Wait, I say to him before we get off the phone. I want him to read me a bedtime story. He stoically tells me that it’s 10:00 am. Not where I am, I remind him. I tell him I’ll be restless without it. That I won’t be able to sleep. That I’ll be tossing and turning all night long when I could be dreaming of him. He grudgingly gives in, searching for a good piece of erotica on his computer while I turn off the lights, climb my stairs, and slink into bed, the bright light of my phone pressed to my ear.
How about a gangbang story? he asks. I smile; that’s exactly what I would have chosen. As he starts to read, his voice deep and reassuring in my ear, I close my eyes and imagine the scene unfolding before me, vivid images floating behind the dark half-moons of my eyelids. Hands and mouths everywhere, greedy, grasping, searching. Every glorious orifice being used to its full potential, undulations of bodies and pleasure. My right hand slides into my pajama bottoms, underneath my cotton panties as he continues to read; I find my labia already slick and slippery.
I’m not prepared for how fast I come. Before I can take any clothes off, before I can pull a breast out to graze one of my nipples with a wet finger, without tensing into it like normal, I suddenly come hard at the thought of several strangers using me, not ever knowing who they are, a dozen hands groping me at once. Fingers in my mouth, a fist around my hair, nails dug into my haunches, gripping me backward. I cry out, my body convulsing, and continue to moan; he stops reading.
“I wasn’t done,” he says. I am. I tell him to keep reading to me. I lay still in bed, my panties and thighs soaked, breathing deeply and evenly as I imagine him next to me, whispering the story into my ear in the dark.