I read it in a magazine a while back. Survey reckoned sixty per cent of all women have had a phone conversation with someone during sex. Doesn’t mean sixty per cent of women do it every time, or that the women who do it have phone conversations for sixty per cent of the time they’re having sex. But Jessica’s way up there in percentage terms.
When her phone plays a bleepy version of some club dance anthem, Jessica scrabbles on the bedside table for it.
‘Hi!’ Voice pitched a little lower than normal, husky and breathless. There’s a reason for that. She’s feeling hot, wild and sheet-biting eager.
‘He did what? Ohhh…’ The Ohhh is because we’re having a doggy style moment and I’ve shifted position very slightly in a way that makes a big difference to depth of penetration.
I guess that she’s talking to Sharon. They’ve had several conversations recently about Sharon’s husband, who seems to have spent a lot of evenings working late, and weekends playing golf. Except the golf club, when Sharon phoned them, had no record of him being on the course and he wasn’t in the clubhouse.
It doesn’t matter to me who Jessica’s talking to. As long as it’s not her husband. And I’ve reached the point where my own need to climax is building in urgency. I’m pretty sure the sound of my thighs slapping against her ass cheeks will be audible over the phone.
As are her gasps, evidently. I can’t hear what Sharon’s saying, but after Jessica’s quiet moan, I get Sharon’s squeal even through the pinhead-sized speaker on the phone.
Jessica breathes heavily, chuckles, grunts into the phone.
‘I’m in a motel…’
The room’s bland. Brown carpet, magnolia walls, a long shelf with a TV, telephone and kettle none of which we need. A bed that’s quite sturdy and doesn’t rattle or creak, which we do need.
Her dress, a blue button-through in light fabric, is on the floor by the TV. She didn’t bother with underwear. I’d only have ripped it off her and she knows it. My trainers are on opposite corners of the room and my jeans, jacket and shirt are draped over the single tub-shaped armchair. I didn’t bother with socks or boxers. She’d only have ripped the boxers off me. And sex while wearing socks is definitely a style faux pas. She, on the other hand, is still wearing neon-blue heels that dig into my calves when she writhes, but definitely aren’t a faux pas.
She also has a gold anklet that winks in a thin shaft of sunlight that stabs through the closed curtains. Very eighties, but on her delicate ankle it’s utterly charming.
She wanted me to buy it for her a while back, wears it every time we meet up. Takes it off again when she goes back home. Calls it her slave anklet.
‘No!’ she shrieks, amused. ‘I’m with uhhhh, uhhhh…’
She hasn’t forgotten my name. It’s just that I’ve used my left hand to reach under her belly and pressed the nail of my middle finger into her clit. And I take the ‘No’ to be her answer to a question about who she’s with. As in No, she’s not with her husband.
And no, I don’t know who he is. All I can say is he’s some kind of corporate executive who spends a lot of time away from home and leaves Jessica terminally bored. I’m the cure for her boredom.
I’m not interested. There’s pressure in my balls, and the pump-and-pulse feeling that runs from the base of big vein on the underside of my dick all the way up to its head.
‘Are you serious?’ She sounds incredulous.
Jessica snakes a hand under her body – the hand holding the phone. I’m moving more deliberately, slow and long, building my own climax, but she’s twisting and pushing against me in a way that makes it difficult. And there’s a ker-klik of the photo app on her phone.
I slap her ass. The fleshy smack is followed by a high-pitched ringing echo from the walls, and then her gasp that isn’t just shock but excitement.
Yes, she likes it. It’s the thing that turns up the dial on her sexual amplifier to max.
‘You really want me to?’
Jessica withdraws her hand. Fingers flicker across the phone’s screen. She’s just sent Sharon a pic of my balls and my cock pushing into her.
She arches her back, which increases the friction for both of us. Starts to moan more urgently, mutters ‘Yes, yes’ either to me or to Sharon, I don’t exactly know, and then ‘Fuck, oh fuck!’ which I guess is her beginning to come.
I reach forward and grab Jessica’s hair, an unruly blonde mass that trails halfway down her spine. Pull back on it, forcing her head up. It’s a big trigger for her, in a good way. It triggers her orgasm.
And the room is flooded with Jessica’s breathless howl of coming, my grunt and growl of ejaculation, and a quieter tinny shriek that comes from her phone.
We’re both lying on the bed, limbs entangled. Post-coital.
Jessica nods. ‘Once she figured what we were doing, she started playing with herself. Then, when she had the pic I sent, and the audio of us, she brought herself off. You made two of us come at the same time.’
‘So what’s the deal with her husband?’
Jessica shrugs. ‘I dunno.’
She stops holding out on me when I take a nipple between my teeth. But only after I’ve taken her back to the point when she’s not quite sure if my bite is pleasure or pain.
‘Word is, he’s exploring his sexuality. Sharon’s tracked a credit card payment to a billing name that turns out to be a professional dominant.’
‘So is she doing more about it than talking with you?’
Jessica grins at me.
‘Not as such. Not yet. But it’s on her to-do list.’
I wonder about the idea of an affair as something you’d put on a to-do list. The kind of thing you’d do on principle and slot into your schedule as a lifestyle choice. I can imagine there are people like that. I can imagine Sharon’s one of them, scheduling what is essentially a revenge fuck.
Her phone rings again. It’s a long conversation and I zone out for a while.
Jessica nudges me awake.
‘Sharon says, would you be up for it if I left my phone camera on next time?’
She smirks. ‘Because I can run streaming video to her.’
‘She wants to watch us fuck?’
There’s more conversation before she turns to me and says ‘It’s the next best thing to having an affair. But consider it an audition for when she does want to have one.’
‘We’d better make it interesting, then…’
And we do. Apparently Sharon’s very excited by the fact I’ve booked a ninth-floor room in a good-quality hotel, tied Jessica up and made her stand at the window. And by the use of a riding crop mark her ass. And even more so by the industrial-strength massager I’ve brought with me to bring Jessica to a screaming forced orgasm. Sharon’s even decided to get herself an ankle bracelet like Jessica’s.
Yes, it’s been a while since we posted. That’s life – sometimes we have to buckle down and write stuff for paying readers rather than spend time on the blog.
The story is, incidentally, inspired by a real survey that was published in June this year. You can read news articles on it in the Huffington Post, The Guardian and probably elsewhere – though apparently while 62% of women will check their phones during sex, only 34% actually admitted to answering a phone call while in the throes of ecstasy.