Fair Trade

I sit on the edge of the bed and I wait. I wait for his e-mail, for his words. I wait for this month's installment. I wait for the slow, lingering, all-consuming orgasm I will finally give myself, as his imagination penetrates me. I sit there, and I wait.

It's almost midnight. He's late, and I am impatient.

Probably putting a final shine on the narrative, I think. Like me he's a perfectionist. Add a word here, remove one there. The right word in the right context. Pussy? Cunt? Vagina? Sex? Such choices are important. They make all the difference.

But I'd settle for a penis where a cock might have pleased me more to have the story in front of me, now. Instead I must wait.

I open my legs and sigh as the breeze coming in through the open window moves between them. I'm naked under the skirt, of course. The air's soft fingers run with teasing slowness along the insides of my thighs, tracing invisible lines of electric sensation all the way to my smooth-shaven... well, whatever you want to call it, it is tingling and dripping wet, pulsing with an anticipation built over many long, frustrated days. It needs attention. It needs to be teased, tasted, caressed and filled.

I have many toys to hand, and my fingers... well, they're here too. I'm prepared, I'm ready. But I like to save myself, to wait... and he is late.

I haven't masturbated in over a week. Every day, all day, I've longed for tonight. Every day I've thought about it, imagined it. Each evening I have come home with my knickers soaked from these daydreams, but I refrain from touching myself. It's difficult but, somehow, I manage.

At night it's even worse. I long to touch myself as I picture him next to me in bed. He takes me in his arms and pulls me close. I close my eyes as we kiss, and my entire body throbs. A hand – his hand – moves between my legs. I withdraw and lie on my back, opening my legs and exposing myself to him. He moves into position, and as his muscular body presses down onto mine I gasp, feeling him enter me, feeling my body open itself to take him inside. I picture all of this and I ache for release, but I hold back.

Though perhaps 'picture' is the wrong word, as I have no idea what he looks like. For all I know 'he' is actually a 'she'. That might turn me on even more.

My phone beeps – finally! – and vibrates itself along the table at the foot of the bed with three long buzzes. I grab it quickly and hold it between my legs, smearing it with my wetness. He always sends two e-mails, just so I can do this. Sometimes he teases me by waiting a few minutes but this time – aware, perhaps, that he is late and I am impatient – his mail arrives only seconds later.

I cry aloud as the phone vibrates against my pussy: once... twice... three times... oh my fucking god! I have needed this! My clitoris – denied stimulation for so long – makes up for lost time by soaking my entire body with ecstatic pleasure at each buzz of the little device. I whimper a little when it stops.

I put my phone back on the table, and press 'record' on the little video camera that sits beside it, facing me. I lean back into a nest of cushions, open my legs to the blinking red light of the camera, and open the first e-mail on the tablet lying among the half-dozen dildos, beads and butt-plugs strewn across the bed beside me.

That's the deal, you see. He writes me a story, and I send him a video of myself wanking over it.

His first e-mail just says: "Get ready."

I'm ready, oh so very ready.

I open the second e-mail, and slide one long, slender finger into my cunt as I start to read...

...and the camera watches.