It makes me feel pathetic as I sit here, really thinking about it. All that blood, violence, and hell…made it, so I’ve never shared one genuine, intense moment except via text.
But no, that’s not it. That’s giving me an escape.
The scarier part is that it’s her, some untouchable aspect of her, something calling to me I can’t explain. If that’s the case – as insane as that is – it means I have to be careful. I can’t project all my needs onto this stranger, not without knowing who she is, if she’s telling the truth or if she’s going to try and pull some gold-digger crap.
I pick up my phone despite these thoughts, returning to our text conversation. It was the same this morning. I almost sent her a message, but those fears held me back, her true identity looming like a threat.
If I wanted to ingratiate myself into somebody’s business or steal their money, I’d behave as innocently as possible.
I wouldn’t text them too much. I’d make them think it’s no big deal.
But then, why was she texting last night?
I type out a message, staring at it for a couple of seconds. This woman’s got me feeling like a teenager, analyzing my messages, something I’ve never done before. Even when I cared enough to try and date, I wouldn’t read and reread my texts to see how they sounded.
What are you up to?
It’s only possible to do so much analyzing with such a simple message. And yet I find myself doing it anyway, and then I start wondering if sending the message is a good idea at all.
But by the time I’ve asked the question, I’ve hit send, impulse taking over. The base of my cock thrums hotly as though telling me I made the right choice. That’s just another crazy thought to add to the growing list.
I watch my phone for far too long. She hasn’t seen the message. I wonder if she’s at work and, if she is, what she’s doing.
She said she was twenty. She might be in college.
My cock gives another twinge, the tip swelling with hardness. She’s young enough to give me everything I’ve ever dreamed of, a growing family, with enough time to pursue her own dreams and interests…with me there every step of the way, always supporting her, no matter what.
Soon, it’s time for the call. I check my phone one last time before it begins.
Nothing.
During the call – a routine one, no big deal – my mind wanders continuously to Fiona. For the first time, my fingers are itching to reach for my phone. I’ve never experienced this. Focus has always come naturally to me, as long as it’s hyper-intense, as long as I can fixate and ignore everything else.
But right now, she’s what I want to fixate on. My stomach buzzes, and I wonder if these are the butterflies people mention.
The call lasts forty-five minutes. I force myself to pay attention and take notes, as I always do, but that niggling desire to reach for my phone never goes away. The moment my computer screen goes blank and the video feed cuts off, I take my cell from my top drawer.
At work, you?
This is getting ridiculous now. As soon as I lay eyes on her words, my chest is gripped by that expansive feeling again, warm sensations flowing through me. Then my cock thunders, twitching, rock-hard as I imagine the woman from my fantasy, with her wide hips and her big eyes.
I need to be careful. She probably looks nothing like that.
Same, I tell her. And it’s boring as hell. I’m tempted to blow the day off and take you out somewhere, mystery girl
I fire off the message without giving myself time to think about it too much.
It’s forward, but it has to be. She hasn’t explained how she got my number. She hasn’t even hinted at it. She hasn’t explained why she started texting me.
Meeting her face to face is the best way to solve all these problems.
I’d love that
I nod like a madman, like one of those bouncy-head dog things some people put on their dashboards. This stranger has got me more enthused and eager than I’ve ever felt, hungry in a way that doesn’t even make sense.
But I can’t. I shouldn’t have texted you. I shouldn’t have this number. I’m sorry, Felix. It’s better if we don’t do this
I grip the desk, my hands shaking, causing the desk to rock about. Pens and ornaments shift here and there as her words crash into me, and I struggle to accept them.
It shouldn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t be a big deal. If she doesn’t want to do this – whatever this is – I shouldn’t care.
But I’m filled with primal fury, telling me to find her and make her see how much she means to me.