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I imagine going up and down on him to the same speed as my hand motions, slipping a few fingers into my pussy. And my noises of pleasure that I’m making, I imagine they’re for Tommy. I imagine he’s thanking me for pleasing him and for loving and protecting him, much the same thing I said to Dennis all those years ago.
In my imaginary mouth, I feel Tommy’s cock swelling, his balls sucking inward. His member pulsating in my mouth, vibrating on my lips and down my throat. I put my hand on Tommy’s imaginary belly, and keep going down on him. Sucking on him. Tightening my lips and dragging them up and around his cockhead, but it’s when I grip his belly, tighter in my head, that I go.
I release all of my stored-up tension and cum in one long, quivering mess. With me, it’s never quick. It makes my body tense and releases over and over again. My pussy juices flow out, like silk or like water, and it does so now. With it, goes my fantasy of Tommy.
As I feel my juices drain out over my hand and fingers, I imagine Tommy looking up at me the way I looked up at Dennis that night, full of love and respect. In my eyes, he has a yearning, a desire for something I hadn’t really allowed myself to have until that moment.
I sigh, feeling the depth of my guilty pleasure. I just masturbated to Tommy. To the idea that I was the one giving him head in a nightclub restroom. I perverted my own memory of Dennis and me. Our first time together. My first real act with another man. I sigh again, clenching my fists. It started out as Dennis and then, in turn to him.
I shake my head, deciding it’s time to get up and wash my hands and try to forget my mental and emotional betrayal of my boyfriend. As I carefully shuffle myself over to a sink to wash clean, I feel terrible. Beyond guilty.
And that’s when I also realize something else: I left my stupid phone out in the car, on the passenger seat.
I quickly shake my hands dry, put on my pants again, and hurry toward my front door. If I’m not too late, my car will still be there. And not broken into, and not minus a smartphone.
When I get out to my car to retrieve my phone, it’s not gone. Nor has my car been broken into, thank God. But there is a message from Dennis. Another one, and at a really odd time. At around the time I pulled up in my driveway and left the phone in the car. About thirty minutes ago. Technically, he should still be in the middle of work, without any time to call me.
This, as well as something I’m not really able to name, is a big reason why my stomach starts to knot. It turns over like mud, as I pick up the phone and dial into the voice message app again.
From the first few seconds of sketchy, muffled audio. It’s clear to me that this is an accidental dialing from him. Meaning he didn’t mean to dial me. Another part of his body did, and since I was the last person he called, it put through another call to me. A kind of “butt dialing” situation, as most Americans put it.
But I quickly began to suspect that some higher power, some God, rather than punishing me, is actually looking out for me. On the voicemail message, I hear Dennis’s voice. While I can’t make out anything he says with any clarity, I can tell by the rhythm and tone of his voice that he’s flirting and being charming. His voice has that low, slow rhythm to it. That singsong quality that he only gets when he’s ladling on the charisma.
I listen more closely to the message, hoping to hear something, one word clearly, but there’s nothing. The only thing I catch is the sound of another voice besides Dennis’s. When I first hear it, I find myself hoping that it’s a male. I pray that it is, though my heart immediately starts to tell me something different. That it’s another woman, not another man.
The person is soft-spoken, gentle sounding. A lot like how I sounded when Dennis and I were first dating. But more mischievous than that. I can hear it in the voice. The way it answers Dennis. The way its tone is nimble but cutting or lighthearted and deadly as if they’re enjoying playing a game of cat and mouse.
The message cuts off before I can get any more information out of what I’ve just heard. It’s probably better that way, as I’ve already gotten enough. I’ve gotten enough to know that my boyfriend’s is up to something. Or someone. Whether it’s serious or not, it doesn’t matter. I’ve somehow been given a view into some kind of exchange that he didn’t expect for me to hear.
