“Send me a sexy pic of your knickers, baby girl.”
“What kind of pic do you want, Daddy?”
“Something tasteful, with your legs spread wide.”
“From what angle?”
“A lower POV — looking up like you’re about to sit on my face.”
“So, camera between my legs. Kneeling over it. Slutty little knickers swallowed between my lips?”
“Fuck me. Yes. You would make Daddy very happy.”
Here I am, basked in the glow of my phone. Staring at her pretty little cunt covered in white cotton and small red hearts. I want to press my face into each one, tongue the damp fabric until the hearts blur under my mouth.
I’m an American middle-aged, married dad saying knickers now because a woman a world away owns me completely. Before her I never uttered the word. Before her, I never did the Daddy/baby girl dance. And now I’m long-distance-domming under a midnight sky from the back porch. It’s summer and even the cicadas have gone quiet. Shorts at my ankles, sitting at our umbrella table, stroking my thickening cock to a cotton-covered cunt on the other side of the planet.
There are times I wonder what the fuck I’m doing.
But when my fist is wrapped tight around my shaft and her voice is in my ear, it’s all-consuming. She lives in me now. She skulks the speech patterns of my heroines. She’s the slick, pulsing vision I see when I close my eyes at night.
I retire to the back deck under the guise of smoking a pipe and finishing bottles of Pinot Noir. Of course, there are chats within the writers’ group. And there are story edits to make. Suggestions. Everything is in the margins now. It’s all peripheral. It’s all upside down.
As I look at the vastness above me, the stars I stroke under are not the same stars she sees. It’s her early morning when it’s my midnight. Her dawn a different color. Our only constants are the constellations of freckles across her pale breasts, those soft crescents glowing from my screen in lace apertures that shadow every filthy craving I have.
She’s a mere eight years older than my oldest. She belongs in his orbit, not mine. We both know it like an inside joke scattered across 14 hours of time zones.
I do the math sometimes. Then I stop doing the math.
She’s antipodal. She’s always in my tomorrow while I chase her yesterday.
The voice notes and pics carry us through.
It’s her voice that has me undone. A sultry rasp that travels continents to reach me. I melt every single time.
She’s on repeat.
She wants a pic of my cock in return. The moonlight is bright enough. The shadow of my rigidity stretches across the deck wood like a perverse moondial. There’s light and commotion from the house — kids home from college, the hum of bass woofers.
The risks I take at this hour.
Our banter turns feral. I slide inside, lock myself in the downstairs half-bath. We’re past polite now. We boss each other raw. Switchy Daddy against an undeniable brat. Tit for tat.
“Ruin your knickers for me. Send me a pic of the evidence. I want to see exactly how soaked that greedy little cunt is.”
“Show me your cock, Daddy. Stroke it for me.”
I’m pulling hard, veins standing out, head flushed dark and leaking. She sends me her ass in a thong, cheeks spread, the thin strip dark with her juices. I haven’t been this achingly hard in years — so swollen it throbs with every heartbeat, the kind of erection that makes my breath catch and my balls draw tight. My moans are interrupted by college kids clattering chicken tenders into the air fryer. Beeps. Whirr. Laughter.
I’m standing in front of the mirror, yanking on my cock, taking perverse selfies because she demands them. Bottle clanks echo down the hall. Living voices swell in a house that’s supposed to be an empty nest.
Door locked.
Half-bath full of dirty want.
There are evenings when the wife softly snores that I’ll slide out of bed. Glide as a ghost across our bedroom to our walk-in closet. My sanctuary when the house is full. I strip and slide down the sidewall facing the full-length mirror.
I see what I wish she could see.
Both of them. Either of them.
The woman who knows exactly what to do with a man like this. Who named things in me I didn’t have words for. Who found the ache already there and gave it somewhere to go.
And my wife. Who knew me before I knew myself. Who sleeps ten feet away not knowing that I’m here, on our closet floor, completely undone among her dresses.
She didn’t create the need. She found it waiting.
That thought burns.
There’s a cruelty in the distance that also might be its gift. What the body can’t have, the heart compensates for. What the hands can’t touch, the imagination builds from scratch — more vivid, more consuming, more devastating than anything proximity would allow.
We’ve been forced entirely into language.
Into voice.
Into the specific electricity of being known through words alone.
That’s the trap.
That’s also why I can’t stop.
It’s all video snippets now — forty seconds of incremental sin. My ragged moans followed by her good-girl groans bouncing digitally between continents. I record how completely she wrecks me: stroking like she commands, pulling my balls, pinching my nipples, cock angry and purple in my fist against the backdrop of marital normalcy. I demand the same in return.
“Slap that slutty cunt for me.”
She obeys as beautifully as she commands. The wet sounds carry through the headphones and straight into my spine.
When I finally spill it’s an eruption I haven’t felt since my late twenties — thick ropes that paint my knuckles and the closet floor while my whole body shakes. She makes me feel virile again. Restored. That’s the real drug for men my age, isn’t it? Not just the orgasm, but the sharp, terrifying thrill of being someone’s specific filthy desire. Of mattering that viscerally to another person’s fantasy.
What follows in my post-nut-clarity isn’t guilt.
It’s being seen.
Being realized by her.
Being undone and remade in the same breath.
I sit on the closet floor lost in the moment. Her voice note still warm in my ear. The wardrobes of my life hanging witness around me.
Then I clean up. Slide back across the bedroom. Slip in beside my wife.
She stirs slightly.
Doesn’t wake.
We dream.
The study is my early morning before the dawn and her late night after her house has settled. My caffeinated kickstart contrasting her wine wind down. It’s here that the favor gets returned. My evenings become her mornings. My hunger becomes her undoing.
I edge her through the remnants of her day. I work her over with words. Tell her how to touch. How to spread. How to push her fingers while she thinks of Daddy’s cock. She succumbs to my cravings half a world away. Her wetness webbed between glistening fingers. I demand the evidence.
She breaks in shudders as the dawn breaks my horizon.
I feel the echo of her orgasm close her day as I begin mine.
It’s in my faculty office when she wakes. We stir our days together in live voice chats — mundane and electric at once. Each time we hear each other, live, living, breathing, it’s entirely new.
Every time the first time.
The energy that flows between us moves the tides.
Our romance, asynchronous for now. Professional schedules. Familial schedules. Time zones that don’t cooperate and family lives that won’t pause.
We have said things that cannot be unsaid.
Felt things that cannot be unfelt.
For now, we have the stars.
Different ones.
Both ours.
you have a gift
Yes!! This! This is ‘trans-continental’ sexting to a tee. Been there, done that, etc., and it’s such a turn-on… So this story is a turn-on too!