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HotScore: Draw all night? Damn, I think we have very different ideas about how we’d want our night to go, Picasso.

RoughingTheModel: I didn’t say anything about what would happen before or after I spend hours staring at your naked body.

HotScore: That gets me hotter than I’m sure it should.

RoughingTheModel: You’re not the only one…

HotScore: What are you doing right now besides messaging me?

My heart slams against my ribs as my cock grows harder beneath my palm.

RoughingTheModel: Stroking my cock over my boxers.

I shouldn’t be encouraging this when I know the chances of us meeting are slim. But fuck, I need this.

HotScore: Fuck, yeah. Me too. I’m so fucking hard for you right now.

Reading those words ensures my cock goes full mast, and before I know what’s happening, I’m shoving my boxers down over my ass before kicking them off completely, leaving me lying there naked with my cock in one hand and my cell in the other.

RoughingTheModel: Get it out, muse. I want you to wrap your fingers around yourself and stroke slowly, just like I’m doing.

A groan rumbles deep in my chest as I hit send and see that it’s immediately read, fire shooting through my veins. “Fuck yeah.”

I might not know what he looks like, not really, but I have a good enough imagination to put a few of the missing pieces together.

Not a second later, my screen shows that he’s typing, and then⁠—

“Holy fuck,” I gasp when another picture comes through.

HotScore: Is that what you meant?

Jesus Christ, that is a beautiful penis.

My mouth waters as I drag my bottom lip between my teeth.

RoughingTheModel: Exactly like that. Good boy.

I hesitate for a moment before sending that. There are tons of guys out there who’d be turned off, but I figure if Mr. HotScore doesn’t like it, that’s the sign I need to move on.

It would fucking pain me to do so, because I’m desperate to continue what we’ve started here.

He reads the message, and my heart rate picks up even more as I wait for the response.

Please don’t end this.

I need it.

I need you.

When he starts typing, I breathe a sigh of relief that he hasn’t immediately ghosted me, leaving me high and dry.

Sure, I could pull up some porn and finish the job, but it wouldn’t be the same as having an actual person on the other end of the phone.

Fuck, I want to hear his voice.

HotScore: I’m glad you like it, Picasso. Now, do I get to see anything in return?

RoughingTheModel: Do you think you can handle it?