IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(4)

My mouth went dry, my own fingers trembling in anticipation as I typed out, Thank you. I felt a thrill in my chest as I added the word Sir.

I set my phone next to me and grasped my dick, closing my eyes as I imagined the bartender’s hand tightening around my length. His thumb drawing circles around the precum-slicked slit.

212-555-0160: How does that feel?





Conor: Amazing.





212-555-0160: Show me. Send me a picture.





I snapped a photo of my hand grasping my dick. It wasn’t until it was sending that I realized my toes were curled in the shot. Oh well. It felt fucking amazing. I kept stroking up and down, enjoying the feel of my tight hand and the cool sheets against my back.

212-555-0160: You have a gorgeous cock. If I were there I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep my mouth off it.





I groaned, imagining the wash of his breath against the length of my shaft. His tongue tracing the ridge of my head. The wet heat of his mouth enveloping me.

212-555-0160: Would you like that?





God I wanted nothing more. I was getting close, my jaw clenched and muscles tight with the need for release. It was torture to release my cock in order to type a response.

Conor: Yes, Sir.





212-555-0160: Good. Now on your knees, hands on your thighs.





I stared at the message. Part of me felt like ignoring it. My hand felt awfully good just like this. I didn’t want to stop stroking myself.

Except I was already responding. Already moving.

Conor: Where?





212-555-0160: On the bed is fine.





I let out a trembling breath, shifting into position.

Conor: Yes, sir.





212-555-0160: Lean forward, your face on the mattress. Ass in the air. Lick your finger.





I shuddered. I knew where this was going and suddenly felt oddly vulnerable. Kneeling like this on the bed, my ass exposed.

212-555-0160: Do it now.





Mother of god.

Conor: Yes, Sir.





Every time I typed the words a thrill jolted through me.

212-555-0160: What’s your name?





The question threw me. It was so unexpected that I’d automatically started giving him my real name when I caught myself. What was I thinking? I’d already sent the man a dick pic; no way I was giving him my real name. I could see the headlines now: “Idiot Conor Newell Texts Compromising Photo to Hotel Barkeep.”

I was taking too long to answer. My eye caught the label on my Samsonite suitcase.

Conor: Sam.





212-555-0160: I’ll pretend you didn’t just lie to me.





I cringed, wondering if he was disappointed in me. The thought left a bad taste in my mouth. I wanted to apologize, which made me even more confused. He was a stranger. This was an anonymous one-night stand—emphasis on the anonymous aspect. So why did I care what he thought about me?

Before I could untangle my thoughts and figure out how to respond, he texted again.

212-555-0160: Touch your hole with your wet finger. NotSam.





My heart thundered in my chest as I reached my hand toward my ass and did what he asked. How the fuck did that skinny bastard have the ability to light my every damned nerve ending on fire?

The minute I pressed my finger against the sensitive skin at my entrance, I dropped the phone and went for it. One hand stroked my dick while the other teased my hole. It wasn’t anything different than I did at home in the dark, but knowing he knew it was happening made it hotter than hell.

212-555-0160: Are you imagining it’s me behind you, NotSam? My cock pushing against your entrance? Sliding into your ass? Is that what you want right now?





It was too much. The thought of the stranger’s hands on my hips, his long fingers pressing into my flesh as he held me in place and fucked me sent me spiraling. Ignoring the phone in favor of chasing this feeling, I pumped harder, imagining it was his hand circling my cock, squeezing tight as he drove me over the edge. With my face pressed against the mattress, I shouted out my release, warm fluid shooting up across the bedding and all over my hand. I fucked myself with my finger until all the aftershocks had ended.

I collapsed onto my side, gasping for air, my body spent.

Before I could stop myself, I took a photo of my cum-soaked hand and chest and sent it before reaching for the tissues.

Conor: OMG. That was amazing.





There was a long pause. Long enough that I wondered if he’d gotten bored and wandered away. I started to regret sending him the picture of my climax, but then three dots appeared on the screen.

212-555-0160: You ever come again without my permission, and I’ll redden your ass.





The mental image of his promise caused my spent cock to twitch. Then I realized the implication of his text: that what we’d done might happen again. That there might be a next time. I smiled at the thought that I’d pleased him enough to want more. Even though I knew it wasn’t going to happen.

Conor: Yes Sir.