Phone Sex With Tom Hiddleston

*Imagine Tom’s smexylicious, deeply vibrant, whiskey-in-moonlight voice talking to you on the phone*


Under your ear

Where the soft fragrance of your musk mingles with hair and sweat

Where I sometimes feel a pulse beat

I press my lips there.

You shiver.

It passes through you to me, the shiver.

Where your back is touching my chest

Shoulder blades pressed to my pecs

Front to back, back to front

Our heartbeats aligned to the rhythm of that shiver.

I move a bit to the side

My lips, a hot breath stealing your musk, your sweat.


And I take your tender lobe between my teeth.

You wait. I wait. You wait some more. I make you wait some more.

Somewhere in the universe, a star dies.


I bite.

A lunging movement.

Your gasp echoes in me, deep within me

Where the animal lives: untamed, feral, wanting.

Wanting all, wanting everything, wanting you.

You arch in an involuntary movement,

Your arms going to bite my thighs with fingers turned claws.

The pain is jarring, welcome, claimed.

So I suck, soft, soothing, slow and delicious.

Like I would inside you, imagining golden, molten honey.

Or bubblegum-flavored ice cream, my favorite.

A treat to be lapped up, savored slowly, deliciously. Careful and endless.

Your skin feels like skin in my mouth

But taste is different, isn’t it?

Taste is memory, dreams, illusion,

Candy-wrapped hotness and lemonade mixed with jello shots.

It’s not real in the way your eyes go glassy when I touch your breasts, cup them

It’s not real in the way your lips part to form my name

My name.

“Harder,” you say. “Touch me.” Breath broken.

So I move my fingers

Just the tips over the back of your wrist, lingering at the tattoo of your pulse

Moving up, a whisper-soft touch over skin well-traveled,

Always new.

It’s slow, torturous.

But who is torturing whom?

Suddenly you grab my hand and press it against yourself.

Hard, demanding. Now.

But it is my game, my rules, mine. So I say, “No. No, not yet. Wait.”

There is delicious agony in waiting.

In having my hand caress the folds of skin on your stomach, gone slightly musky with sweat right now

While you wait, for my fingers to go north or south, the waiting pain in itself.

“Fuck you.” You laugh. Wanting me.

Sex mingles in the air like our scents, sweat. Our breaths.

It’s a drowning of you in me that I want.

I bring my hand up to your collarbone, the bones pricking ever so slightly

While you  contort your neck and kiss me

Kiss me like how you want to be taken – a little rough, a little wet, maybe against the wall.

Maybe right now.

Your lips, your tongue, your teeth say please

Please have me.

I am yours.

But you are and that’s what makes it easy.

That’s what makes it hard.

Until you turn fully and press into me, me into you.

Wrapping one leg over mine, my hand instinctively tightening on the inside of your thigh

For balance, maybe. To brand, for sure.

Tempting, joining. Asking and answering.

All within the space of a hot, wet, wide kiss

I lose my head, my place, my rules

And I back you to the wall

To wherever you want.

You laugh again, my victor.

Surrender never looked so sweet naked

And I take you till you come

Till next time,

Writer Gal 

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