We continued to chat almost daily. During her visit home, it was just brief “How’s everything” chats–she was after all, busy with her family; but then, when she returned to my city, and I went away, she had more time to spend texting. Between my work and her university, we still had plenty of time to continue to get to know each other–and to continue the teasing game.
With the same casualness as always, she described her little adventures. Like, “Today I was at the spring again, and remembered our frolicking, and became so horny I accidentally put three fingers deep into myself while toweling… I think the other girl noticed, but she didn’t seem offended.” Or, she might write, “Taking a bath right now.”
“And?” I inquired. “Are you doing something with yourself?”
“I planned to!” she wrote. “But I was so horny all day that I came just while undressing. It happens sometimes. And it was a big one, too, I almost fainted. So, I am just relaxing now.”
Another time, she went further with this kind of dialog. We were just finished discussing a park in a city I was in (no Spring, sadly!) when she suddenly typed, “BTW, I recently started to like four fingers in me. Still feels almost impossible and strange, but so much joy.”
“And you are telling me now, because?” I typed back, as usual, half-joking, half-hoping.
“Because I am doing it right now, yes,” she responded with wide grinning emoji.
“And you are turned on more by talking to me at this moment, right?”
“Of course! I even learned to do it with my left hand, so I can still use a keyboard. Sorry for slow typing, though!”
I responded with a very happy smiling emoji, unsure how to continue this dialog. But she took care of that herself: “Actually, I might send a naughty photo to you if you wish?”
“I most definitely do!”
But the photo she sent wasn’t particularly naughty–or even indecent. It was just a selfie of a girl (a very pretty one, I admit!) in a large t-shirt, sitting behind the table. Her left hand is under the table, and the posture looks a bit weird, but other than that, everything looks normal.
“Hmm, but is it naughty?” I asked, confused but anticipating the answer.
“It is! The t-shirt is my only piece of clothing, and it is up to my waist. My legs are spread very wide and pressed against the wall. Four fingers are deep inside me. I am close to coming. And right before taking the photo, I spotted a thin marker pen on my table and stuck it into my ass. Is that naughty enough for you?”
“When you put it like that, it is!” I responded.
“Hooray! Am I allowed to come now?” she asked, suddenly playing the obedient girl which she for sure is not.
“Hmmm… let me think,” I played. “OK, you are!”
For a minute after that, I observed “typing…” notification, trying to imagine what she might type, and then my messenger window was filled with a long string of just the letter “a” spanning a few lines.
“I just held the button through the whole orgasm,” she explained in a minute. “so you kinda heard me screaming.”
“But did you? I mean, did you scream for real?”
“Ugh,” she sent a blushing shy emoji, “I am afraid I did. Sister is slightly irritated now. I think she was watching some dumb TV show. Well, was that naughty enough for you?”
“Totally!” I agreed emphatically, “Send me more!” And then I quickly added, not wanting to seem too greedy or pushy, “When you have time and you’re in the mood, of course!”
“I will,” she promised with a few more emojis.
And she did as she promised! She sent pictures almost every day since that evening–still in the same style of “No indecent body parts visible, but something indecent definitely happens.” I think I understood why she chose this way–besides her natural love for teasing. It probably just felt safer for her that way–she didn’t exactly mistrust me, but still, to send your naked pics to somebody, where they can be saved, stolen, published–it felt too much at that moment. As for me, I was happy with any idea that worked for her, and how could I not be?
The very next evening she replayed the scene from the previous one, and sent me a new photo: this time, the camera of her phone looked under the table. The hem of her t-shirt covered the pubic area, but the picture was sexy as hell: her naked legs were widespread, knees bent, and her left hand, judging by the position, did something deep and intense under the hem of the t-shirt.
“A candle in the pussy, and three fingers, small finger fully in the ass,” she confirmed and even sent me the picture of the candle she used: it was something festive, thick and twisted, with spiral edge and golden sparkles, and it was very visibly wet for maybe 20 centimeters, starting from the wide bottom end.
“I like how your wetness looks on it,” I wrote, and at that moment, the compliment didn’t seem weird at all.
“I like it myself,” she responded quickly. “This time of the cycle, it is so thick and lavish,” and followed with the picture of two spread fingers with strings of fluid between them, and the next one–of her pretty face with same fingers deep in her mouth.
And a photo of her evening masturbation session was sent almost every night. But there were also others.
She photographed herself in her apartment’s hall, fully clothed, when she had just returned from university–and followed with pictures of a growing pile of clothes on the floor: coat, then sweater on top of it, then jeans, undershirt, and on the last photo her panties and bra were on top of the pile, her naked legs standing beside it and visible up to almost top of her thighs.
Later that night: photo from the hall again, she is standing there clothed again, but with open coat and unzipped jeans; the jeans are soggy at the crotch and thighs.
“Remember we discussed this fantasy?” she commented. (I did!) “After a nice walk and a lot of tea in the cafe, I peed myself deliberately in the empty yard in front of my building entrance. And it turned me on so much, I ran to my fifth floor with a hand in my panties and orgasmed on my floor before entering the apartment.”
“You are crazy!”
“I am… when I have a partner to play with.”
I felt elated the entire evening after this confession.
On Saturday (free day, no university!), she sent me a long, slow series of pictures from her bathroom. In the first one, a stool stands by the edge of the bath (where she is apparently laying, but I can’t see her), and on that stool, a bunch of things arranged of various shapes and sizes: hairbrush, several spoons, three cucumbers, potato masher, a box of markers, empty wine bottle… It took her almost two hours to send me follow-up photos with each of the items used, wet from her and the water, one by one. Well, in fact, not all of them was one by one: according to the order of photos, after some warming-up with smaller and more usual things like hairbrush and cucumber, she inserted (and then removed and photographed) all of ten markers at once, then four large spoons, then potato masher. She ended with a wine bottle, and after a good ten-minute pause, declared the arrival of a powerful orgasm and testified it with the photo of the wet bottle. Of course, as she did it all in the bath, the entire bottle was wet, but I thought I could tell where her slightly opaque juices covered the glass.
I boldly wrote, in slight disbelief, “Did you really insert it bottom-first?”
“I did!” she confirmed. “Not at once and not from the first attempt, but I was on heat! It looked incredible inside,” she teased, and I shied from requesting her to show how exactly it looked.
On Saturday, the photo was simple, but with a twist: just, again, naked legs, photographed by somebody probably half-lying in a low chair. The legs were tensely straight, as if during the orgasm, and a pile of clothes (including panties) laid on the floor in disarray, as if thrown down in a hurry. The twist was: there were two pairs of naked legs of orgasming girls, sitting across from each other.
“Sister was in the mood, played together,” was all she wrote about it.
Then the work week started, and she became brazen. She sent me a photo from university: in a large half-empty amphitheater lecture hall, she sat behind the last desk. In the picture, I saw what she had seen: the desk itself and the auditorium in front of it, with the professor writing some formula on a blackboard and the backs of several disinterested students. And also, I saw what happened under the desk: her unbuttoned jeans and the left hand deep inside them.
“Cucumber inside, playing with it,” she explained briefly and without emojis–she also tried to follow the lecture.
“Do you plan to orgasm right there?” I wrote cautiously.
“Don’t know, just touching it. Don’t distract me!”
(“From which of the activities,” I wondered but didn’t write.)
“Yeah, orgasmed in the end,” a more relaxed answer came in half an hour, “had to imitate a severe coughing fit to hide the other sounds!” (It was before COVID, my poor reader! Today, some people would probably rather imitate orgasm to hide a coughing fit sometimes.)
“It was suddenly intense,” she continued, “usually I come moderately in such situations, if at all.” (“Usually? How frequently?” I wondered, but again left the thought to myself.) And she finished with several kissing emojis: “I think it because I wrote to you, it made me more excited!” as if making up for the stiffness of her previous messages.
In a couple of days, she sent the photo from the same desk again–but now, she was in a knee-high, wide skirt, and the picture showed her panties taken down to below the knees.
“Do you have a cucumber inside today?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Ugh, you sure you won’t get wet spots on the part of the skirt you sit on?” I asked, half-teasingly, half with genuine care: I liked to play with her and appreciated her courage, but I didn’t want any problems or embarrassment for her.