Where are you tonight? Do you know that I'm here, alone, in my bed, aching for you? I take out my lipstick-shaped pocket rocket. It's a poor substitution. But you won't give me what I crave, so I must satisfy myself. Do you even know how you lead me on? You call, but you don't come. You write, but you never show up. I'm left, still alone, still wanting you. The phone rang last night, and there I was in my bath, talking to you. Did you know? Did you hear the small splashes as my hips rotated against my hand, as my breathing increased and my pink tongue flicked out to lick my lips, wetting them in preparation for a kiss that wasn't forthcoming?

Sometimes, I think you know. You're smart. You must know that I want you by now. I see you watch my breasts rise and fall with my quick breaths when you're near. But here I am, once again alone in my canopied bed, thinking of you, and running my hands up and down my writhing body in rhythm to the pounding music from the stereo.

I'm on my stomach, imagining you behind me; then, I'm on my side, turning, craving a touch other than my own. A soft song comes on, and I slow my caresses, imagining you whispering in my ear, telling me how much you have wanted this ... as much as I have. Is that even possible? I don't know.

I turn back to my stomach, pressed flat against the soft mattress, my ass exposed to the cold in the room. I rub my tits against the bed; my hand goes to my clit, my pussy clenching the vibrating toy. I feel it inside me, where you should be.

My hips begin to rotate faster as I think this, setting up a rhythm of their own. I know how it would be if you were here ... hard and fast. That's how I want you most ... fucking me. I want your love, but not here; here, I want you driving into me, telling me how much you've wanted me, too. My long, curly tresses fall over my face as I rise to my knees, my breasts still pressed to the mattress. If you were behind me, you would see me, exposed to you, glistening wet for you, my pussy dripping wet just thinking about you. I imagine you there, leaning in, your hands grasping my hanging tits, pulling my hard nipples. You rasp in my ear, telling me what you see, "You're soaking wet for me, baby. How long have you wanted this?" I respond, "Forever," breathing out the word because my breath is coming in gasps.

In my waking dream, my own hand becomes yours; my fingers become long and tapered, hard and rough instead of short and soft. I feel your long middle finger enter my cunt and your thumb stroke my clit. "What do you want?" you ask me. You'll make me tell you because, in my dreams, you're in control. You're thumb slows its rotations when I don't respond. I want you to continue, so I say it ... what you want to hear ... "Fuck," I breathe; "I want you to fuck me."

I cry out as your hand disappears ... "No" turns into a moan as that long finger is replaced by your hard dick, driving in one inch at a time, until I am filled. My head goes to the mattress and my hips grind against your imaginary dick, pounding into me. It seems so real, until I realize the gasping breath is my own, not yours, and the hand is mine, not yours. Still, my hips continue their motions as I reach for something more, pounding in rhythm to the hard rock on the radio. In my dreams, you tell me to cum for you … and I do. I do everything that you want, because that's how I want you ... commanding me.