I pinched my eyes shut and silently moaned with embarrassment. I didn’t think I could do it.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said. His English accent made it seem more official. “God, so beautiful. Yes, just like that.”
I adjusted the laptop between my bare legs and my naked pussy and looked down the length of my pale body. The screen was of him, his large erection and stroking hand, his dark grey eyes riveted on me and then, near the glowing green light of the camera, a smaller box of me.
In it my legs formed a sort of low-M where the downward point was the dark line which drew up from the bed to my center to end in more darkness. I thanked God I couldn’t see it with more definition.
Above that a smattering of short hair, a soft belly, two mounds of jiggly flesh and beyond that my blonde head peeking down at all the action. I groaned my discomfort even as his words spelled out enthusiastic approval.
He asked for me to spread my lips for him.
Humiliation isn’t the right word for how I felt. Yes, there was certainly some of that, but I couldn’t locate the source. There was also shame, embarrassment, worry, flagrant bashfulness. I have made it a policy of mine to never send pics of my pussy unless and until I deeply trust the man which means 3 men have gotten pictures of me.
It’s not because my pussy is extra special — though, of course it is! — it’s because I am awash with such emotions it becomes devoid of fun. I have to beat down half a dozen complicated feelings just to send one pic of my vulva. It’s an exhausting endeavor. But here I was, legs splayed, all my bits on an iPad in London with a rapt audience of one.
Two hours earlier I’d come home alone from a pleasant enough date with a man who was a big believer in thin pants and no underwear and wanted to just be alone. It was a boon to find Ben online and awake at 2 am his time.
He was naked in bed with his big cock in his hands.
“Hello, Hy!” he said.
Our smiles were big.
Soon I had stripped down for him and swiveled the laptop around so I could stand and twirl for him. I felt silly, out of control, and struggled to remind myself that he had seen me in real life, that I had nothing to hide.
“You are so gorgeous, Hy! Look at your body!”
I squinted at the little square of me and didn’t see what he did, but I believed how he felt about it and pushed on.
“Bend over for me,” he said.
I giggled nervously and did as he asked, my panties around my ankles.
“More, bend all the way. Please,” he urged.
I bent more and felt my face turn red from embarrassment. I thought about how differently boys and girls are with their sexuality. Even after years of trying to reprogram myself I found myself a slave to my earliest insecurities about my body, such as there’s such a thing as a “good angle.”
Men* have proven to me time and time again that they don’t believe in a “good angle,” they adore them all. The ones where my ass looks “bad” or my pussy looks however-a-pussy-isn’t-supposed-to-look or my tits hang long and torpedo like. The assumption I carry there is clearly faulty — that there’s a “right” way to look — so when Ben asked me to contort my body in ways in which I couldn’t control the visual outcome I had to trust his tastes… and him.
I had to trust that he wouldn’t say, “Oh fuck, stop it! That’s horrible!” which is the other side to the “good angle” belief. I had to trust that he wouldn’t judge me. I had to trust he was enjoying himself. I had to trust that he was being honest.
At an extremely formidable age, on two separate occasions years apart, boys I liked and trusted ripped the rug out from under me and I have only just recently begun to realize that though I felt at the time I had moved on and not let it affect me that it became an important part of my programming when it came to men: They are not to be trusted. Ever.
So even before I began to make questionable choices in mates, partners, and lovers, I already had an infected belief. How self-fulfilling that has been I can’t quantify, but it has surely affected me deeply and profoundly.
I can get naked for a lover in person, because I believe my charisma will overcome any physical limitation or shortcoming they might discern. I can suck them till their eyes cross and get him to lose himself inside of me, but what can I do an ocean away? I can’t make him not see me. I have to trust him.
And so it came to pass that I was spread wide with his watchful gaze on me and his kind, lustful words emboldened me.
I grabbed the Godemiche dildo Adam and Monika had given me at Eroticon — the longer one, of course. Still bashful I squeezed some lube on it and began to work it in as Ben moaned his approval. I added the buzz of my Hitachi and the boom of my orgasm laid me out like a pancake.
“That was fucking hot, Hy.”
“Next time we’re together, I’ll do that with you in me,” I said breathlessly.
“I want to go again, though I really wish it was you.”
“Me, too. Do as I say then.”
He told me to slowly push the dildo in and out. It was complicated and naughty and I felt like at any minute someone would burst through my door and catch me while I had an open laptop between my legs, my left hand operating a giant and magical dildo, and my right hand pressing a Magic Wand on me. But no one did and Ben coached me to go deeper.
And I did.
Yes, he liked that very much.
The orgasm came up and fucking punched me, turned me inside out and left me like a wrapper beside the dumpster. I yelled out and began to sob. I clenched and bore down on the cold ting inside of me as the waves tore through my body.
I heard Ben’s voice in the distance beyond my cries. I convulsed and shivered and felt that keening, soulful pain I always feel with this kind of orgasm; something is just out of reach. This time, it was literally him.
I turned off the wand and gently pushed the dildo out, swung my legs over and pushed the laptop to the side, and tried desperately not to cry with very little success. I didn’t know how this would translate and didn’t want to completely lose my shit when he couldn’t hold me or see all the nuance in my sobs.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was really intense. I haven’t felt that since…” I searched for the last time. “Since TN.”
It was a strange sensation to have that intense of an orgasm with a dildo and not a man and though I did love the dildo very, very much, the truth is it was Ben. His voice, his energy.
“You did that to me,” I explained in case he was thinking I had just given myself the greatest orgasm ever and he had nothing to do with it.
Spent, I asked him what I could do so he could cum finally. It had been nearly 2 hours since I’d stripped down and we’d begun our camming fun. “I don’t think I can cum,” he said, disappointment in his voice.
“Well, try, please. For me.”
Roughly 25 seconds later he was showing me the globs of white he’d shot onto his belly. “Oh shit! It’s in my hair!” he laughed. “And on my chin! Oh my god!” We laughed at how wrong he’d been.
We said our sweet goodbyes and hung up. I washed the dildo and wrapped it in a cloth and put it back in my super fancy cardboard sex-box, put the lube away. I felt raw and sad, distantly happy. I had a moment of panic that what if he’d recorded it? What if he’d try to sell it? Or hurt me with it? But quickly realized it was my old pain rearing its ugly head. Ben would never do that. I trusted him.
I found the panties I’d discarded over the side of the bed as if I’d had an in-person encounter and crawled under the covers. I fell asleep dreaming of a sweet British man and hoping I was starting a new trend: to trust again.
*I say “men,” but I can expand this to all lovers I’ve ever had, male or female, and I certainly can attest to feeling similarly about all the lovers I’ve ever had. I think they’re all stunning in their unique ways.