The Red Button
Voice can be a powerful thing
This is a letter from Monami. She’s young, she’s thicc, and she isn’t someone who is shy of telling you about her fantasies with you. This letter is written by her, to you. It’s about the time when she had to fulfil someone else’s fantasy. Often, we end up more about ourselves while doing things for others. This letter is intimate and delicate. Handle this with care.
Happy Reading!
I have been thinking about this for some time. A long time. I have been thinking about telling you about this. I haven’t told this to anyone, because I didn’t know where to start talking about it. But I have to tell you about this. More for myself than for you.
It started as a simple thing — a WhatsApp voice note, which made him cum. It was late at night, I was in bed.
It was a usual weeknight. I had come back from my classes around 7 PM, like I did on every weekday. I had changed into my comfortable camisole and shorts, made myself a bowl of noodles, and had sat down to study. I know, it’s not the best of the things to have for dinner, but it is what I am comfortable making on most evenings.
He had texted me around 8 PM, barely 30 minutes after I had sat down to study.
“What are you up to?” he had asked.
I hadn’t written anything, had simply sent a photo of my laptop, my bown of noodles, and my bare thighs. I know, that was not necessary, but I knew that’s what he would like. And it’s been ages since I had sent him a photo without some skin of mine. I didn’t know that it will start something crazy that evening.
He’s not my boyfriend. I have never met him, not in person. But, I know every inch of him. And he knows every inch of mine. We had met on a Discord server. It was an inane conversation really. Now that I think back, I cannot tell you what stood out in his text, from the dozens of other “heys” that I receive on my Discord DM, whenever I post something which makes it clear that I am a woman. Maybe, it was his directness. His directness about sending his number and his Insta handle. Maybe, because he looked great when shirtless. Or maybe, it was his voice.
The first time we had talked, was on a Discord voice chat. I was seated at this very desk, wearing something very similar. It was late at night though, maybe around 1 AM. When we were finally on the call, and he had answered, “Hello”, I was struck by how deep his voice was. Every word, every syllable that he spoke, had gravitas to them.
“What should I call you?” He had asked.
Usually, I would have answered a made-up name, but I didn’t.
“Monami,” I had said.
“I have never heard that name before,” he had said.
Armaan wasn’t from Bombay. That’s the worst part in all this. He lived in Bangalore. He had asked me about where I was from, and what I did. And word by word, I had told him about me. That I am still in college, that I am 21 years old, that I am from Kolkata. That I live alone in a 1RK flat. That, it’s not by my choice. That I couldn’t find a roommate who could tolerate my habits.
“And what are your intolerable habits?” he had asked me.
“I don’t like to wear clothes, and I cannot study without a cigarette and a pint of beer around,” I had said. I had moved to my bed by then, my phone on speaker, the ahstray by the side of the bed, and my bottle of beer on the floor.
“What are you wearing now?” he had asked.
It was the first of many times he would ask me this question, in the three months that I have known him. And every time he asked me that question, his voice didn’t have a made-up mischief to it. He would ask it as a matter of fact.
On that night, the night of our first ever call, I wasn’t even wearing my camisole. It was a hot and humid Bombay evening. I had the AC on, and I liked feeling the cold air on my bare skin. I was lolling around in bed, with just my panty. It wasn’t the most comfortable of things to do, my naked sking against the sheet, my nipples hardening now and then as I will graze it against the pillow. But talking to Armaan, in just my panty, felt natural. I would casually flick my nipples as I heard his voice, as he told me about himself.
So, when he asked me what I was wearing, I was rubbing my nipple with my thumb. “Just my panty.” I had whispered.
“Oh,” he had said.
We were both quiet for a bit. It was I who spoke first, “Are you going to hangup now?”
“I will. It’s late. You should text me on that number. It’d be too bad to be lost in your Discord DMs,” he said.
I had saved his number. I opened WhatsApp, and found his contact. It was him. While on Discord I couldn’t see his photo, I could see his WhatsApp dp. A pair of glasses, a stubble, square jaw, broad shoulders. He was wearing a white shirt, looking away at the sea, his hair, short croppped. It was a picture of a sunrise, or sunset, I couldn’t tell.
I opened his chat window, and then the camera app. My room was darkish. I popped myself up in the bed, and clicked a photo of mine. I made sure that I squeezed by breasts together, for him to see how full they were. I didn’t let my nipples come in the frame. I cannot give him everything to begin with.
Right before sending him, I cropped till my eyes. I wasn’t that drunk. But of course, you get to see the full photo.
And that’s how it started.
“Monami, strip away every bit of clothes from that body,” he had texted that evening. I was used to such terse requests. When I would strip my clothes after such messages, I would get incredibly wet, telling myself, all it took was a text.
I had obliged.
I had sent him a picture of mine, on bed, my tits bare, my nipples hard and moist with my own spit. I had squeezed my breasts together, like I did in my selfies to him, to make them look bigger than they already were. He had sent a picture too, of his dick. Armaan’s dick was hard, he had held it by the base, flexing each vein in his dick, his foreskin pulled down. I had smacked my lips, I had closed my legs together, wishing I could lick his dickhead.
“I wish I could fuck your tits right now,” he had asked me.
“Umhh…” I had typed, frantically, with one hand, my other was already between my legs.
I get wet easily, especially for men like Armaan, those who know what to say, those who know when to send a dick pic and when to simply tease a bulge. The AC in my room was blaring, I was cold, but my pussy… my pussy was warmer than it has been in a while.
“Show me,” he had said.
I made a video of it, just for him. A short 3 seconds, of me touching myself, imagining his dick between my tits, his dickhead just a lick away from my mouth.
“It would have been better if I could hear you,” he had said.
And that’s when, I decided to record myself. I pushed the red button, kept the phone beside me. I spread my legs, bent my knees. I closed my eyes, and ran my fingers along the length of my pussy. I felt vulnerable, even behind the locked door of my room, even when it was dark. Every inch of my skin was naked, and whatever I sounds I made were being recorded.
I imagined Armaan, with his pants down, with his dick in his hand, looking at my tits, and assembling me through all the other countless pictures of mine that he had. I imagined him drooling over my pictures as he stroked his hard dick. I wished I could touch it. I wish I could feel how hard he was for me.
That’s when the first moan escaped my lips.
I threw open my eyes, scared, that somebody might have heard me. I should have called him when I did that. I should have heard him too. But it was too late by then. I couldn’t stop touching myself.
I closed my eyes, and started touching myself again. In my mind, Armaan was on top of me. He had me pinned down, under his body. He had my legs wide apart, he had my arms pinned wide, as he fucked me.
I could only imagine how his dick would feel inside me. The rhythm in which he would move his hips. I imagined him telling me that he loved my tits. I imagined his mouth over my nipples, licking them, biting them.
That’s when I said it, “Oh, Armaan, please fuck me. Please…”
It felt good to say it out loud. I have not done that before, with guys who have fucked me. I had moaned, yes, but I haven’t told them to fuck me. I hadn’t used the word fuck, while actually being fucked. And it felt better to be touching myself like that, while being recorded, to be sent to a man, whom I was imagining inside me.
I was soon lost in all of it. I don’t know how long I kept at it. After I came, with my fingers, still wet with my juices, I stopped the recording. It was over 7 minutes long. I didn’t listen to it. I sent it to him, as I laid back, short of breath, wondering how I had sounded. As the reality set in, I reached for my phone again. I should have listened how I sounded, the things I had said, while I was lost, touching myself, cupping my tits, playing with my nipples, pinching them, imagining it was Armaan doing those things.
I was only 2 mins into listening the recording when I received a photo from him. A mess of cum. It was a photo of his palm, glazed with thick white cum. The cum for me. His dickhead, moist, looking less angry than it did earlier.
“Your voice, I didn’t know that’s how you sounded like when you came. I couldn’t last long,” he had written.
I had smiled at that text. I had kept the phone on my bare tits, feeling the cold metal of the phone on them. I had made him cum before. But it was with my pictures. It was with videos of my strip teases. I had shown him every inch of my skin, every imperfect curve and crevice, every angle possible. But this, this felt special.
We did this several more times, each instance thrilling, albeit less thrilling than the last. There are only so many ways I can envision Armaan taking me. Only so many ways he can tell me how he would use my throat. It aroused me when he said he'd make my head hang off the edge of the bed, using my throat as if it were a pussy. That he wouldn't let me move, even if I gagged, that it was alright if I threw up while being used this way. I would touch myself, lying naked in bed, sometimes in broad daylight, moaning at the top of my voice, recording it all for him.
During one of our calls, Armaan asked, "Don't you have neighbors, or anyone who could hear you while you moan like that?"
I had considered this. I had received a few looks from people in the hallway, in the elevator. But when you derive pleasure from making a man climax with just your voice, such 'looks' don't carry much weight.
"I don't care," I had responded, "As long as I make you cum."
"How far would you go to make me cum?"
"I don't know. We'll have to find out."
After that call, I received a text from him. I could imagine him saying it in his deep, warm voice, "I want you to get a man soon. Fuck him. Record your voice while you do that."
My breath quickened as I read it. So terse, so direct. I was working on something at the time, and I just stared at my phone, rereading the message, over and over. You'd think that my reaction would be to ask Armaan to come over. For us to meet, for him to put his large, veiny dick inside me, he'd have to travel all the way from Bangalore to Mumbai.
But that wasn't what I was thinking about.
I was wondering who I would choose for this request. No, for this command.
As I write this to you, later in the evening, that guy is coming over. It won’t be the first time he would be fucking me, but it has been some time since I have asked him to come over.
In all this time, I have been thinking about Armaan a lot. Just the thought of another man seeing me, seeing all of me, touching me, tasting me, sends shivers down my spine. I bite my lower lip, imagining it. He wouldn't know about Armaan. He wouldn't know that I'd be moaning for another man, even when he's inside me. That’s a thrill of its own, don’t you think?
I pick out my lingerie for the evening, a scarlet lace set, as daring as my intention. I let the satin robe fall to my feet and slip into them. Every strap, every lace, every inch of my bare skin, whispers a promise of what’s to come. I look myslf in the mirror. My body looks different to me, especially laced with how Armaan would describe it, my curves, my love handles, my thighs that Armaan would say that he loved.
I apply the red lipstick, the one Armaan loves. As I am doing it, I imagine his reaction when he hears my voice, heavy with desire, broken by moans, resonating with the sounds of raw, carnal pleasure.
And later today, when the guy comes over, I'll be ready. I'll sit on his lap, let him undress me. I'll surrender my body to him, and all the while, Armaan will be there, lingering in my thoughts. When he takes me to bed, I'll hit that red button. His moans, his grunts, the sound of him inside me, all recorded. I hope Armaan gets to hear the sound of our flesh slapping into each other. I hope he hears how hard he’s fucking me from behind, the sound his thighs make when they hit my ass, the slurp sounds my mouth makes as I suck him.
I'm still unsure about revealing this secret. Do I tell him about Armaan? Do I let him in on our twisted game?
Will I cum because this stranger is touching me, tasting me, inside me? Or will I cum for Armaan, who craves my moans and my body, miles away from me? I don't know, but that’s why it’s fun.
Maybe next time, I will tell you about this evening.
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