Chapter 21: Midnight video call turns into mutual masturbation session as Andi gives Matt a private show from her hotel bathroom, both reaching climax while separated by continents.
The third day of silence was the worst. Matthias had thrown himself into work, redesigning a brewery logo for the fifth time, the pixels blurring into meaningless shapes on his screen. The memory of Andi’s airport whisper had become a dull, persistent ache, a phantom limb he couldn’t stop reaching for. He’d almost convinced himself the whole thing was a fever dream born of proximity and bad lighting.
Then, at 2:17 AM, his phone buzzed on the nightstand, shattering the quiet. The screen glowed with her name. A video call.
He fumbled for it, his heart hammering against his ribs. He accepted, the screen resolving into a shaky, dim image. Andi. Her hair was a mess, her face flushed. The background was all cold, white tiles and the faint gleam of a chrome shower rod. A hotel bathroom.
“Matt?” Her voice was a breathless scrape. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah. I’m alone.” He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. “What’s wrong?”
A shaky, breathy laugh. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s… fuck, everything is so right. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I’ve been lying in that bed for two hours thinking about your mouth on me.”
She adjusted the phone, angling it downward. The camera jostled, then steadied. She was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, her legs spread wide. She wore only a thin, black lace thong, pulled to the side. His breath hitched. The screen framed the perfect, intimate view of her, glistening and open.
“See what you do to me?” she whispered, her voice thick. Her fingers, slender and sure, traced through her slick folds. “I’m so wet for you, Matt. I’ve been like this all day, remembering that fucking curtain at the boutique.”
He was hard instantly, a painful, throbbing heat. He shoved the sheets away, his own hand moving to his cock, gripping himself through his boxers.
“Touch yourself,” she commanded, her eyes locked on the camera. “I need to see you. I need to see your hand on your cock while I fuck myself thinking about your tongue.”
He freed himself, his length springing into his hand. The room was cool, but his skin was on fire. He started to stroke, a slow, tight rhythm, his gaze fixed on the screen.
Andi moaned, a low, hungry sound. Two of her fingers slid inside herself, her body arching off the toilet seat. “God, yes. Just like that. I can see you. I wish that was your cock. I’m so fucking empty.”
“Andi…” Her name was a groan. He watched, mesmerized, as her fingers worked in and out, the wet, soft sound faint but clear through the speaker. Her thumb circled her clit, pressing hard.
“Tell me,” she panted, her movements becoming more frantic. “Tell me what you’d do if you were here. Right now.”
“I’d get on my knees,” he rasped, his own strokes speeding up, matching the frantic pace of her fingers. “I’d push your legs wider and I’d bury my face in you. I’d eat your pussy until you came down my throat. I wouldn’t stop, not even when you’re screaming.”
“Fuck, Matt.” Her eyes squeezed shut, then flew open, desperate to watch him. “I’m close. I’m so close. Don’t stop. Come with me. I need to see you come while I’m coming.”
The pressure in his groin was a tight coil, winding beyond bearing. The visual of her—spread open, fucking herself with her own fingers, her face a mask of raw need—was too much. His hips bucked off the bed.
“I’m there, Andi. I’m there.”
A sharp, guttural cry tore from her throat, her body seizing as her orgasm hit. He watched her convulse, her fingers still buried deep inside, and it shattered his own control. With a choked groan, he came, hot stripes painting his stomach and chest, his entire body trembling with the force of it.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, a synchronized rhythm across the continents. The image on the screen stabilized as her hand fell away, resting on her thigh, slick and spent.
She finally looked at him, a slow, sated smile spreading across her face. “Hi.”
He laughed, a breathless, wrecked sound. “Hi yourself.”
“Two weeks is too long,” she murmured, her eyelids heavy.
“Eleven days now,” he corrected softly, his heart rate beginning to slow.
She shifted, the camera angle returning to her face. “Eleven days.” The promise in her voice was a tangible thing, a new thread pulled taut between them. “I should go before Chloe wakes up and wonders why the bathroom’s occupied.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight, Matt.”
“Goodnight, Andi.”
The screen went dark. He lay there in the silence, the scent of sex and salt thick in the air, the ghost of her image burned onto the back of his eyelids. The apartment felt different. The silence was no longer empty. It was charged, humming with the echo of her voice and the explicit, shared truth of what was waiting for him when she returned. Eleven days. It felt like both an eternity and no time at all.
It felt like both an eternity and no time at all.
Three days later, his phone buzzed again, not with a call but a cascade of messages that lit up the screen during a tedious client meeting. He excused himself, leaning against the cool wall of the office hallway. The first video was short and chaotic, shot from Chloe’s perspective. Andi stood on a low pedestal in a brightly lit boutique, swamped in a voluminous, floral-patterned dress with puffed sleeves.
“It’s so romantic, don’t you think?” Andi’s voice was pitched high for her friends, spinning slowly with her arms outstretched. The text below read: The girls are leaning toward this one. What do you think?
Before he could type a response, another video arrived. This one was from Andi’s own phone, the camera angle intimate and steady. The background noise of her friends was a distant murmur. She was in a different dressing room, this one all dark wood and soft lighting. She wore a sleek, black cocktail dress that ended high on her thighs. The fabric hugged every curve, the deep V-neck plunging toward her navel.
She didn’t speak. She simply turned, her hand smoothing down over her hip, her ass, a slow, possessive caress. Then she glanced over her shoulder directly into the lens, her expression a silent question. The accompanying text was a single line: But I think I prefer this one.
His mouth went dry. The black dress was a weapon. It was the boutique curtain and the airport whisper all over again, a public performance with a private, illicit meaning meant only for him. He could see the faint outline of her nipples against the tight fabric, the promise of skin.
He typed back, his fingers clumsy. The black one. No contest.
Her reply was instant. Knew you’d say that. It’s the easiest to get out of.
A final video popped up. The green dress. It was a simple, slip-like sheath in emerald silk, the straps thin and delicate. It clung to her body like a second skin, the color a stunning contrast against her fair skin and the messy bun of her hair. She wasn’t looking at the camera but at her reflection in the mirror, a faint, private smile on her lips as she ran her hands down her sides.
Then her eyes flicked to the phone, capturing his gaze through the screen. Her hands moved to the thin straps, slowly pushing them down over her shoulders. The silk began to slither down her body, revealing the top curve of her breasts, the smooth plane of her stomach. The video ended just as the fabric was about to slip past her nipples.
The text that followed was a command. This is the one I’m buying. I’m not wearing anything underneath it when I see you. I want you to peel it off me with your teeth.
He was painfully hard, the client meeting completely forgotten. He stared at the frozen image on his screen, the hint of pale skin at the edge of the green silk. Eleven days had shrunk to a single, agonizing point of focus: that dress, and his teeth on the strap, dragging it down.