Page 5 of Alonzo

“Fine!”

There’s the tell-tale soft sound of a person repositioning themselves.

“This is cheating,” she whines.

It is. Pics or it never happened. I make her do this all the time.

But it’s really her fault. She always sends me something so damn sexy. Tara Tanner has the overachiever gene. She’s competitive, and focused, and always feels the need to go above and beyond.

She’s a pleaser too.

If I tell her to hold up four fingers, her thumb is pulling her panties aside.

If I ask her to take a pic of her ass, she’s always bending over so I get a pussy shot from behind.

If I ask for her lips, she’ll suck her fingers and send me a video.

And you would think there’s no way you can make an eyeball sexy, but she sent me the most provocative wink I’ve ever seen when I asked for that.

She’s a naughty little bookworm who gets off on dirty-posing for me in pics, and roleplaying over the phone, and moaning as she comes while I jerk off two thousand miles away.

Tara Tanner is, quite simply, the dirtiest fucking woman I’ve ever had the pleasure to never meet.

A phone camera click drifts across the two thousand miles between us and my phone dings a new message.

I hold my breath and close my eyes when that happens. Every single time. I always ask her to do something to prove that she’s real. Make a peace sign. Hold up four fingers. Take a pic of your ass. Your lips. One eyeball. It’s never the same twice and she has never disappointed me. Tara Tanner really is a buxom-blonde, hot-assed fucking librarian in the Fort Collins Library. She really does wear pencil skirts, and tight, white blouses, and glasses, and she always has her long, wavy hair in a severe updo.

She always does what I ask, but never the way I ask her to.

And here’s the best part. Aside from the first pic I sent her the day we met—which wasn’t me, by the way—I have never, ever sent her a pic of me back. She has never even asked for one. She’s seen me twenty-nine times on cam dates. And for each one of those dates I wore my disguise. In Tara’s mind I am that accountant. I wear a white shirt, a tie, glasses, and ball cap to make her think I have an embarrassing receding hairline.

She has never seen my dick, she has never seen my tats, she has never seen anything but a neck-up view of the made-up man I’m pretending to be with her.

But that’s about to change.

I want to jerk off to her face on my phone. And I want her to see me do it.

I open my eyes and look down at the pic.

It doesn’t disappoint.

She is sitting in her car, pencil skirt hiked all the way up to her waist, her legs open, four fingers pressed against a wet spot in the middle of her panties, her eyes closed, and the tip of her tongue curled up against her upper front teeth.

“Holy fuck, woman. You’re so damn hot. But that is not a naked pic. You’re a dirty little liar.”

“I’m just going to proceed without you.”

“No! Stop. Right now. We’re gonna do things a little different today.”

“Lonnie! I have to get back to work!”

“Work is gonna have to wait, sunshine. I have plans. I’m gonna hang up—”

“Oh. My. God. I’m done.”

“Listen! I’m gonna hang up and call you back to FaceTime.”

“What?”