I’m serving you. Can you see that?
I touch your cunt and you’re soaked. So swollen and sensitive. My fingers make you whimper. You know I can make you come in an instant, proving to me how much you want this. But you can’t admit you want it, your mouth won’t say the words.
That’s the problem. Your mouth. It’s filtering out the truth. It needs to loosen up, relax. That’s why I have to keep on fucking it.
I stopped reading, my heart going wild, the wetness between my thighs flowing as fast as the first time I’d read that, the second, the third.
Had he discovered where I lived when he’d written those words? Had he watched from a distance, knowing how his message had thrilled me? Because I’d told him it had. I’d even thanked him, telling him his dirty words had fuelled several solo sessions. Admitting to that hadn’t felt dangerous. None of it had felt dangerous but I could see how my behaviour might appear reckless to an outsider.
In Kagami’s fantasy, I was ashamed, shy, unable to claim what I wanted, meaning his role was to force me. In my fantasies the dynamic was much the same, whereas in reality I was perfectly able to claim my desire. I was glad Kagami – Den – understood the paradox. Once, a guy I was chatting to online had said I sounded more dom than sub, as if kinking for submission equated to being passive. That relationship didn’t go far.
When I’d started online dating, doubt and inhibition made me cautious. But I soon realised the people out there were as ordinary as I was. This wasn’t, as the myth would have it, a world of conmen, psychos, stalkers and adulterers. Nor were these people lonely, sad or desperate. Like me, they were simply looking for love, or maybe a couple of beers and a jump, and they were using modern communications to do so. It beat the olden days where your dating pool was the local village or your workplace.
So if someone had my surname, that was no great shakes.
The last time I’d Googled myself, curious as to what was out there, I’d found my employer’s website with my contact details, my twitter account, a letter I’d once written to The Independent , a page where I’d sponsored a friend running inthe London Marathon, some dubious genealogy links and far too many photos on Facebook of me and various friends engaged in drunken exploits. Mark Zuckerberg claims privacy’s no longer the norm, but he would say that, wouldn’t he? Nowadays, I’m always adjusting my Facebook settings to keep nosey parkers out. But if I worried about these issues too much, I’d never do anything online. Nor would I walk down the street for fear some deranged thug were lying in wait to show me that a miniscule percentage of humanity can make us question what it means to be human.
But privacy and safety aren’t the same issue. While I might not be comfortable with my virtual self scattering inerasable traces across the ether, I’d never felt the exposure left me vulnerable to anyone but spammers. I wasn’t a child. And when millions of people were equally exposed, who cared about my few, boring details?
Well, Kagami did, obviously. I had nothing concrete on him. He called himself Den but I’d no proof that was his real name. His email address was [email protected]. He’d told me he lived north of London, that he worked in the Arts, had an interest in physical theatre and dance, liked to keep fit, age thirty-six, height 6'2", athletic build. I didn’t know if any of that was true but with online dating, these details matter less than the sense you get of someone in their messages. And I liked his messages. He seemed intelligent, kinky, respectful, interesting, and had that all-important GSOH.
I didn’t have a picture of his face, though. He’d dodged that one, sending instead a beautifully lit, arty, black and white shot where his torso was bared but his face was masked. And damn he had a great body, his head shaved as if hair might detract from the
I touch your cunt and you’re soaked. So swollen and sensitive. My fingers make you whimper. You know I can make you come in an instant, proving to me how much you want this. But you can’t admit you want it, your mouth won’t say the words.
That’s the problem. Your mouth. It’s filtering out the truth. It needs to loosen up, relax. That’s why I have to keep on fucking it.
I stopped reading, my heart going wild, the wetness between my thighs flowing as fast as the first time I’d read that, the second, the third.
Had he discovered where I lived when he’d written those words? Had he watched from a distance, knowing how his message had thrilled me? Because I’d told him it had. I’d even thanked him, telling him his dirty words had fuelled several solo sessions. Admitting to that hadn’t felt dangerous. None of it had felt dangerous but I could see how my behaviour might appear reckless to an outsider.
In Kagami’s fantasy, I was ashamed, shy, unable to claim what I wanted, meaning his role was to force me. In my fantasies the dynamic was much the same, whereas in reality I was perfectly able to claim my desire. I was glad Kagami – Den – understood the paradox. Once, a guy I was chatting to online had said I sounded more dom than sub, as if kinking for submission equated to being passive. That relationship didn’t go far.
When I’d started online dating, doubt and inhibition made me cautious. But I soon realised the people out there were as ordinary as I was. This wasn’t, as the myth would have it, a world of conmen, psychos, stalkers and adulterers. Nor were these people lonely, sad or desperate. Like me, they were simply looking for love, or maybe a couple of beers and a jump, and they were using modern communications to do so. It beat the olden days where your dating pool was the local village or your workplace.
So if someone had my surname, that was no great shakes.
The last time I’d Googled myself, curious as to what was out there, I’d found my employer’s website with my contact details, my twitter account, a letter I’d once written to The Independent , a page where I’d sponsored a friend running inthe London Marathon, some dubious genealogy links and far too many photos on Facebook of me and various friends engaged in drunken exploits. Mark Zuckerberg claims privacy’s no longer the norm, but he would say that, wouldn’t he? Nowadays, I’m always adjusting my Facebook settings to keep nosey parkers out. But if I worried about these issues too much, I’d never do anything online. Nor would I walk down the street for fear some deranged thug were lying in wait to show me that a miniscule percentage of humanity can make us question what it means to be human.
But privacy and safety aren’t the same issue. While I might not be comfortable with my virtual self scattering inerasable traces across the ether, I’d never felt the exposure left me vulnerable to anyone but spammers. I wasn’t a child. And when millions of people were equally exposed, who cared about my few, boring details?
Well, Kagami did, obviously. I had nothing concrete on him. He called himself Den but I’d no proof that was his real name. His email address was [email protected]. He’d told me he lived north of London, that he worked in the Arts, had an interest in physical theatre and dance, liked to keep fit, age thirty-six, height 6'2", athletic build. I didn’t know if any of that was true but with online dating, these details matter less than the sense you get of someone in their messages. And I liked his messages. He seemed intelligent, kinky, respectful, interesting, and had that all-important GSOH.
I didn’t have a picture of his face, though. He’d dodged that one, sending instead a beautifully lit, arty, black and white shot where his torso was bared but his face was masked. And damn he had a great body, his head shaved as if hair might detract from the
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