally a nightmare come to life.
Me: It was. I learned a lot about patience and champagne.
Firecracker: Patience? What does that word even mean?
I can’t help the smile plastered to my face. I’m not even with her, and I’m in a far better mood than I would have been anywhere else tonight. Well. Not anywhere. I’d rather be wherever she is.
Me: I can teach you patience, Firecracker.
Firecracker: How would you do that?
Me: Are you lying down?
Firecracker: I am now.
The image hits hard and immediate. I drag a hand over my stomach, the ache in my jeans impossible to ignore.
Me: Take off those jeans and leave your panties on.
She goes quiet, and for a second I wonder if I pushed too far. I’m already typing something lighter, something to pull it back, when her reply comes through.
Firecracker: Done.
I exhale slowly, control snapping back into place even as the want tightens.
Me: Run your hand up your calf and over the inside of your thigh. Back and forth. Let your fingers trail closer and closer to your pussy. But don’t touch her. You have to wait. Be patient.
Firecracker: Mmmhmm.
I unhook my belt and pop the button of my jeans, then slide the zipper down. I fist my hard length, pulling free of my boxer briefs, my hand stroking slow and firm as I watch precum bead and slide down the tip.
Me: Now I want you to take off your shirt and bra. Hold your gorgeous tits in your hands. The only thing you keep on is your panties.
Firecracker: Only if you take your shirt off too.
I sit up, tug my shirt over my head, then snap a picture of my torso and send it to her. She hearts it immediately. Are we really doing this? I’ve never done this before. Never wanted to, never needed to. But it’s so fucking hot I’m right on the edge.
Me: Slide your hand up your stomach and pinch your nipples.
Firecracker: Are you touching yourself too?
Me: Baby, I can’t stop touching myself, picturing your hand on me instead of my own.
She sends me a picture of her hand on her thigh, black lace panties covering a pussy I’m already salivating over. I heart that shit and pinch the head of my cock, forcing myself to slow down. I need to practice patience too.
Firecracker: Tell me what to do, biker boy.
Me: Slide those fingers inside your panties and through your wet lips.
Firecracker: Yes.
Me: Don’t rush. Imagine my fingers sliding inside you slowly, pushing in, gathering your wetness, rubbing your swollen clit.
Firecracker: Fuck. I’m throbbing thinking of you touching me.
Me: How bad? Tell me how wet you are for me.
