Golden_Phoenix: Keep going.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter as my fingers fly over the keyboard on my phone.
LMCYTTWACYAGG: I’d taste you slowly, at first. Just a quick swipe of my tongue over your clit. I’d listen to your soft moans, then I’d go in again, only this time, I’d slip my tongue inside you to gather your wetness. As I let it sit on my tongue, savoring the flavor, I’d slip a finger inside you. You’d pulse around me, wanting more, so much more, and I’d give it to you. I’d give you anything you’d ask of me.
Golden_Phoenix: Anything?
LMCYTTWACYAGG: Anything.
I stare at the phone, my chest aching along with my cock. The typing bubbles start and stop so many times I lose count. I’mready to go to my computer to check the cameras to see what she’s doing and why the fuck she’s taking so long.
But then she finally sends it.
And all I can do is grin.
Golden_Phoenix: Will you chase me through the woods?
Chapter Five
Sailor
I click the button on the side of my phone the moment the message goes through.
I want to take it back.
Hell, I wish I could.
But there’s no way to do that in the app, so I shouldn’t have sent it at all.
What the hell am I doing asking questions like that? To a stranger. To someone on a gaming app. I don’t know who this person is.
I’m going to be sick.
I cover my face with my hands and take a few slow breaths. After a moment, I reach for the switch by the bed and flip it on. The ceiling fan starts to rotate, and soon there is a soft breeze helping me relax.
This isn’t the end of the world.
It’s not. It’s just stupid stuff on the internet. People do it all the time. I could block him and move on, never talk to him again, and it won’t be a problem.
But I shouldn’t be doing it.
Not again. Not so soon. Not after the way things ended last time.
Or haven’t ended… because I can’t stop thinking about him, which is why I’m doing this in the first place. I have a problem. A serious problem. I need help.
Maybe I should tell Sam. Maybe I should tell Amelia. I need to tell someone. I need someone to set my head straight and tell me how stupid I’m being. That seems like a good idea. Getting this off my chest will help, right? Isn’t that what everyone says? Isn’t that how therapists make a living in the first place? Listening to people’s problems and telling them how to fix it?
I stare down at my phone that’s resting screen-down on my chest. I so badly want to pick it up and look for a therapist, but if I do that, there may be a message waiting for me.
No, thereisa message waiting for me because I felt the vibration.
I could delete it. Not just the message, but the entire account. It’s new. I could make another one…
But another part of me, that dark part, really wants to know what his response is.
And it’s not that it matters. It’s just an answer. Just words. Just because I asked, and he could say yes, doesn’t mean it’ll happen.
This isn’t like before. This is pretend. It’s the internet; it’s anonymous. It doesn’t have to be real.
