It was one of the few times they had managed to talk on the phone on a day that wasn't Sunday. It was Tuesday, nearly midnight when his cell phone rang. He answered it before the ringer even started, "Is everything okay?"
She laughed slightly, "Yes Spencer, everything's fine. I just missed your voice." He smiled slightly, laying back against his pillow, phone clutched to his ear.
"I missed yours too," he whispered back, placing the book he had been reading on the floor next to the bed.
"What are you doing?" She asked, her voice so smooth he wished he could listen to her talk forever.
"I was laying in bed reading Gatsby, but I kept wondering what you were doing," he answered honestly, swallowing thickly. He was so impossibly shy and awkward, and she had talked to him about it. She said she wanted him to tell her everything, that was the only way this would work. So, sometimes he'd have to stutter out an awkward detail of his life to her, or others he'd have to talk in circles to tell her. But he was slowly learning that it was okay for him to tell her he missed her, or he was thinking of her.
"Funny, I was trying to sleep but I just kept thinking of you and how I wished you were here," his body tensed slightly, eyes falling closed. No one had ever said things like that to him before, and they did things to him no matter how hard he tried to control himself. She'd tried to play this game with him before, but just as it got to the good part he'd back off and do anything to change the subject. He wanted this, so bad. What he really wanted was to hold her against him and kiss her, he wanted to make love to her. The thought scared him, it made him feel dirty thinking about her like that. She told him he shouldn't feel guilty about it, because she thought about him like that too. But she would always let it drop, but here she was trying again.
"I wish I was there too," his voice cracked and he cleared his throat.
"I can't wait to change how you feel about blindfolds," she whispered into the line, "But until then you should grab a tie." His heart was pounding in his chest, but he felt around on the floor next to his bed to find the tie he'd worn earlier that day and discarded on the floor before bed. "Got one?"
"Yeah," was all he could say. His words were failing him, these weren't words that he knew.
"Tie it around your head so it covers your eyes," he swallowed thickly again, and as if she sensed his hesitation, "Just listen to my voice, nothing bad will happen to you." Her voice was thick too, different. He had never heard it like that before. He did as he was told, the breath coming out of his mouth now.
"I did," he said, his voice shaky, he rested the phone against the side of his face and rested his hands carefully on the bed next to him.
"You're okay right?" he steadies his breath, pushing his face down against the phone, wishing it was her skin.
"Yeah, I'm okay," he whispers back, but he can feel his heart hammering in his chest. He wishes so bad that she was there with him, her hands caressing his skin and soothing the anxiety he feels with his eyes covered. "I really wish you were here," he says, and he sounds pathetic.
"Me too, Spencer. I wish I could be there to love you how you deserve, but just pretend for now. That's all we can do right now," She sounds so sad, so he lets it go for now. "You probably never did this before, over the phone."
He smiles slightly even though she can't see, "No, never."
"First time for everything, what are you wearing?"
"I'm wearing pajama pants and a button down night shirt," his face blushes under the blindfold as if she's standing over him now.
"Unbutton it," her voice melts him, "Pretend it's my hands unbuttoning it," she adds.
He does as he's told, his fingers brushing his nipples on the way down. It's erotic, and he feels himself getting hard under the fabric of his pants. "You have a great imagination, I'm sure you can do it easily."
"What are you doing?" His voice sounds weak, like a teenager who just had his first kiss.
"I'm laying here wishing your hands were on me, but tonight isn't about me. I want you to feel good."
"You always make me feel good," he answers, his fingers brushing against his nipples and the top of his pajama pants.
"Work yourself the way you like, but go slow at first." It feels strange, hearing her say that to him. "Do you liked your neck bit?" She's so direct and he doesn't know how to answer questions like that.
"No one's ever bitten it," he's torn between being turned on and embarrassed, but the information doesn't seem to bother her.
"I like biting," and his breath basically falls out of his mouth. "Turned on yet?"
"Yeah," is all he can manage, and he lets his fingers slip under his waistband. When his fingers brush against his shaft, his body shudders.
"Don't be nervous, just pretend it's my hand making you feel that way." Her voice is throaty, and he pictures her touching herself and him at the same time. He pulls his pants down and holds himself firmly. This always made him uncomfortable, so he avoided it as much as he could. He'd hold off until he was so sexually frustrated that he had no choice but to take matters into his own hands. He moves slowly at first, his eyes closed under the blindfold. "Go slow, don't hold back."
His hand is gentle, and it feels like heaven. A little noise comes out of his throat and he hears her breath catch on the phone. "I want you so bad," his voice is strained and hoarse, and his hand moves a little faster.
She groans back, "Faster," and he complies; his hand jerking up and down faster. He bites his lip, moaning in his throat. "Spencer," she groans, and he never knew his name could sound so wonderful.
He moves even faster, his heart beating fast again but not out of anxiety. It's been so long, and he doesn't want to come yet; but he can't stop himself from coming in short bursts. The noise he makes is somewhere between a whine and a yelp, and she gasps too. She cries out, and he rolls onto his side to catch his breath. He unties the blindfold, and an emptiness fills his chest when he reaches out and there's no one next to him. Alone, in his bed, and the phone is silent.
"Spencer?" Her voice is sleepy.
"I'm here," he puts the phone under his cheek and closes his eyes.
"I wish you were here to hold me." His chest starts to hurt from loneliness, like it had so many times before.
"I don't want to hang up, stay until I fall asleep?" His chest starts to hurt even worse and he swallows thickly, pulling the blankets over his head.
"Yeah, I'll stay on the line. Sleep well."
"Love ya," she yawns and he clears his throat. He's supposed to be happy right now, perhaps even blissful. Yet the fact that he's still here alone, as he's been for the past 30 something years, makes his heart feel like it's gonna explode. He closes his eyes to hold the tears in and holds his phone tighter to his face so he can hear her breathe. He tries to sleep, pretending she was there with him. One day, he reminds himself.