The Night a Simple Spooning Story Made Him Come

He called for moans, but stayed for memories.

Tonight the line crackled with that familiar hunger in his breath. “Tell me you’re near ___,” he rasped, naming the city where my old apartment still smells like my perfume in my mind. Instantly the call flipped from generic dirty talk to two ex-neighbors slow-dancing down memory lane.

We talked gentrified taco trucks, the record store turned vape shop, the alley where college boys once begged to lick whipped cream off my tits after last-call. Every shared landmark pulled him deeper into Girlfriend Experience quicksand: half nostalgia, half aching cock.

My voice softened to that post-orgasmic lull before either of us had earned it. “Remember the orange-street-lamp glow on winter nights? ”He exhaled a shaky “Yeah…” that told me his hand had already slipped under the waistband.

So instead of instructing him to stroke, Instead of counting edges, Instead of begging for cum,… I simply spooned him through the phone.

“Close your eyes, baby. Feel the old couch under us, the fleece blanket that never quite covered both our shoulders. My tits pressed to your back, my nose in your nape, whispering how proud that city must be to have raised such a good boy.”

My words were feathers, not chains. Each syllable stroked the part of him that wanted Mommy to say “You’re safe.”His breathing stuttered. A soft grunt. Then the unmistakable slick sound of a satisfied cock dribbling into his fist.

He didn’t roar. He whimpered. Came because we weren’t fucking. Came because the MILF next door still remembers the way the river fog rolled in at 2 a.m. Came because sometimes the hottest kink is being held while your past drips out of you in warm, guilty spurts.

After the pulse faded, silence settled like post-sex cigarette smoke. “God,” he laughed, embarrassed, “we didn’t even talk dirty.” “We did,” I corrected. “Just with different holes.”