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M: Are you spying on me? How’d you know?
R: Men always wear gray sweats because they know the ladies like them.
M: Is that so? Why are gray sweatpants such a beloved item?
R:
I nearly choke on my tongue. This is definitely new territory that we’ve explored, and I’m suddenly desperate to see where this leads. My cock thickens in my sweats, unleashed from underwear since I’m home alone.
I try to decide how to respond. Rachel doesn’t seem the type to jump right into sexting, and I don’t know how well I’d do with it either, but I’m damn willing to try.
M: And now my shirt’s off and my sweats are feeling a bit tighter.
R: I’m not wearing a bra and my nipples are so hard you can see them though my shirt.
I groan as I picture that.
M: Will you take your shirt off for me?
I’m playing with fire. Hot, dangerous, molten fire that might ignite everything I’ve been building with Rachel and decimate it into ash with a few keystrokes. Or . . . It might take us to a whole new level.
R: I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I did it. Is your shirt really off?
M: Yes. I wish you were here so I could kiss you, cup your breasts in my hands, and feel you against my skin.
R: That sounds good.
I breathe deep and slow, my hand clenched in a tight fist just to keep from jerking myself off. It still takes me two tries to type without any spelling errors.
M: Pretend your hands are mine. Trace them over your skin.
M: Squeeze your breasts, pluck your nipples.
M: Are you doing it?
M: Rachel?
Fuck, did I read this all wrong? She’s not responding.
R: I’m here. I’m . . . doing what you said. It feels good, but I wish it were you.
M: Fuck, R. Touch yourself for me. Slide your hand into your panties and touch yourself. Imagine it’s my fingers and touch yourself.
R: Are you doing it too? Touching yourself.
I am now. I shove my pants down in the front, leaning back on the couch to stroke my length. I have to squeeze just below the head to keep myself from coming too soon because I’m on edge just thinking of Rachel touching herself to my words.
M: Fuck, yes. I’m imagining how gorgeous you look as I stroke myself. I’m already close just from picturing you.
R: Me too. Keep . . . going.
I’m not sure if she means my words or stroking myself or both. Though I have to type one-handed with my left hand, I make it work.
M: Are you wet? Rub that wetness onto your clit. Do you like circles or tapping?
R: Uh . . . circles.
M: Do it then. Circle your clit, dip down into yourself and then rub your clit some more.
M: Tell me when you’re close. I want to come with you.
R: Are you close?
M: I’m holding onto the edge. Waiting on you, baby.
I thrust into my fist, my toes curling against the rug as I fight off the impending orgasm, trying to wait for her.
R: I’m . . . jskdjfoihoiwhehpw.
I take that as her fingers clenching against her phone as the orgasm washes through her, and I jack myself fast and hard, letting go of the tight rein on myself. Cum spurts out of my cock, covering my hand as my abs clench tight.
M: Baby? You good?
M: Still there?
R: I am. Did you?
M: Yeah, I did. I figured the gibberish was your way of saying you were coming.
R: LOL It was. Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I did that!
M: It’s okay. I’ve never done that either. I’m glad we did, though. You?
R: Uhm . . . yeah. Except now I’m sitting here messy. I guess you are too? Meet you back in five after a quick clean-up?
I laugh, shaking my head. She’s so real. Even after saying that she’s never done anything like that, she’s boldly honest that she needs to wipe her hand and thinks nothing of it that I need to as well.
M: I’m counting the minutes.
Fewer than five minutes later, I’m sitting on my couch with freshly washed hands and a clean dick back in my sweats. Testing the waters, I type . . .
M: Second thoughts?
R: No. But that was pushing the line for me. I . . . I like our chats.
M: That was nowhere near my line. Actually, I’d like to push the line a little bit more myself.
R: How so?
M: I like talking to you. A lot.
R: Ditto here. I’ll tell you . . . you’ve made the past few days good ones.
M: So I was thinking, would you like to meet? I mean, face to face?
The message sits on the screen for a long time, and I stare at it, cursing myself for ruining a good thing. There are so many reasons meeting in person is a bad idea. An awful idea! But then I think of the conversations I’ve had with Rachel, the way the last few days have felt brighter, and the almost-giddy feeling in my stomach when I see her messages. I think about what we just did and imagine things getting even better if we meet in person.
