I Can't Talk

 

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I Can't Talk

 Call me when you get home. I can't talk, but I can listen.

I get his text on my way home from the grocery store.My heart begins to race. I know what the text means. I pull into my parking spot a little too fast and slam the car into Park. I almost choke myself with the seat belt in my haste to get out of the car. I thank God my groceries are in the eco-friendly mesh bags and not simple plastic ones that would have surely ripped with my rough handling of them. I quickly let myself into my house. I hang my keys on the key rack next to the door and slip my shoes off. I go through the bags, gathering the items that need to be refrigerated or placed in the freezer. The rest can wait.



I can't talk, but I can listen. He’s working; trapped in an office, away on a business trip but has found a few moments for us. His life is full of responsibilities and commitments he is unable to walk away from; aging parents, a rewarding, but demanding career, three children from a now-former spouse. We met through work, teleconferencing. Over months, the business conversations slowly turned to include personal matters as well, and we found ourselves drawn to each other. We are not in love, but there is a connection between us, an animalistic drive that binds us and holds us. We are for one another. I've never felt his hand on my body, have never looked into his eyes or had his tongue touch mine, but I am his, just as he belongs to me.

I hang my coat on the coat rack in the corner of the dining room then head up the stairs to my bedroom, undressing as I go. By the time I reach my bed, I am taking off my socks and reaching for the phone. I know his mobile number by heart. I dial the number with my left hand as I pull down the bed with my right. At the last ring before my call is put to voice mail, I hear his quiet, "hello."

"It's me," I say unnecessarily. My number comes up on his phone; there is no need to announce myself.

"Hi." His greeting is less than a whisper, and for a moment I am unsure if he's said it or if I've imagined it. But I know he is there, on the other end of this phone call. I can listen.

"I've thought about you today," I say quietly as I climb into my bed. I do not talk to him anywhere but my bedroom. It is our sanctuary, a place where our thoughts and desires and passion came alive. I speak quietly, just above a whisper, though there is no need. I do it anyway because is more intimate, one of the few intimacies we can share, being so far apart.

I tell him of lying in bed that morning, having woken up too early to get out and start my day. How I laid there with my eyes closed and pictured us together in a bedroom in some far off place where no one knew us, no one expected us to be anyone important or responsible or busy. Our room was warm in the early evening and a bit humid. There was an overhead fan creating a small breeze, and I heard soft, melodic voices through the opened window as I was lying in the middle of a huge bed.

While I'm describing the bedroom, my hand drifts to my breasts; palming them gently then rubbing my fingertips across the nipples, feeling them stiffen eagerly under the attention. I barely hear my lover breathing on the other end of the call, but I know he is there. Listening. I know in this moment we share, we are in that bedroom together on that big, high bed. Our bodies are slick with sweat, his hair is damp at his temples and the back of his neck, and my hair is pulled back in a haphazard mess. He is kneeling between my legs, lazily stroking himself. He teases me, for he knows I am always eager to watch him pleasure himself. My eyes are locked on to his gorgeous cock, long and thick in his hand; I am mesmerized.

I whisper to my lover that he won't let me touch, I'm to just lie back and watch, and on the phone, I hear his breath hitch. I know he is doing exactly the same, stroking himself lazily, slowly, and drawing out the pleasure and anticipation before lust and impatience set in. I deliciously describe, in great detail, how he falls towards me on the bed, how his hand lands beside my shoulder. He won’t press his chest to mine but holds himself away, prolonging the sweet agony a moment longer.

My pussy is wet and heavy with want. My lover moves his hips slowly, running the length of his cock over my slick folds, and I buck against him. Raising my legs, I wrap them around his hips, pushing him down on top of me, and he enters me with one thick thrust.

All the while, my fingers are busy. On the phone, I tell my lover where they are and what they are doing. How I feel knowing he is stroking himself, pleasuring himself to the sound of my voice. I place the receiver close to my pussy and let him hear the wet, slippery sounds my fingers are making as they slide in and out of my hot cunt.

My lover is eager for me to cum. He loves hearing my stuttered breathing and murmuring “fuck” over and over. Over my own labored breathing, of attempting to recreate the images of us from this morning, my fingers skim over my clit repeatedly, in a steady rhythm, and I am close, so close to the edge.

“I want to hear you,” he says oh so softly. The phone is pressed tightly to my ear, ever conscious of his need to be near silent. I fight the urge to scream, to expel great gusts of air as I strain for my release. I want to be silent so that I may hear him, but he’s having none of it.

“Louder,” he raises his voice to a mere whisper, now. But I hear the command in his voice. He is determined to hear me, and I lose control. I know what it is that he wants to hear, his name, begging him to fuck me, to cum over me and in me. I’m desperate and eager, then suddenly it’s there, the tingling and the outward burst of pleasure so intense, so raw, that I am lost to it.

I can no longer hear him, but I know he will wait for me to quieten before he continues. With my fingers still plunging in and out of my body, I beg him to continue. I plead with him to cum for me, to let me drink his cum, to shower me, mark me. I want to smell of him and his desire for me, to make me his again and again. And then I hear him. The tiny huffs of breathe, the barely discernable moan. And then, my name. He gives me the greatest gift he can offer. To hear my name on his lips while he shares his pleasure spurs another orgasm, and I’m caught by surprise.

It takes more than a moment for us to catch our breaths. I murmur his name, over and over, and he revels in it. Long ago it was decided that all my orgasms belong to him, no matter the circumstances or scenario. Whether silently or screaming, my pleasure belongs to him, just as his belongs to me. When I beg and plead for his cum, for his pleasure, it is my own for which I am begging, pleading.  When we share this part of ourselves, this most intimate part, it does not matter whether we are in the same room or the same state. We are one. I am his; he is mine.

There are words that will never be spoken aloud between us, words we will never admit having a need to say, as long as we have this. I can’t talk, but I can listen.