In a previous relationship, we tended to see each other at most once or at most twice a week. More often it tended to be even less frequently. For us, sexting was very much a form of prolonged foreplay.
It would start several days before we actually saw each other. Sometimes it would start almost as soon as one or other of us got home from our most recent encounter.
At first, little more than simple texts to let each other know that we were thinking about each other; often little more than enquiries as to what the day’s plans were. As the chat progressed, it would become increasingly littered with sexy puns and double entendres; all fairly innocent but with decidedly naughty undertones.
We might, at some point discuss a particular aspect of our most recent time together; reliving it in words, remembering, savouring. From there we might move on to discussions of what we wanted/intended to do to each other when we next met. She would describe to me how she would suck my cock, how much she wanted to feel my tongue on her clit and my cock in her cunt. I would respond by telling her how much I wanted to taste her, savouring her flavour, making her come with my mouth before fucking her.
On the days when we were due to meet, we would build the anticipation. Descriptions of what we would do. Images from Tumblr depicting things that turned us on; that illustrated graphically just what we intended to do once we were in each other’s presence again with both clothes and inhibitions discarded.
As the working day ended, the tension would become almost unbearable. Messages from her to tell me she was on her way home. Messages from me to tell her how I wanted to find her when I got there. Explicit images that she had to hide her phone away from the eyes of her fellow commuters. And then, the final anticipated exchange:
“I’m on my way”
“Let yourself in, I’ll be upstairs…”