Isolated Intimacy: Doctor's Lockdown

The fluorescent lights of the attic cast a sickly yellow glow across my face as I stared at the video call, a knot of anticipation tightening in my gut. It had been two months since we’d established this strange, desperate intimacy, a digital dance of lust and longing during this terrifying quarantine. My wife, Hope, a brilliant surgeon, had insisted on keeping a strict separation, a bizarre attempt at control amidst the chaos of our demanding jobs and the constant threat of infection. But her illness, a chronic autoimmune disorder, made her vulnerable, and the loneliness gnawed at us both.

Tonight, the need was particularly sharp, an insistent ache that demanded release. After saying our goodbyes to our kids through the pixelated screen, Hope had stayed on the line, her mother a silent, watchful presence in the background. The call had started innocently enough, a casual conversation about the day's events, but as the minutes ticked by, a potent undercurrent of desire began to simmer between us.

“Was it intentional?” I asked, my voice a low rumble, struggling to conceal the heat rising within me.

Her laughter was laced with mischief. "Don’t flatter yourself, Tyler. I don't know what you're talking about," she replied, her voice dripping with playful defiance. But as she shifted slightly, I caught a glimpse of her cleavage, a delicate curve of skin that ignited a primal fire in my core. It wasn’t just her beauty; it was the knowledge that she was craving something just as intensely as I was.

“Oh, baby,” I murmured, letting the word hang in the air, heavy with unspoken desire.

“Well, maybe I have some dirty intentions. What are you going to do about it? It's been two months, and a wife is allowed to fantasize about going to bed with her husband," she said, her fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path across her chest. The dim lighting made her features appear even more alluring, her eyes gleaming with an almost predatory hunger.

“I can’t see you properly,” she complained, pulling her top slightly higher to expose more of her upper body. The sheer audacity of her request sent a shiver of pleasure through me.

“But we can hear each other. Right now, my hands are moving south,” I replied, my voice a low groan as I began to explore the landscape of my own arousal. I could feel the heat building, a molten tide surging through my veins, fueled by the potent combination of longing and forbidden desire.

“Mine too. One’s on my bush, and the other is tweaking my left nipple,” she said, her voice a breathless whisper as she played with herself. The intimacy of the audio call, the shared vulnerability, was intoxicating. We traded descriptions of our escalating sensations, a silent conversation conducted through the language of touch and desire.

“My cock’s growing. It’s at full length now, and I’m pumping it,” I narrated, letting the words paint a vivid picture of my own arousal, hoping to stir her even further.

“Stop! Don’t. Stroke it gently,” she ordered, her voice laced with a delicious mix of control and submission. I hesitated, battling the urge to lose myself in the immediate pleasure, but her command held sway. I slowed my pace, focusing on the exquisite sensation of her touch, feeling my body respond in kind.

“My hands are circling my clit and pinching my right nipple. I’m moving my right hand’s middle finger into my vagina and… ah!” She exclaimed, a sharp intake of breath that sent a jolt of electricity through me. The sound of her pleasure, raw and untamed, was both exhilarating and terrifying.

“Oh, god!” I gasped, my own body responding instinctively, my hands moving faster, desperate to meet her needs. “You should do it slower, Mr. Saltzman,” she countered, her voice a silken command.

“Okay, Mrs. Saltzman,” I replied, adopting a husky tone that I knew she found particularly appealing. It was one of the few times we’d allowed ourselves to break the rules, to indulge in the forbidden pleasure of calling her by her preferred name. It felt like a tiny act of rebellion, a small victory in the face of our imposed separation.

“Oh, my, my…” she said, her voice thickening as she continued her relentless assault. I could hear her approaching the edge, the anticipation building to a fever pitch.

“May I go faster? Please?” I begged, my voice choked with desperation, feeling the inevitable climax drawing near.

“Yes! Yes, Tyler! Go as quickly as you will when I’m there next to you and you’re going to cum inside me!” she ordered, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The urgency in her voice, the palpable need, was almost overwhelming. I pushed myself beyond my limits, surrendering to the primal urge that threatened to consume me.

“I am going to cum!” I yelled softly, the sound echoing through the cramped space of the attic, a desperate plea for release.

“So…. am… I!” She shrieked, her body convulsing with pleasure. Within seconds, the dam broke, and a torrent of hot, white liquid erupted from me, filling the room with its potent scent. I heard her slow her hands down, a contented sigh escaping her lips.

“Did you cum?” I asked, my voice hoarse with exhaustion and pleasure.

“Mmm-hmm. That was a lot of fun,” she replied, her voice still trembling with excitement. The shared experience, the intimate connection forged through forbidden desires, had left us both breathless and exhilarated.

“After two months? Definitely,” I said, savoring the lingering sensations, the memory of her touch still fresh on my skin.

“We have to do it more often. I have a bypass tomorrow at nine, but after that, I will be free. I’ll be home by eleven if there isn’t an emergency. Would you like me to install a light down here and up there?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“I definitely would. But, you and I are supposed to stay away,” I replied, clinging to the last vestiges of our carefully constructed separation. The thought of actually being together, of surrendering to the full force of our desire, was both terrifying and immensely appealing.

“I bought a few lamps two weeks ago, Tyler. I will ask my mom to get it to your level while you are out,” she said, her voice filled with a playful promise. The idea of a soft, warm light illuminating our shared space, a beacon of forbidden pleasure, was almost too much to bear.

“I am exhausted, but I can’t wait for it to be eleven tomorrow night for another call, I regret having to go, but I have an aneurysm to clip at five in the morning,” I said, forcing a smile to mask my longing. The thought of leaving her, of returning to the sterile confines of the attic, filled me with a profound sense of regret.

“Goodnight, baby,” she whispered, her voice laced with tenderness.

“Goodnight, Hope,” I whispered back, feeling a surge of warmth spread through my chest. As I drifted off to sleep, clutching a lone pillow, I couldn't help but imagine the soft glow of the new lamps, casting their light upon our shared desire, a silent promise of future encounters in the darkness. The quarantine may have separated us physically, but our souls, ignited by passion and longing, remained inextricably linked.

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