Page 21 of Way Down Deep

I can’t stop myself if we continue.

So please say now.

Don’t tell me to make you my whore.

I will.

Don’t ask me to degrade you.

It would be my pleasure.

I’m already worshipping your body in my head—each part of it a roulette that nightly lands on a different shape or size or softness. Sometimes you’re hard all over, like a long-distance runner after a thousand-mile race. Sometimes you’re as plump as a pillow and twice as juicy, or fine-boned like a bird or better than all of those things.

And I’m always glad to get any of them.

My teeth ache at the thought of biting.

My lips buzz with the idea of kissing.

I’ve come at least once every day since the first sensual word you said—about your hands, I think it was your hands, oh I think about your hands all the time—and I’ll keep on doing it.

Unless you say: go back, let’s be how we were, I’m weary in my bones and I need you to be more than this. Because I can be. I can forget we ever said a single sexual word and return to those conversations about songs and shows and food. You tell me about your day, and I’ll tell you about mine.

But you have to make that decision.

I’m way too far gone to ever do it.

5.03am

Here’s the deal, stranger. From 7am to 10pm, we talk about our days. TV, the weather, what we’re eating. But between those stretches, anything goes.

Anything.

Don’t hold back. I want to hear. I want to know everything you need from me so I can imagine being that man. I’m so fucking hard right now from reading your words. I ache all over at the thought of pleasing you.

Do you want to picture me better? If you’d prefer to keep me generic and changeable, skip my next text.

Let’s see… I’m almost tall, not quite six feet. Brown eyes, dark brown hair. I wear reading glasses now and then. I’d like to think I’m fit. I can’t jog anymore, but I do what I can. I’ve lost some weight since I moved here, and my skin’s gone pale under all these clouds. I look tired, if I’m honest. At any given moment, I’m probably wearing jeans, and just now I’ve got a sweater on, dark greenish blue. A gray thermal beneath that. Boxer briefs, also gray, sometimes black. Bare feet. Some chest hair, not a ton.

I’ve got more I could tell you. Darker shadows to illuminate, but I’ll let context lead us there in time.

So easily I could send you a picture. Of my face. Of my cock. A video. I could call you, hear your voice and let you hear mine.

But we’re not going to do that, are we? We haven’t yet, and we won’t, I can feel it. I can tell from the way we text. How we take turns, and take our time with these pseudo letters. Something about this is so exactly right as it is. Like we’re two ghosts whispering in the darkness.

So tell me where I am. In your bed, on your floor? Kneeling before you, looming above, lounging across your covers or lashed to your bedposts? Still dressed or stripped bare? Don’t leave anything out. Don’t hold back. Tell me everything.

5.47am

That deal is okay with me.

As long as it’s okay with you.

I don’t want to hurt you. Make things worse for you. Pull apart your comfort zone when you need it most. These messages should be your comfort zone, and if they ever stray away from that I want you to tell me. Even now, after you’ve said that I should go ahead.

Though god, I want to go ahead. I was beside myself at you saying “so fucking hard”, and then you went and described what you look like. All those words that I sort of didn’t want to read, and yet somehow I started and couldn’t stop. I devoured your dark brown hair and your reading glasses and your not a ton of chest hair.

Even the clothes made me push a hand between my legs.

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