I see you sitting on the park bench, exactly as I’d told you.
You look good, all buttoned-down with a nice tie and shined shoes. But I know what you hide. I know what’s inside.
I smile. Let’s get started.
My friends all think it’s odd that we met on a dating site. That I would go through the hassle of long-distance dating instead of finding someone closer to my small hometown.
They don’t get it.
I remember messaging you. You’d been surprised. Even on a fetish dating site, even with Dommes, women rarely message men first. But I did. After one look at your photo, your profile, I knew you had to be mine.
For the first few exchanges, I’d kept things casual. Flirty. Asking about your job. Your family. Your interests. I’d memorized every office anecdote, every family memory, every trivia about your every passion, storing it away in my head like treasure.
Like when, after months of messages complaining about your boss and your scheming coworker, I’d had you conduct a meeting in front of them while wearing one of my thongs. You couldn’t believe that the ego-shattering humiliation of wearing my used panties somehow gave you the confidence to look your boss in the eye and tell him your ideas. As if knowing you could survive doing one proved you could do the other. The pinch of elastic and slide of pink satin providing you proof of your own capability and boosting your confidence.
I’d been so proud of you.
But not nearly as proud as when you’d gone camping instead of visiting your family last Christmas, choosing to send me pictures of you standing naked at the top of a cliff instead of having a strained dinner with people who willfully will never understand you. It was as if me making you do whatever I want gave you permission to do what you actually want. As if, through service kink, you discovered self-care.
After sharing messages and phone calls and pictures and videos for nearly a year now, despite living halfway across the country, I’ve never felt closer to anyone, more intimate with someone. I know you better than anyone else in this world and you me, but I’ve never even looked into your eyes, never touched your skin, never tasted your kiss.
And, as I stand in the shadows and watch you sit on that bench, I wonder if the distance made the difference. Nervous about what will happen to our dynamic outside the digital realm, I pick up my phone and log into the dating site’s app.
We could have switched to any other social media messaging system. We could have emailed or texted. And we did, from time to time, when it was more convenient. But we met on this app, got to know and fell for each other on it. It’s as much a part of our relationship as we are.
I click on our chat logs and type.
“You look good.”
I see you jump at your phone’s notification sound. You fumble with your mobile device, read, then look around before responding.
“Thank you. Where are you?”
I smile. “Around.”
There’s a pause. “I thought we were going to meet face-to-face.” That’s the whole point of this trip.
I know. “We will.” But first. “Tell me what you want to do.”
I want to cackle, feeling the game begin. “When we finally meet, what would you like to do?”
There's a longer lull. I can practically see the endless possibilities race through your head, overwhelming you.
I take pity on you, knowing you work better with options. “Well, I hear there's a great museum in town. Or we could see a movie. Or grab dinner.” I swallow and send one more option. “Or head to the hotel room.”
Your response is so short, quick, I want to laugh.
I couldn't agree more. “What will we do once there?”
I watch you type. Then delete. Then type. You stare for an indecisive moment, before sending. “I want to touch you.”
“Your breasts, your shoulders, your waist, your hips, your ass, your thighs, your pussy.”
Good answer. “Would I touch you?”
My hand instinctively fingers the hotel keycard in my pocket. Soon. “Show me your panties.”
You squirm, while you read that. You begin to move.
“Where are you going?”
You freeze. “To find a restroom, so I can show you?”
You write it as a question. As if you’re asking for clarification. Or permission. That shouldn’t make me happy, but it does. So much so that I almost give it to you.
But we both know it’s better if I don’t. So. “Nope. Do it. Right here...”
Read Part Two Here