After Paris

I closed the chat and just sat there in the dark, phone still warm in my hand.

It had all been words. Just words. But somehow it felt like I had actually touched her.

I wanted her to see how far my imagination could go when it came to her. How easily I could build an entire night around the idea of her body, her voice, her little nervous habits. I hoped it impressed her. I hoped it made her feel wanted in a way that went deeper than the usual filth people send.

And she answered.

Not with text. Never with text. But with hearts.

She hearted the part where I ate her until her thighs shook.

She hearted the moment I bent her over and fucked her so deep her glasses finally slipped off her face.

She hearted the hair pulling.

Every single one of those hearts felt like she was handing me something private. Like she was saying, yes, that. I want that too.

For the first time it didn’t feel like I was just performing for a silent audience. It felt like she was in it with me. Sharing. Choosing. And that small exchange made me hungry for more than her body. I wanted her voice. I wanted her opinions. I wanted her to tell me the most ordinary things did she ever make carrot cake, what song she plays when she can’t sleep, whether she talks to herself when she’s alone. I would have listened to all of it like it was the most important information in the world.

She is such a spark.