A/n: in which your phone call with Illi turns very intimate very quickly, and she shows you how "inexperienced" she really is. Inspired by this lovely ask!
“You’ve never even kissed a girl before?”
“Oh my god, shut up, I shouldn’t have told you anything.”
Some people’s idea of a good Saturday night might include parties and drinking. And typically, you’d agree—but tonight, you aren’t at some stranger’s house feeling the bass shake your bones while drinking tequila out of solo cups.
You’re on the phone with Illi McMillin, a cute girl from your Communications course.
You’re unlikely friends from different walks of life, but you ended up clicking all the same. That is how you found yourself sitting against your headboard at 11:30pm teasing Illi about her lack of experience.
“No, no, it’s cute,” you laugh, smiling like an idiot at the thought of Illi flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”
You hear Illi huff on the other line, and you can practically see her pink cheeks. “What, you thought I was an overflowing beacon of experience?”
Her sarcasm makes you giggle. You’re having too much fun. “I don’t know, I guess I didn’t expect you to be totally inexperienced.”
You know you’re riling her up, but you keep teasing her anyway. It’s too entertaining to listen to her try to defend herself.
“I feel like ‘totally inexperienced’ is a stretch,” Illi says, rolling her eyes even though she knows you can’t see her.
“Really?” You tease, your smile visible in your voice. “‘Never having kissed a girl’ sounds pretty inexperienced to me.”
“I read,” Illi protests, and it makes you laugh aloud.
“I’m serious!” She groans. She waits for your laughter to die down. “You’d be shocked at how much you can learn from reading.”
“Yeah? And what kind of dirty things are you reading, Illi?” You giggle.
You miss the soft inhale this pulls from her. When her voice comes, it’s a little lower.
“Things that would make your pretty face go pink.”
You pause. There’s a shift, you can feel it—from playful teasing to something more charged. Illi takes your lack of response as a sign to continue.
“Nothing to say now, huh? What, does the thought of me reading smutty shit get you off?” she asks, sounding far too cocky for her own good now. You knew you shouldn’t have let her get the upper hand.
“No,” you say unconvincingly. You can already feel heat blooming between your thighs, and you shift on your bed.
“Liar,” Illi says simply. “Bet your nipples are all stiff at the thought of me locked in my room, reading gross shit and getting off like a pervert.”
Wow, that’s intense. And shockingly enough, it’s working. You bite your lip before a sound can escape. Because yes, she’s right—your nipples are hard, poking through your soft tank top.
You shift your thighs together to try and ward off the growing need between them in vain.
At your silence, Illi laughs. “I’m right, aren’t I? Your nipples are hard. God, you have pretty tits,” she adds, voice breathless at the thought. “So hard to take my eyes off them sometimes. Especially when you’re wearing one of those low-cut shirts.”
Your cheeks bloom with heat. “You’re such a perv,” you whine, but Illi chuckles.
“C’mon, play with your tits a little bit.”
And that makes the problem between your legs worse. Still holding the phone to your ear, your free hand runs up your stomach to one of your breasts, and you gasp softly as your fingers brush over one stiff peak. You palm your breast, breathing getting heavier.
“Are you doing it?” Illi asks, and her voice sounds a little more strained now.
“Yeah,” you answer, voice nearly a whisper.
You pause, resist the urge to playfully roll your eyes. Weirdo. You put down your phone just long enough to peel off your tank top. Now bare-torsoed, you lean back against your pillows, picking up your phone again.
“Yeah,” you sigh as you tweak a nipple with your fingers. “Just took my shirt off.”
Illi inhales sharply and grits out a soft “fuck…” from the other side of the phone. You can tell she’s getting off on this just as much as you are. Maybe more.
“Bet you look so pretty. Fuck,” she continues, and you can’t help but find her voice attractive like this, all low and breathless. You bite your lip as you roll your nipple between your thumb and forefinger, then switch to the other breast to give it some attention too.
You can hear her swallow thickly. “Are you wet?” she asks a second later, almost whispering.
And that question, so simple and blunt, makes your breath hitch. You reluctantly stop playing with your tits to slide your hand down your body and under your soft sleep shorts and panties. Shockingly, you’re soaking, the flesh between your thighs hot and slick. Usually it takes a little more for you to get this wet, but there’s something about this—Illi’s voice in your ear, her surprising dominance—that arouses you immensely.
“Yeah, fuck. Really wet,” you answer, bringing your slick fingers up to your mouth to suck them clean. And maybe you spend some extra time doing that, and maybe you suck them louder than normal… all for Illi’s benefit of course.
And as soon as she hears those soft slurping sounds through the receiver of her phone? She’s a goner.
“Shit,” she hisses, and, unbeknownst to you, shoves a hand down her pants. “You wet for me baby? Soaking through your pretty panties?”
You only make a soft noise of affirmation as you use your free hand to try and pull your sleeping shorts off. When it’s too difficult, you put Illi on speakerphone and set the phone beside your head, using both hands to pull your shirts down and off your legs.
“Are you wearing the same pretty panties you were wearing today?” she asks, and before you can ask any questions, she continues: “I saw them in class, when you sat down. A tiny glimpse of black lace peeking over the waistband of your jeans… are you wearing those ones now?”
God, she’s such a creep. But for some reason, it’s really doing it for you. “Yeah,” you laugh softly, strained. “Yeah, I am, you freak.”
A muffled “god” from Illi’s end. You hear some rustling, and you open your mouth to ask about it, but Illi speaks first.
“Touch yourself through your panties. And—and pretend that it’s me. Please.”
And maybe it’s the way her voice is nearly trembling with want, or maybe it’s the “please” tacked on the end like a good luck charm, but you find yourself powerless to disobey.
Slowly, you let your hand drift from your chest to your stomach to that spot between your legs that’s hot and damp and aching. Your soaked panties cling to your core, and when you trace your fingers over your clothed folds, you gasp softly.
“Illi…” you half-sigh, half-whine, pressing down with more pressure now over your clit. You can feel that it’s stiff and wanting even through your panties.
“Yeah, fuck, that’s it,” Illi encourages breathlessly, sounding almost wrecked already. “Tease that pretty pussy for me, okay? I’d touch you so good over those panties—maybe I’d even make you cum like that first before I even think about taking ‘em off you.”
With a full-body shudder you whine, using two fingers to rub tight little circles over your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. “Fuck, is that what you want me to do? Cum in my panties for you?” you pant, and if that’s what she wants, you’ll do it.
A pause. Some rustling. You can hear Illi breathing heavily. “Maybe,” she says after a beat. “Just… rub yourself and tell me when you’re close.”
Well, that won’t be an issue considering you’ve been doing just that and you can already feel your orgasm building. You’re hardly aware of the sounds you’re making—but Illi can hear every one, and it’s making her fucking throb.
“Close,” you gasp, whining over the word like it hurts to say. Your fingers rub faster. “Illi, close, ‘m gonna—“
The firm command makes your eyes, which had slipped closed in pleasure, snap open. Your hand freezes over yourself, and your body twitches and writhes a little as that overwhelming pleasure is abruptly ended.
“Illi, no, no,” you whimper, high and desperate. “Don’t be mean, please, need it.” Your hand is still between your thighs; no pressure, no touching, just waiting for her next words.
You don’t know it, but Illi’s just impeded her own orgasm too, squeezing the base of her cock so hard she whines, and it gives a throb of protest. It’s only fair, right?
“Take your panties off,” she breathes out, and you quickly obey, sliding the offending fabric down your legs.
Leaning back against your pillow, letting your legs spread, you wish so badly she could be here, seeing you like this. Touching you.
God, you want to know how she’d touch you.
So you ask. “Illi…” you murmur, fondling your breasts as you speak, staring at the ceiling. “What would you do if you were here right now?”
She hums. You hear the sound of something slick; she must be using lotion or lube to stroke herself. Slowly, it sounds like. As if she’s getting lost in thought.
“God, I’d fucking devour you,” she admits—why bother being polite? You’re both touching yourselves. If there’s any time to be bold, it’s now. “I’d hold your legs open and eat you out until you’re crying.”
The words make your cunt ache with want, and you make a soft sound in the back of your throat. “Fuck, Illi.”
“You have no fucking idea,” she continues, voice dripping with desperation. “I bet you taste so goddamn good. I’d suck on your clit with two fingers buried knuckles-deep inside you. Maybe three if you can take it. Have you? Taken three?”
It’s an invasive question, but to your lust-addled brain it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever been asked. “A couple times,” you admit, cheeks warming. As if you have the gall to act coy and shy now. “But I need to stretch myself out first.”
It seems the thought of you stretching yourself with your fingers makes something break inside Illi, because she makes a sound that’s between a growl and a moan, and you can hear the sound of her stroking herself faster.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Touch yourself again. Rub your clit while you fuck yourself with a finger.”
And who are you to say no? You let your finger slide up and down your folds a few times before slowly pushing it in with a soft gasp. It’s a relatively easy fit with how wet you are.
When you start simultaneously circling your clit with one hand while you pump your finger in and out of yourself with the other, Illi’s name spills from your lips unbidden.
“Feels too good, huh?” Illi teases, but not without sounding a wreck herself. “God, I bet you’re so tight—bet you’d squeeze me so nice, huh? Jesus, I’m so fucking hard for you. Like–so hard.”
The thought of Illi’s cock—hard and insistent—stuffing you is enough to make you crumble. A throb of need pulsates between your legs. You made her hard. You’re almost embarrassed at how hot that gets you, and how early you’re begging, but you can’t help it.
“Please,” you whine, pumping, rubbing. Your wrists are starting to ache, but you don’t care. “Want you so bad. Want—want your cock.”
“Shit, I wanna give it to you. Add a second finger,” Illi hisses through the receiver. It sounds like she’s gritting her teeth. Like she’s just as affected as you are.
The stretch of a second finger takes a minute to get used to, but then you're pumping them again, crooking them inside yourself to feel that delicious press against your soft walls. You keen at the sensation, biting your lip hard to muffle the sound.
Illi doesn’t like that. Not one bit.
“Don’t you dare try and hide those noises from me,” she pants through the phone, jerking herself with a tight grip that borders on cruel. “Let me hear how good it feels to fuck yourself on the phone with me. Please.”
Please. It’s cute that she’s still being polite while her words are making your brain feel like a horny, mushy mess.
“You like this? Listening to me?” Her voice is low and needy through the phone. You give a little uh-huh.
“Does it get you off knowing that I’ve imagined what you look like touching yourself a million times? That I fantasize about the way you bite your lip, how you’d grope your own tits, how you’d fuck yourself down on your own fingers, whining in frustration because it just isn’t enough?”
Illi knows she should probably shut up, that she’ll be embarrassed when this phone call ends. But how else is she supposed to act when she’s got a hand on her dick and a pretty girl touching herself on the phone?
Besides, her words are inching you closer to your orgasm. You squeeze your eyes shut. “Fuuuck. Wish you could see me.”
“Yeah?” She almost sounds surprised. “Maybe next time I can come over for a sleepover and you can show me how you like to play with your pretty cunt.”
Fuck. You’re close. You can feel the familiar heat coiling in your belly. Your wrists are cramping, but you just need a little more.
“Ill—Illi, gonna… oh my god, ‘m gonna cum,” you whisper frantically, your moans now breathless little ah, ah, ah’s in time with the thrusts of your fingers. You grind down against them. Illi was right—this isn’t enough. The thought of her pushing into you makes your pussy clench around the digits.
“Me too,” Illi whines. She sounds so pretty, like you’ve never heard her before. Sort of how she does when she sings, but more desperate and obscene. “Wish I could—ohh, shit, fuck—wish I could cum all over your fuckin’ tits, paint you up all pretty—ahh, oh…”
And it’s that thought that pushes you over the edge, crying out as you fuck yourself through your orgasm, even getting a little rough as you frantically rub your swollen clit and fuck your spent pussy until you’re shaking.
And the sound of you, orgasmic and overstimulated, is what sends Illi fucking up into her fist, shooting ropes over her stomach and fingers. Only, she had told a little lie. She didn’t cum to the thought of jerking over your tits. She came to the thought of filling you up with her, of fucking her spend so deep inside you that you can taste it. Maybe it would even knock you up—but that’s a thought for another day, she decides in her post-orgasmic haze (even if the idea makes her spent cock twitch weakly).
She can’t wait for the sleepover.
