VOICEMAIL
ACT 1
Scent slams first—Bounce dryer sheets, warm cotton straight from the drum, his cologne still clinging like a dirty promise in the collar.
Under that is the faint salt of my own skin already turning needy, and the ghost of last night’s takeout Lo-Mein still haunting his pillow, like our bed has become the den where we eat, sleep, fuck, and live.
I’m drowning in his white work shirt, sleeves rolled twice, hem brushing mid-thigh, my wedding ring flashing every time I tug the fabric closer like I’m trying to crawl inside his skin.
Nothing underneath but the softest white cotton panties—the pair he calls “Sunday panties” because they look innocent until they’re soaked and he makes me wear them to church—and thick white cotton socks that make me feel like a secret.
His side of the bed is a crime scene of wrappers and plates.
Mine is pristine.
I’ve been living in this bed for eight days straight—meals dropped at the door, Xbox controller sticky with peach ring sugar, TV flickering anime I don’t even watch anymore, just filling the silence.
Just waiting for his scent to fade so I can steal the next shirt.
Today the house is too quiet and my cunt is loud about it—sulking, restless, refusing to settle for anything but him.
Song hit earlier—some throwback station—and those lyrics crawled inside me and nested.
I took you to an intimate restaurant
then to a suggestive movie
there’s nothing left to talk about
unless it’s horizontally
I laughed out loud alone in the kitchen, thighs pressed together, coffee going cold.
I just wanted to put on leg warmers and vibe.
Because that’s us—that’s exactly fucking us—polite in public, filthy on purpose the second we’re horizontal.
Now I’m on my back in the middle of our bed, knees up, shirt already half-unbuttoned because the memory is impatient.
Last time.
The night before he left my body waiting.
He came through the door still in his tie, eyes already black with it—that look that says he’s clocked out of work and clocked into me.
I was on my knees before he even dropped his bag.
Shirt ripped open—buttons pinged off the dresser like gunshots.
He didn’t speak. Just threaded fingers through my hair, guided me down, and fed me every inch until my throat forgot it had any other purpose.
Gluhk. Gluhk—that wet, choking sound he loves.
I remember the wet choke, the way my tongue flattened against the underside, the way spit pooled and spilled and he groaned like I was killing him in the best way.
He loves that sound—loves it so much that when he flipped me over later, buried balls-deep, I gave it to him again on purpose, gagging around nothing just to watch his rhythm stutter and break.
He came inside me with my name shredded in his throat and his thumb pressing my tongue out like a trophy.
I slide one button free.
Then another.
The shirt falls open like it’s his hands doing it.
Air kisses my nipples—they tighten instantly, aching. I cup them slow, thumbs brushing, imagining his mouth, his teeth, the way he growls “look at me” right before he ruins my mascara and turns my face into his favorite kind of confession.
Lower.
Fingers trace the edge of the panties, not inside yet. Just the promise.
I’m already slick—have been since the song, since the memory, since the fucking dryer sheet scent made me stupid.
I open my mouth—mmmlahh—just like he likes, drool shining on my chin in the dim TV light.
Practice. Muscle memory. Filthy muscle memory.
Thigh muscles jump when I finally slip under the cotton.
Just a graze over my clit—electric.
I hiss.
I’m so wet it sounds obscene.
I keep it slow.
Teasing circles.
Imagining his voice in my ear—“That’s it, baby, warm that pretty pussy up for me. Gonna wreck it when I get home.”
I spread wider.
Shirt completely open now, breasts heavy, nipples begging.
I pinch one—hard—and the moan that leaves me is his name, cracked open.
I’m starving—not just for the orgasm I can steal, but for the way he feeds me with his hands, his voice, his cock, until I forget where I end and we start.
—
ACT 2
I can’t pretend anymore—can’t pretend my own fingers are enough, can’t pretend orgasms without him aren’t just rehearsals for when he’s home.
Panties shoved down to my knees—socks still on because I’m his soft little girl today—wedding band cool against my inner thigh as my fingers slide through the mess I’ve made.
Two straight in—no resistance.
Curl.
Drag.
Thumb on my clit ruthless.
I’m loud now.
Nobody here to hear but the walls, and they’ve heard worse—vows, fights, make-up sex, all of it soaked into the drywall with our last name.
I replay the last time, meaner now—dirtier.
He had me on the couch, legs over his shoulders, pounding so deep my vision whited out.
I started the performative gag sounds—those wet little chokes he loves—just the noise, no cock in my throat, just pure filthy theater—and he lost his fucking mind.
Pulled out, flipped me, shoved my face into the cushion and came all over my crossed eyes and stuck-out tongue, making that over-the-top porn face we laugh at together.
I want that again.
I want his cum on my face while I’m too blissed-out to see straight.
I add a third finger—stretch, burn, perfect—and fuck myself like he would.
Fast. Mean.
Like punishment for doing this alone.
The wet sounds are disgusting and beautiful—the kind of noise we laugh at together in videos, except this is real, it’s his, it’s ours.
I’m moaning his name, broken and breathless, talking to the empty room like he’s right here. I spill every bad thought I remember, every worse one I want next time.
“Want your cock down my throat till I cry—want you to paint me—want you to watch me drool and thank you for it —”
Somewhere under the noise, some calmer part of me flashes on him in sweats, hair a mess, laughing in the kitchen with leftover takeout in his hand, kissing my forehead like I’m the only thing that makes sense.
That version of him and the one in my head now—the one holding my throat, ruining my lipstick—blur together until I can’t tell which one I’m begging for.
My back leaves the bed without my permission.
Thumb grinds my clit—no mercy.
I’m close—so close—thighs shaking, toes curling in the stupid cotton socks.
I let my tongue hang out again—mmmlahh—drool sliding down my neck, into his shirt collar, marking it mine.
I think about the way he says “good girl”—how it isn’t just about the way my body moves, it’s about the way I give myself to him. All in. No hiding.
When I gag for real, when my throat spasms and my eyes water and I still push forward because I’m greedy…
Greedy for that praise, greedy to be his favorite place to land at the end of the world, my hand gets rougher, more honest.
There’s a split second where I could back off—where the guilt tries to claw up my spine and remind me he’s working while I’m here unraveling.
And then something snaps the other way.
No. This is for him. This is for us.
That’s the switch—the moment my body decides missing him isn’t enough, that loving him means letting myself burn like this for him—and the pleasure hits so hard my vision stutters.
I come so hard the world blanks.
Body seizing, pussy clamping around my fingers, a fucking flood—sheets soaked, shirt twisted under my armpits, voice shredded raw.
I scream into his pillow—muffled, animal—hips bucking air like he’s still inside me.
It rolls and rolls and rolls.
As warmth travels from my core to my fingertips and down through my toes, I’m suddenly aware of the empty ache where he should be.
Even imagining him inside me makes it better.
I ride it for as long as I can.
When it finally fades I’m wrecked.
Trembling.
Guilt tries, then dies. He’s killing himself out there so I can stay home and be this filthy for him.
I hate how good it feels—and how much I want it again.
Good.
Let him earn it.
I smile.
Underneath the guilt there’s a quiet, stubborn truth: if he walked in right now and saw me soft and wrecked and thinking only of him, he’d see victory in the crime.
Joy.
He’d rather have me open and honest for him than clenched and pretending I don’t need anything.
I’m still pulsing, aftershocks making me twitch, when I grab my phone with sticky fingers.
I don’t think.
I just thumb his name, lift the phone with the same hand I just fucked myself with, and dial.
He doesn’t pick up—of course he doesn’t, he’s in meetings or asleep… or both.
Voicemail beeps and I don’t hang up.
—
ACT 3
Hey Daddy…
I make my voice breathy, fucked-out, shameless…
I’m wearing your shirt.
Only your shirt.
And the panties you like—the white ones that get see-through when I’m wet.
Every time I move, it smells like you in here and it just makes me wetter. Like my body’s trying to seduce you through the phone.
I just came so hard thinking about you I saw stars.
I’m still shaking.
Still dripping down my thighs.
I reach the phone down and plunge my fingers deep.
Hear that?
That’s what you do to me when you’re not even here…
I just came thinking about you and I’m still soaked.
You don’t need anyone else. You’ve got a dripping, loyal wife with your last name on her tongue and your cum on her mind.
Fuuuuuck. I miss your cock in my throat.
I miss your weight in this bed even more—your chest on my back, your laugh in my ear, the way you steal all the blankets and still ask if I’m warm enough.
Miss the way you hold my head and fuck my face till I can’t breathe and I still beg for more.
I want you thinking about that every time some stranger smiles at you—your girl at home on her knees, drooling, taking you deeper because she likes it.
Like when I choke for you?
I gag and sputter for him. Loud and dirty.
You like that sound, don’t you?
You love when I gag for you.
I love when you use me like that—like my mouth was built just for you.
Love when I let myself go stupid for you.
Mouth soft. Eyes big.
Bet you’re hard already, aren’t you?
Bet you’re picturing my mascara running while I look up at you and take it anyway.
I make my voice high and desperate. Breathing hard through every word.
I miss you so much.
I want you to wreck my makeup again.
Imagine it.
Take that cock out.
Mmmm…
Want you to paint my face while I moan your name and thank you for every drop.
Fuck. I’d trade every fantasy just to feel your weight on me right now.
Stroke it for me right now.
I need you leaking just from my voice.
I know that little hitch in your breathing right before you lose it.
I pay attention.
I remember.
I practice.
I want to be the girl from your filthiest thoughts without you ever having to look anywhere else.
I want you walking through that hotel lobby tomorrow still thinking about how my lips feel around you.
I can feel you getting harder.
Good.
Let me be the reason you have to catch your breath in the hallway between meetings.
Let me be the mess in your underwear on that long flight home.
Let me make you come so hard you forget your own name for a second and the only word left in your mouth is mine.
Every mile you drive back to me, I want your cock twitching in your jeans because you know exactly what I’m going to do with it when you walk through the door.
If you were here I’d have you pin my wrists and fuck me through this hunger, but since you’re not, you better still be rubbing that thick cock for me while you listen.
I collect every reaction you give me and keep it.
I want this one.
Mmmmm…
Harder.
Do it harder.
Please.
You know you can’t wait till you’re home.
It feels too good.
Be a good boy and come for me now.
Mmmmm…
Do it.
I’ll know. I always know.
Want me to count you down, Daddy?
Yeah…
Five… Stroke that cock for me…
Mmmm… Four… Yes, baby, do it…
Three… Faster… Feel me choking on it… Gluhk…
Two… Oh fuck… Oh fuck you’re close… You’re so close…
I love how your hand always tightens in my hair at the last second.
One… Mmmmyes… Are you ready?!
Now, Daddy, NOW!!!
Mmmmmmmlaaaahhhhhh…… Ahhhhh……
Mmmmm…
Delicious.
Now.
When you get home,
we’re not talking.
We’re not eating.
We’re not sleeping.
And I’m going to gag on you until you see God.
I’m touching myself again just thinking about it…
Hear that?
Uuungh… Yeah.
Come home and choke me with it.
Please.
I love you.
I’m so proud of you.
I’m so proud and so fucking hungry for you—proud like a wife, and starving like I belong in your hands.
Hurry.
(click)
I drop the phone like it’s burning.
Curl into his pillow—still warm from the dryer this morning—and inhale until my lungs hurt.
The house is quiet again.
But now it’s the kind of quiet that’s waiting.
The kind that knows he’s going to play that message on repeat in some airport bathroom, hand down his slacks, biting his own forearm to stay quiet while he comes to his wife with a paper-thin door between him and the world.
Two hours later, my phone lights up on the pillow.
HIM: 😳🔥🔥🔥
HIM: You’re actually insane.
HIM: Just came in an airport stall. Door didn’t even lock.
HIM: God, I love you.
I smile into the cotton, sticky-thighed and triumphant.
It still smells like the dryer and him, warm and a little sharp, like he’s only stepped out for a second.
Mmmm… Come home and feed me, Daddy.
I’m starving.
—
Inspired by Lyrics #6
submitted by /u/HerAgainAlways
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