It had been out of necessity at first, contacting her through Sugar Girl. She slipped away while I was sleeping, only leaving a short note, telling me to make sure to be out by eleven and “thanks for a fantastic night.” The only clue I had was that web browser window I’d seen open on her laptop. Sugar Girl. After days of thinking of her, replaying every touch, every sound she’d made when I was with her, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I started logging on to that website, looking through pages of women, searching for her face. I had no idea if I’d ever find her, but I was obsessively drawn back to that website. And one day, sitting in my office in London, waiting for my next meeting, I logged on, and she popped up at the top of the screen, the latest cam-girl on Sugar Girl’s roster. I hit message without even thinking.
And now here she is, shivering in front me, in the flesh. All those months of watching her, yearning to reach through the screen and touch her, have brought me to this moment. I want to take her now, press my lips to her and taste her again. My body is screaming to feel her weight against me, to hold her, but she’s just standing here. Starting back at me. Processing my duplicity, her feelings, the months of our interactions. But behind her puzzled expression, I know there’s desire. Because I felt it on the dance floor. I felt the way her body reacted to me at the slightest touch, as her chest heaved just a bit more, and her cheeks, even under the flashing club’s lights, were flushed.
I’ll wait for her to speak first. I owe her that much. I’ve been in control for months now, orchestrating this relationship from the anonymity of my keyboard. I like being in charge, I admit it. And I especially like being in charge when I tell her exactly how to touch herself, how to make herself come for me. But in order to make this work, for her to come to, submit to me again, I have to give her space. She needs to choose me now, to assimilate WildCaptain with Chris, and accept me. I give her time, standing there in the freezing winter air, but my eyes stay frozen on hers, unyielding and confident. Because although I want her to choose me, I know she already has.
And then she runs.
I watch her head for the emergency door at the edge of the balcony. She swings it open and disappears on the other side. It takes me a beat, but I eventually follow, walking calmly after her, never falling more than a flight of stairs behind her. It takes a few minutes for her to walk down seven flights of stairs in those heels, and I exit the alley door just a few seconds after she does. I see her, illuminated by the red exit sign, leaning against the brick alley wall, her eyes shut, her hand clutching my coat tight at her neck.
I stand a few feet from her, myself leaning against the wall, staring ahead this time, lessening the intensity, hiding my urgency.
“You must understand,” she begins, and I turn my attention back to her, eager to get over this first conversation so we can move onto to more intimate things. But she stops. Her eyes still squeezed shut. She lets go of the coat and runs her fingers through her hair, massages her temples trying to alleviate the tension that has settled over her face. “This is just…” she starts again. “This is fucking creepy, Chris.” She balls up her fists and shoves them in the pockets. But she isn’t running. She doesn’t make a move. So I decide to make my move.
I inch closer to her, so my shoulder is next to hers, and I reach out my hand to touch the swath of skin the open collar has revealed. Her skin feels like it’s on fire contrasted with the cold air. Her closed eyes flutter a bit, as I drag my finger down her neck, from underneath her chin all the way to the inviting crevice between her breasts. I see her weight shift, infinitesimally, and I take this as a positive sign. I tuck her hair behind her ear so I can see her face better, and I bring my face close to hers, just a hairsbreadth between us. I can smell her perfume, I can hear her breathe, and the moment feels sacred as I watch her.
I run my fingers across her forehead, trying to smooth the worried crevices above her brow. Maybe I see a ghost of a smile on her lips? My fingers caress down the side of her face, and they remember the feel of her skin, the sharp angle of her jawline. Her ear pokes out from her long hair and my mouth longs to nip it, to hear her react to my mouth on her. She stands still as a statue, only her rising and falling chest betrays that she’s a living woman. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m sorry. I just needed to see you again,” I say, running my hand down her tummy, feeling her lacy dress under my fingertips. I revel in the feeling of her, her body finally close to mine, so I can have her the way I’ve wanted to for months. My hands run back up and rub the lace over her breasts, slow circles around the perfect globes, and occasional brushes over her nipples. “I promise you, you have nothing to be afraid of. I’d never hurt you. Please believe me.” I can tell I’m warming her up, I know it. Her nipples are starting to pop through her dress, and the flush on her cheeks has traveled down her neck to her chest. She breaths quicker, and the way her lips part conjures the image of my dick inching in between them. How amazing her mouth would feel on me. How I’d hold her hair while I fucked her perfect face. And the thought of that rips away any remining self-control.