The sun woke me up. Well, actually, I guess you could say it was the breeze that woke me up—it was the breeze that lifted my blind just enough to let the early morning sun into my bedroom. But whether it was the breeze or sun responsible, I was up. I ran my fingers through my tangled brown hair, rubbed my eyes and yawned. I reached to my nightstand and unplugged the phone whose alarm had yet to ring.
*5:45 not bad*, I thought to myself, *thirty minutes ahead of schedule*. I figured this would give me some time for, well, entertainment. After all, I had a mean case of morning wood, and I had been exchanging messages back and forth with a particularly charming young woman recently, so surely there was something in there to push me over the proverbial edge before my morning shower and coffee. The perfect way to start the day.
My fingers unlocked my phone almost automatically—a process I had repeated hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of times—and intuitively swiped left twice and tapped the “Utilities” folder where I kept Reddit hidden, so that my girlfriend wouldn’t stumble upon it on one of the few nights where she wasn’t travelling for work.
My mind raced through the possibilities of what was in store for me, based on the conversation we had kept up thus far. Maybe I’d be treated to one of those deliciously descriptive walk-throughs of the things that my girlfriend would never allow but that my new writing partner was practically begging for me to do. Or maybe it would be another picture of her playing with her seemingly perfect body, with the words we had exchanged as her mental ammunition. There were possibilities and all of them seemed perfectly acceptable at 5:48AM, with an erection in my boxers.
Well, all except one. I blinked in disbelief as I pulled up my messages. I hadn’t posted a prompt in a while, nor had I answered any. I had spent much of the last three weeks messaging only one person, because she captivated me in a way that none had before—not just on Reddit, but in real life, too. But, the screenname of my most recent penpal looked unfamiliar.
**[deleted]**
*Ah fuck.*
Still, though, I felt like I had to open the thread just in case. Maybe this was some perverse joke she was playing to see how badly I would miss her. Maybe she had figured out that we lived in the same city—I had fibbed when she had answered first, so as to not freak her out—and wanted me to realize that I *needed* her more than I wanted to be in a quote-unquote monogamous relationship with my girlfriend, the same girlfriend who was never there.
But, sure enough, the account had been deleted. Impossible to click on. I could have replied, in theory, but nobody would have read it. My chat partner wasn’t the only one who had disappeared, so too had the morning erection I was so looking forward to stroking.
I let out an audible sigh and rolled over before sitting up at the side of the bed and staring at the white wall in front of me.
*Fuck.*
Into the shower I trudged, stripping off my boxers and stepping under the cold water. I stood there, the water beating down on my hair, and stared at the droplets that were glued to my stomach. Hot water runs off the skin, but cold water doesn’t. It beads ever so slightly and clings to even the faintest wrinkle or ripple. Now, I knew I didn’t have a six pack, but the way the water was beading on my newly-tanned skin—thanks summer—suddenly made me feel better about myself.
*It’s her loss for ghosting me*. I kept telling myself that as I washed up and rinsed off, stepping out of the shower and towelling off while staring at myself in the mirror. *Fuck her.*
I pulled on a white T-shirt and a pair of grey trousers—they were a bit tight, but they made my ass look great, so *fuck it*, I thought. I let me hair dry waywardly and slipped my brown round glasses on. I never liked my hazel eyes, but I liked the bookish look that the glasses gave me when couple with the dark stubbly beard I had taken to keeping in my early 20s. Normally I’d have a coffee and get to work at home, but today I felt like being out and about to keep myself from checking my phone for the Reddit message that would never come, so I decided to head to a café to work.
I walked the three or four minutes to the subway and made my way down to the platform. It was humid out and my skin had a faint glow—sweating slightly in the summer isn’t all bad, it seems. I had my headphones in and was in my own bubble, thinking about what I would write today. Suddenly, though, a breeze hit me. The subway was here. The doors opened and dozens of morning commuters flooded out, replaced by dozens more. I jostled for a spot along the far-side doors so I could lean back against the cool metal, my 6’3″ frame almost touching the subway doors’ frame. As the doors closed and the subway became gliding along, I glanced around. There were kids heading to day camp, with their brightly coloured caps and backpacks; office workers in their stuffy suits; and ***HOLY SHIT IT’S THE FUCKING GIRL FROM REDDIT***.
Was it really you, though? Or was I hallucinating? No, it was you. It had to be you. I had stared at you enough times in the last few months late at night or early in the morning to recognize you from ten feet away. It was you.
What were the chances that, on the day I got ghosted, I’d stumble upon you in the subway that we both took dozens of times a week. Yes I knew that we lived in the same city, but I didn’t expect to fall upon the needle in the haystack. And you; you didn’t know that we lived in the same city. Heck, you thought I lived in a different country. Should I g look o say hi? You had send me a few pictures of yourself, but I had always hesitated, knowing that this day would possibly come—though, really, what are the fucking chances?—so you had no clue what I looked like.
*Fuck it.* I thought to myself. I was going to have some fun. I wasn’t going to waltz up and pretend that I didn’t know you. I was going to own it. So I waited and watched. I waited for you to stand up, in those heels and that pencil skirt. You probably had a nice office job, but did your colleagues know about your kinks? Did they know that you spent hours every night masturbating to the thought of some stranger tying your hands up with a silk necktie and tossing you onto his bed so he could fuck you like he couldn’t fuck his wife before plastering the small of your back with his hot cum? I doubt it. And when you got up, I took a step towards the door. I was going to follow you to work and surprise you there.
I watched as you uncrossed your legs and patted your skirt down against your toned legs. I pressed my weight against the cool metal door behind me and flexed my core, pushing myself forward, towards the middle of the carriage. I kept my eye on you, watching as you stood up and made your way to the doors, standing there, waiting for the train to pull into the next station. I came up behind you and took a few breathe in, smelling your perfume. It was intoxicating.
I could’ve pressed my body into yours—it happened all the time on the subway, and today was fairly crowded—but I didn’t. I wasn’t a pervert. Instead, I waited a beat after the doors opened and you stepped out onto the platform to follow you. I stayed a few meters behind you, watching as your ass swayed to and fro as you walked. In your heels, you walked as a model might, one foot in front of the other, with authority, the click-clack of your hard-bottomed stilettos echoing against the terrazzo tiles.
Nobody else could hear it—it was cacophonous as people milled about, rushing towards their next train or eager to get out into the fresh air, humid as it might be. But I could. My focus was entirely on you. I had tuned out every other person, every other source of sensory stimulation around me. And so, I noticed the sound, I noticed your gait slow ever so slightly and your body tense as you prepared to push through the door towards the street.
As I followed, a few seconds later, I felt my phone buzz against my thigh. I reached my hand into my pocket and pulled it out, glancing quickly at the screen to see a message from my girlfriend.
“Morning, babe, you slept in?” It read.
I slide my phone back into pocket, ignoring the message, making a mental note to lean into the sleeping in story as for why I hadn’t messaged her before. As my eyes found you in the flow of people on the sidewalk, I quickened my pace, making up the few feet I had lost, just as you came to a near total standstill.
“Fuck,” I thought to myself, “did she notice?” I slowed my gait as the distance between us closed, down to just a few feet. My heart was pounding in my chest. And then I realized that you were waiting for people to pass you before turning left to enter a café. I followed, reaching for the door as it slowly closed behind you.
There was jazz playing and a sweet smell permeated the air. I stood behind you and listened as you ordered a cappuccino and croissant, to go. The cashier asked your name and I held my breath, eager to hear what you’d say. Had you done the smart thing and lied to me about your name when we started talking on Reddit? Or were you naive, in the same way you had revealed what city you actually lived in.
“Jessica,” you said, softly. Your voice was different than what I had imagined. More assertive and blasé than I had assumed. You looked the part of the successful lawyer you had told me you were. It all clashed with the submissive tendencies and fantasies that you had discovered in part thanks to me. I was more surprised that your name really was Jessica, though. You were honest, it seemed. I assumed it was true, then, that nobody in your life knew about your fantasies.
My mind was focused on this thought, undressing you as you were blindfolded, a fantasy that we both particularly enjoyed, when the cashier loudly said “NEXT!”
I smiled, disarmingly, and offered an apology. I could see, out of the corner of my eye that you were glancing towards the cash, curious, surely, about the guy who was holding everybody else up. I wonder if you thought I had been ogling your ass. You were certainly attractive enough to get your fair share of stares throughout the day.
I ordered a macchiato—a drink that we had discussed before and that you had been unfamiliar with—and, when the cashier asked my name, I took a second before lying to him.
“Greg,” I said, using the name that I had given you, rather than my real name. I looked to my left to see if you had heard. If you had reacted. And it seemed you had, as our eyes met for the first time.
It was fucking electric. All those days—and nights—spent talking, getting to know one another and getting each other off. None of it compared to the rush I felt the second our eyes locked. I took two steps towards you, ostensibly to wait for my coffee, but we both knew that I was going to talk to you.
You beat me to the punch, though.
“Have you been fucking following me?” You could’ve screamed. You could’ve freaked out. You would’ve been well within your rights. I was worried when I saw your lips part and the words came out of your mouth, but you practically whispered them. There was even a warmth to them. You didn’t seem offended or shocked or disgusted. It came across as genuine curiosity.
I offered a little smile.
“Only since the subway,” I said, holding a hand up as I saw you preparing to interject. “What are the fucking chances that this morning, of all mornings, I notice a familiar face on the subway?”
“Jessica?” The barista half declares and half asks, pushing a small white paper cup forwards. You turn away from me and grab it. You place a blue lid on it and then turn to face me again, choosing to stand your ground rather than leave for work.
“Yeah, Greg, what are the fucking chances of that?” Now you seemed to have a bit more venom in your voice.
“First,” I offered, “my name isn’t Greg.” I smiled and laughed slightly. “What, you thought I’d risk my relationship—my reputation—and give you everything about my life? I’m kind of surprised that you were so naive, Jess.”
“Greg?” I stepped around you, our bodies brushing ever so slightly, and reached for my coffee, eschewing a lid.
“Shall we sit?” I looked towards a table by the big window and saw you nod. You always wanted to do as I said.
As we walked towards it, I wondered what you were wearing under your skirt and your blouse. I imagined it was the dark green lace lingerie that you—and I—loved so much.
The sun hit us as we sat down, casting long shadows on the top of the table. I took a sip of my coffee, slightly bitter, slightly sweet—a hint of peanut butter and jam.
“Honest to God, I didn’t stalk you or track you down or any of that.” You were listening as you took a sip from your cup. You didn’t offer a response.
“This morning, I was sad,” I said, “I guess I knew it would happen eventually, but I had hoped it would be somewhat on my terms.”
“I was always worried it would be you,” you said, turning to look at me. “I thought one day, you’d feel guilty or she’d get suspicious.” Despite the fact the cafe was full, it felt like there was nobody around us, it was a haven of quiet and calm in an otherwise busy, bustling city. “I wanted to have some power, I guess—show you that you weren’t omnipotent.”
I smiled and took another sip from my coffee, finishing it.
“And here, I thought you liked it when I had all the power,” I spoke calmly and softly, turning towards you slightly so that the air would tickle your ear as it left my lips.
“I did,” you replied.
“No,” I said, “you *do*.”
The sound you let out was unlike anything I had heard before. There was no word or string of words in the English language to describe it. It wasn’t a moan, nor a whine, nor a grunt, nor a sigh. It was guttural and primal. It came from deep within your being.
“Why do you fucking always know what to say,” you said, leaning your head back and crossing your legs.
“Uncross your legs.” I was firm, but not cold. You complied, uncrossing your toned legs. “Good girl,” I said softly, reaching my hand our and touching your thigh. I felt your body tense up for a split second before a wave of calm coursed through you—and through me, too.
“I always wondered what it would be like to hear you say that in person,” you said, pleadingly. “I thought maybe it wouldn’t be the same.”
“And,” I asked, as I gripped your thigh more firmly with my fingers, feeling a bulge growing in my crotch, crossing my own legs, “does it still make you as wet?”
My heart sank when you answered at first. “No.” You took a beat, then two. “It makes me even wetter.”
I smiled. How couldn’t I?
“That’s what I like to hear.”
I sat back in my chair, removing my hand from your thigh and placing it on the table. My phone buzzed again in my pocket, but I ignored it, again. I offered a wry, devilish smile.
“What,” you asked, your voice trailing off. There was a curiosity in the way you said it, but also a burning desire.
“I’m going to ask you to do something for me,” I said, calmly.
You stared directly into my eyes.
“I was hoping you would.”
I leaned forward again, bringing my hands together in front of me on the table. “I’m assuming that you have some lipstick in that bag of yours,” I nodded towards the black leather bag you had slung over the chair. You nodded ever so slightly back to me. It was almost imperceptible, but to me, whose entire focus was trained on you, it was as clear as if you had yelled yes.
“Good,” I continued, “then I want you to take your purse and go to the bathroom. I paused for a second, affording you the chance to say something. But say something, you didn’t. So I kept talking. “You’ll lock the door behind you, pull your skirt down around your ankles, take your panties off, stuff them in your bag and take out your lipstick. Then you’re going to stand up straight, like the good girl you are, look in the mirror and write ‘Ethan’s good girl’ across your pubic bone, half way between your little belly button and that needy, probably swollen, clit of yours.”
I didn’t say anything else—not yet, at least. I waited. You bit your lip.
“Is that your real name?” You asked. I nodded. You followed up with another question. “Are you going to come see what a good little slut I am?”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” We were speaking in hushed whispers now. There was something about it that heightened the thrill of it all. You nodded back at me. I smiled and shook my head. “You’re going to take a picture, and then you’re going to give me your panties. Now, get up.” I raised my eyebrows and motioned towards the little bathroom door.
And, sure enough, you stood up, grabbed your purse, and walked towards the bathroom. I watched as your hips swayed with every step. Having seen you walking earlier, I could tell you were putting a bit of extra effort into it now and it was working—I was tempted to get up and follow you into the bathroom, locking the door behind *us*, pressing you against the cool tile, pulling your skirt up and finally sliding the length of my shaft deep inside your tight, wet slit. But I didn’t. I sat there and waited for what felt like an hour.
In reality, it only took four minutes until you were seated across from me again. Your cheeks were flushed.
“Let me guess,” I said, reaching my hand under the table and resting it on your thigh again, “you’re going to hand me those emerald green lace panties?”
You didn’t answer. Instead I felt your hand brush against mine, then I felt the fabric of your panties in my palm. I squeezed them tightly and pulled my hand back, before stuffing them in my pocket, catching a glimpse of the green lace as I did.
I stared into your eyes and neither of us spoke for what felt like a minute. I could see the desire burning inside you.
“Aren’t you going to be late for work?” I mused, aloud, “It seemed like you were in a rush before.”
You bit your lip and spoke softly. “I’m already late, but I could call in sick…”
I considered this for a second, tilting my head towards the window. “You could,” I said, slowly, “but I think it would be more fun to have you sitting at your desk, squirming, with your legs crossed, and only the two of us knowing that you aren’t wearing any panties—ready for me to take you at any minute.” I smiled playfully and cocked my eyebrow.
“Fuck.” You groaned.
“I thought you’d like that,” I leaned forward, again, “now give me your phone number so I can text you instructions all morning before our lunch date.”
I took my phone from my pocket and slid it across the table towards you. The notification from my girlfriend was visible on the screen, but it didn’t seem to bother you. As you inputted your number, you spoke without looking at me. “I have a lunch meeting…”
“Cancel it.” I said, dryly.
“If you insist.” You looked up and flashed a smile, before pulling your phone from your bag and tapping away at the screen, sending what I assumed was an apologetic email cancelling your lunch meeting.
We had other plans now.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/12zg288/mf_meeting_the_girl_who_deleted_me_on_reddit
!updateme