#from anon

“I did”, you begrudgingly concede.

“How come you sound so unhappy, then?”.

You position yourself better against the soft pillows of your bed, eyes darting to the empty spot next to you.

“First of all, it’s frankly infuriating how good you are at just texting”.

“You’re welcome. Second?”.

You huff out an annoyed little sound.

“I miss you”.

It’s a quiet murmur, shy but sincere. He’s been away for just three days and it will be another week before he’s back. The house is too silent, your bed cold, the couch lonely, god, not even your fingers are good enough-

“I miss you too”, he says, a sad lilt to his usually playful tone, “just a few more days and I’ll be home”.

“Too long”, you whine.

“I know. But this helps a little, yeah?”.

“It does”, you sigh, “but it’s different. It’s not you”.

Oliver hums.

“Why don’t you tell me how it’s different, exactly?”.

You shut your eyes, heave a deep breath.

“I can’t reach the places you reach. My fingers are not long enough, they’re not thick enough. I need you, Oli”, your hand sneaks in between the wet heat between your legs again, “I need you so bad. I feel so empty, I’m throbbing around nothing”.

You smile a little when you hear his muffled groan.

“Are you touching yourself again?”.

“Mmm”, you mewl an affirmative sound.

“Do it right”, he whispers, “do exactly what I tell you”.

You do. How could you not? Oliver has you and your body memorized, knows what you need before you even realize it yourself. He has you sigh shakily as you follow his instructions for the third time tonight, head tipping back as your fingers smear wetness up to your clit, touch kept light, slow, teasing. The way he’d do it.

“Dip one finger in”, he says and sucks in a sharp breath when your whine indicates that you complied, “pump it in and out, slowly. Does that feel good, baby? Let me hear you”.

“Yes”, you murmur, “it feels so good”, you’re dripping, the deep rumble of his voice has almost a mortifyingly amplified effect compared to carefully crafted texts.

“Add another finger now, stretch yourself out nice and slow for me”, Oliver shuts his eyes when you moan softly, “yeah, just like that. Just like that. Fuck, my beautiful girl with her perfect cunt. I can hear you”.

With another soft, needy moan, you move your phone to bring it closer to where your fingers are making lewd, squelching sounds between your sticky folds. He’s on speaker now, phone left on the soft bedding as you keep doing what he tells you, whimpering pathetically while your hips buck into your hand like a dog in heat. It feels so good and yet not nearly enough at the same time.

Curl your fingers.

Angle your wrist.

Rub your clit, just like that, don’t stop. That’s it. Let go. Cream on your fingers for me. That’s it.

My perfect girl.

Oliver tips you over the edge with his voice alone, the occasional moan indicating that he’s probably touching himself too. You let out a sob, eyes still squeezed shut, legs trembling slightly as you reach your third orgasm of the night. Your hips jerk slightly when he tells you to push your fingers in again, deep, deeper, then bring them to your mouth. What you don’t manage to clean drips down your wrist and the curve of your ass.

In a blissful haze, you think you can hear the distant sound of his pants being unzipped.