I love my house and being in it, but a country-wide self-quarantine was starting to wear on me. My home started to feel like a prison and the bedroom that is normally my sanctuary, my tantric escape, was now my cell. I needed more. More of what, I didn’t know, just more than this.
I was still working and videoconferencing with co-workers once a week. It felt salacious to be able to go to meetings in a dress shirt and nothing else.
This week it was my turn to host the video meeting, so I opted for a light blue dress shirt, striped tie and silk lounging pants, no underwear of course. While I told my team about a new way to package a financial investment, I stroked myself, savoring the smooth friction of the silk against my penis. I rode the sensations, doing my best to sound and look confident and not like I was giving myself a subtle hand-job. Almost everyone was convinced, even complimentary about my presentation; almost everyone.
I turned off my webcam and stripped off my shirt and tie. The clothing had landed, crumpled on the far side of the couch when I heard,
“Turn your camera back on” spoken through my laptop speakers.
Looking up at the teleconferencing app on my computer, I saw that one person was still connected. It was Trina. I unmuted my microphone.
“Did you have another question, Trina”
“Yes”
“Ok. What can I help you with?”
“Turn your camera back on”
Trina is a compliance agent. She makes sure that everything that we do meets with the rules and regulations. She is also incredibly seductive. Trina is five-five, with skin the color of dark chocolate, and dimples. Oh God, she has dimples that made my knees want to buckle, the first time she’d fixed her deep brown eyes on me and smiled. We’d spoken at work of course, we’d butted heads plenty and flirted once or twice, back in the good old days when the world was still open.
“Does my camera need to be on for your question? I kinda got comfortable.”
“That’s the point.”
“Pardon?”
She sighed. “Why do you always have to be difficult?” My screen flashed and there she was. Exposed. Her breasts free, two-inch areola surrounding nipples that were pointing at me. She was gone just as quickly as she appeared.
“Oh,” was my articulate response.
“Your turn,” Came her disembodied voice. My cursor hovered over the “Video” button. I clicked.
“Yes” she growled through the speakers.
I was looking at myself, my chest more defined since isolation began due to “boredom push-ups”. The laptop screen blinked, and she was back. Breasts still out, dimpled smile and devious gaze aimed right at her webcam, aimed right at me.
“More” I dared.
The image rocked and blurred, when it cleared, Trina was leaning back, and I could see from her lace panties up to her breast, her face was just a shadow until light came on and I saw her more clearly.
“More,” she said.
It was my turn again. I moved my laptop to get the best angle and lay back so that she could see the bulge that I was gripping through my pants and still have a view of my chest and face.
In unison, we said “More” she giggled, and I smirked. We both made eyes at our screens, at each other. She reached for the elastic of her panties I reached for the waist band of my pants, faster than thought could prevent us, we whipped them past thighs, calves, and feet, in a pixelated blur that our cameras couldn’t keep pace with.
We found our positions, Trina leaned back on her bed, propped on pillows, legs akimbo, revealing herself; me laid down, one leg draped off of the couch, erection standing proud.
It was almost inaudible, a note above a breath, “More”, she said, her hand drifting towards her center. My hand found my erection at the same time that she touched her clit. We sighed.
“More.”
I don’t know who said it. The word was there, and we complied. My hand stroking down, then up my cock, thumb rubbing that spot just under the head that shot sparks up my spine. Her fingers moved in slow circles, then figure-eights, breathing through parted lips, eyes staring through her screen, straight into my eyes.
I didn’t know where to focus, her eyes that summoned me closer to the edge, her hard nipples, the deliciously bumpy flesh of her areola, the line of sweat that I could see, or imagined running between her breasts, or the rhythm of my own stroking that had to be timed so that I wouldn’t just blast off, like a rocket, but so that I hovered, floating on the wind, gliding with Trina towards a climax.
We were locked there, alone but together in a cocoon created of laptop screens, keyboards, tiny speakers, and lust. Touching erotic energies when we couldn’t touch each other. “More”, she nodded. “More” I mouthed. Her hand moved faster, orgasmic mudra working spells on her body, her legs twitched, her mouth opened and closed, her stomach rippled. My hand conducted an orchestra, my penis the instrument that called, the tiny hairs on my body, my rolling eyes, and bucking hips the reply. When I heard her moan, that moan, a sound filled with release and pleasure, drawn from her own earth and sky, I let go. I came seeing colors, burgundies and blues and bright yellows, every muscle in my body drained and satisfied.
I laughed, she laughed, both slightly awkward in our shared alone time.
“So, Trina, how are you doing with the isolation?”
“Well Billy, I’ve found myself getting a little horny. Sometimes I touch myself during meetings.” She raised an eyebrow at me, then she smiled. We both laughed together.