Dear Diary: The Midnight Phone Call

DEAR DIARY

Dear Diary,

You aren’t going to believe what I’m about to tell you. I can scarcely believe it myself, but I swear to you that every inky line I scribble into you in the next five minutes is true. Oh my God, I’m sitting here on the window seat, still shaking like a leaf, and I still can’t believe it happened! I’m going to replay the whole thing, word for word, cos I don’t want to risk forgetting even one minute of it…

Just as I was tucking myself into bed after my shower, my mobile started to ring. Yes, I do still have that Roxy Music song as my ring tone. I was going to change it but I just…didn’t. Anyway, that isn’t important, what is important – what’s vital – is who was calling.

It was Michael.

I’d put his number in my contacts, so I was sure it was him. I let it ring for a few seconds, considering letting it go to voicemail given the fact that it was a minute to midnight, but I caved. When I answered I heard him suck in a deep breath as though he was surprised I’d picked up.

“Hello?” I rolled my eyes at the questioning lilt in my voice. We both knew I knew it was him.

“Hey, Tasha, it’s Mikey.”

Stiffening my legs and pointing my toes, I drummed the soles of my feet on the floor, biting my knuckles to stop myself squealing. This was the fourth time he’d phoned me since we’d met, and he’d shortened my name to Tasha by the second call. He’d suggested I call him Mikey then, too.

Trying not to sound as excited as I was I said, “What’s up? It’s pretty late to be calling someone.”

Was that a quiet laugh? I couldn’t be sure. I imagined him raking his hand through his dark hair like he had in the garage. “Yeah, it is a little late, I guess. I’ve just got back from a night out with the guys and I was thinking about you so I called and…I can call back tomorrow if I woke you.”

“You didn’t!” Oh, too eager, Natasha. Far too eager. “I mean, I just got out of the shower five minutes ago, so it’s okay. So, you were thinking about me, were you?”

“I was, yes. Still am, actually.”

“Oh. What exactly are you thinking? Nice things, I hope.”

“Some of the things are nice, yeah. Some less so.” Now that was definitely a laugh. Still light and sweet, but a little bit unsteady. If I had to put money on it, I’d say he’d quaffed at least one pint more than was considered sensible.

But what did he mean by some less so? Oh God, was he thinking about cancelling our date tomorrow? I’m not ashamed to admit that I’d have been soaking your pages with tears if he had, Diary. But he didn’t do that.

What he said was, “I’ve been thinking a lot about the day we met, actually. About what we did in the garage. Every time I told one of my friends about you I thought about it even more, and I had to come home early cos I couldn’t…”

When he paused I had to remind myself to breathe. Every word he’d spoken had increased in volume, almost like he was getting angry with himself. I cradled the phone against my ear, feeling something growing in the silence that followed. It was tension.

The wispy babydoll I was wearing became heavy against my skin. Fibres from the carpet scratched at my feet. I could hear Michael breathing down the phone, and each shaky exhalation gave me what felt like a mild electric shock between my thighs.

“You couldn’t what?” I whispered so quietly I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.

“Walk. I couldn’t even stand up straight because the thought of your wet cunt made my cock rock hard. My jeans were bending the poor fucking thing in half and it hurt.”

I knew that was supposed to be funny. Understood that he’d been making a joke, but I couldn’t get the idea out of my head long enough to muster a laugh. I imagined his jeans tightening, one side starting to bulge and twitch. I even let my mind conjure up an image of a little damp patch appearing on the denim where his tip had leaked at the mere thought of me.

It was only fair. My pussy was leaking right now at the mere thought of him, and what was good for the goose…

“I hope you’ve gotten off,” I said, instantly trying to back track. “I mean I hope you’ve gotten them off. The jeans, I meant. Yeah.”

Oh God, Michael, stop fucking laughing! Breathy, sexy chuckles were something my poor needy vagina could do without me hearing.

Suddenly, he did just that. After a few seconds of quiet he said, “My jeans are around my ankles, and so are my boxers. I still had them on when I dialled your number, but I dropped them as soon as you picked up. I haven’t been able to keep my hand off my cock since the second you said hello.”

Nothing he could have said could have shocked me more. I’ve dated loads of guys, Diary, but not once had any of them confessed to playing with themselves while they spoke to me. I’d have told you if they had.

“What are you wearing, Tasha?”

“What?” It was my turn to laugh. If this was going to be my first ever experience with phone sex, it could have started with something a bit more original than that.

“Stop laughing, it’s a serious question. I’ve already walked my imagination through your shower. Your hands soaping up all that soft wet skin and the little patch of hair between your legs. And I’ve thought about the way your tits must move and sway as you dry your hair, too, in detail. All I need to complete the delicious picture I’ve built up in my head is an idea of what you’re sleeping in.”

Hushed and intimate, and deadly serious. That’s how his voice sounded. It made my belly ache, and my nipples scratch against their soft fabric covering. Leaning back on the bed, I opened my thighs, running one finger up the length of my pussy. I didn’t part my lips, but that didn’t matter. I could feel the wetness anyway.

“Just a white babydoll.” My cheeks were getting hotter by the minute.

“Is it a transparent one? If I was with you, would I be able to see your nipples through it or would I have to suck them to make them show?”

“You could see them, though the sucking would be more than welcome.”

“I bet it would. Do you like knowing I’m hard for you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like knowing I’m stroking my cock for you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you stroking yourself for me?”

Just as he asked that last question, I pushed my fingers between my soaking folds. My flesh was hot, and I could smell the musky juices that were starting to drip between my butt cheeks and onto the bed.

“Oh God, yes I am.”

Quiet, sexy moaning. My mind was all over Michael’s face. I pictured him with his eyes closed, and with one corner of his bottom lip pulled into his mouth, held there by his Hollywood teeth. Nostrils flaring, lashes fluttering, eyes opening, blue irises swallowed up by his pupils.

“Talk to me,” I whispered. “Please talk to me, Michael.”

Fingers on my clit, I listened to his lazy speech, the ache in my belly getting stronger as his voice deepened and grew rugged. “I wish to God you were here,” he said. “Right here in front of me on my bed with your legs spread wide. Your beautiful little pussy on show for me, slick and wet and waiting for me to slide my hard cock deep inside.”

Pushing my fingers into my vagina I started to thrust, trying to convince myself it was his hand fucking me and not mine. I wanted to moan for him, to let him know that his words were driving me crazy, but I didn’t dare. I’d have to be quiet, because I didn’t live alone.

“But I wouldn’t give you what you wanted,” he continued. “I’d bite your nipples, then your belly, and I’d keep going down until my lips wrapped around your throbbing little clit. I’d suck and tongue fuck that cunt until I had to fight to keep you still.”

I could hear a tremor is his voice, and I knew what caused it. It was his arm. He was stroking his cock so quickly he was making his entire body shake. The noises that drifted from the phone were maddening. I could hear him shifting around, huffing out soft grunts of exertion. Some of those noises were my name, distorted by clenched teeth.

“Listen,” I gasped.

Even though the phone was somewhere above my groin, I heard Michael’s growl. It reached my ears despite the sound of my fingers splashing in my own fluids. I heard him calling my name, so I brought the phone back to my ear.

“Come with me, Natasha. Fuck that cunt as hard as you can and tell me when you’re ready. I’ll wait until you are, but God, please be fast cos my balls are about to explode.”

“Oh God, Michael!”

I turned on my side, facing the wall, trying to make sure he could hear my moans and whimpers even as I tried to muffle them in my pillow. My chest heaved, sweat tickled my skin, and my lungs cried out for more oxygen.

“I can’t wait to get my cock in your cunt again,” Michael rasped. “I want to be deep inside of you, baby. So deep, fucking you like the dirty little slut I know you can be.”

I couldn’t be sure if it was the way he’d said it or just the fact that he’d said it, but the word ‘slut’ was my undoing. “Now, Michael, now, now, oh fuck!”

Pussy clamping around my fingers, I squeezed my eyes closed and came to the sound of Michael panting my name down the phone. My legs trembled, my heart thudded against my chest. Each pulse forced a little bit of fluid from inside me, and by the time the orgasm faded I was lying in a puddle of my own making.

Michael’s final groan turned to a laugh, and I felt my heart squeeze out a pained beat. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up before this shit dries on me,” he said. “I have to be at my very best for tonight.”

“Tonight?” I mumbled in a daze.

“Our date, remember? I’ll be there at seven, Tasha, so be ready for me. But for now, sleep well.”

It took me almost half an hour to pick myself up off the bed to get you from your hiding hole, Diary. I’m exhausted and my legs are like jelly, but I couldn’t go to sleep without telling you what had happened. Michael has managed to reduce me to a dribbling mess twice, and in less than ten minutes both times. I can’t wait to see what he can do when we have a whole night ahead of us. Tonight can’t come quick enough.

If you liked this story check out the next installment: Dear Diary: The First Date

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Week #127

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