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Where: Twitter.

With: @IndianErotica & me.

When: February 11, 2011.

Note: Her tweets are italicised, mine aren’t.

She dialled his number as the urgency grew, knowing he’d be waiting, feeling he’d be wanting, hoping he’d be ready for her right now.

He answered, breathless and hoarse,”Finally tore yourself away from him. Did you think I would wait forever?”

She ignored his agitation and answered with muffled moans. Her desperation turned him on and made him forget the pining.

She could hear arousal and impatience in his tone, “I don’t really care for your moaning and if you must know, my bed’s taken.”

“My legs are spread and my fingers waiting, my ears plead for the sound of your orgasm. Please… Dont dismiss me now.” She begged.

“Oh but my fingers are otherwise engaged. They are stroking, playing, plunging, patting. Do you wish yourself in her place?” He said.

“You want her to be me. She isn’t who I can be. Her musk won’t melt with yours. The taste of her arousal won’t make you heady.”

She heard him inhale sharply. “You sick, sick woman. My fingers would hurt you more than your words do. You deserve pain.”

“I deserve the pulsating urgency in your pants that pains to know I am the only one who can milk it dry and yet wanting more.”

She heard sheets rustle and a plaintive voice at the other end of the phone telling him to hang up. She imagined him hard.

She ached for him, her body betraying her breaking heart as a trickle escaped her reminding her of her complete helplessness.

She heard more sounds on the other end and soft, urgent moans. She could only imagine her words turning him on enough to make him want to empty his bed as fast as possible and get back to the phone with her.

“Tell her you’re mine tonight. I dodged him for you too. I am wet for you, do you want to hear my readiness?” She coaxed.

“Do you want to know what I just did? I treated her the same way I would have treated you were you here. She has my mark.”

She instinctively reached out for the blue reminder on the inside of her thigh, where he’d bit her mercilessly and left it aching long afterwards… A constant reminder on her body of how he owned her in every conceivable way.

He went on, “Just the way you have mine from last Friday. Do you remember how my teeth skimmed your skin?

“I remember your teeth on my skin and your tongue inside it. I am remembering it now as my lace gives in to the growing moisture.”

“My mouth was filled with another woman tonight, but all it could taste was you. Damn you, you merciless thing!” He bit out.

She smiled knowing she had up-handed the woman in his bed. She began to touch herself slowly, consoling the burns over her body.

His voice grew rougher, “Pinch the marks I left on you. Say my name in your rasping voice. Bite your lips. Bleed for me.”

And suddenly the words melted into sharp gasps and soft moans, she fearing being heard and he aching in being spent.

Her voice grew heavy, her body heavier. She brazenly took command of the game and drew him on. She could hear his control. She could hear it snap. She went on. He failed his anger, he satisfied his need.

She imagined her moans fill up his ears, her insides being violated by his hardness, and his body becoming a slave to hers.

Separated by a telephone line, but joined by the most basic need, their cadences urged each other on. One’s face mirroring the others deepest, darkest, roughest need. They arched and writhed and grunted and rasped.

She probed herself in the rhythm of his strokes, could breathe his musk, feel his hands, and exploded with his name on her lips.

In his room, with one woman’s traces and another’s scent from a different day, he let go and acknowledged his need for her.

She hung up just in time as her husband’s footsteps echoed outside, and waited for him to discover her ready for him.