At Long Edged Last

Author's note: Though the events depicted in the story are entirely fictitious, they are based on real discussions with a real-life person. The omission of all names is thus entirely intentional for privacy protection reasons, but also to enable some self-insertion for the reader should you wish to do so. I hope that you enjoy the scene!

*~*~*~*

This is it. Just over two years of knowing each other, countless words exchanged, including in some very inappropriate places at very inappropriate times, thousands of miles later, and we are finally going to meet.

It's not possible for me to put into words how many times I thought about this moment or the various scenarios that my mind conjured of how this would go. I actually shake these thoughts off as I make my way to the café. These thoughts aren't helpful. Stay in the moment, don't set yourself up for anything except what's happening right now, remember that you're not obliged to do anything. I remind myself of these things like a mantra that scares away anxiety and nerves.

The odd thing is that I'd never be this nervous on a first date with anyone I met on a dating app. Having learnt to take first dates very much at face value, no expectations except to see if we get along, I was always the one who was very relaxed and confident, watching with slightly amused bafflement how my dates were the exact opposite of that.

But this isn't quite a first date. There's already some intimate and vulnerable history between us, he knows parts of me that not many people have ever gotten to experience. This may be the first time we meet, but it comes with expectations far exceeding those of a first date.

It almost happened that this would be just a first meeting of two people who connected online. However steamy the circumstances of that connection may be. But through various factors, neither of us is currently attached. Whilst I can't speak for him, I certainly need to get some things out of my system. At the very least satisfy a curiosity. Fantasising about the unknown is easy, reliving what you've only ever imagined is infinitely exciting - reality doesn't always hold up in the same way. This meeting will either close a lid on that or open a completely new door that I hadn't expected. That I didn't allow myself to expect.

That is why I've checked and rechecked myself in the mirror probably fifty times before stepping out of the hotel room. For some reason lost to history now, I've always envisioned wearing this pink dress to our first meeting: it's cute, it's feminine, it flatters my body in all the right ways, and floats elegantly with the lift of a petticoat in the breeze. But are the cottagecore stays too much? Yes, they give my tits the most amazing lift, the crescent moons above the dress' neckline getting even me excited, but the doubtful voices in my head say that I just look like a wannabe Instagram influencer. Are the heels too much? They're comfy for me, but this is supposed to be chill, do they read across as too dressy? And gods only know how many times I've faffed with my hair, trying to give it the windswept volume that looks effortless and is anything but. I know that by most people's standards I am overdressed anywhere I go, on any given day of the week - but this one guy's opinion somehow matters and I want him to see the real me, whilst also thinking me attractive.

At least the denim jacket is undeniably casual. Thrown on without fastening, it shields me from the still chilly March breeze, whilst taking some of the edge of the extra frilly, girly personification of spring that's currently marching down the street. I catch a glimpse of myself, brown hair now actually windswept, flowing in sync with the dress, green eyes shining a little bit because the sunshine and the anticipation make me happy, the chill sending a natural blush to my face as if I wasn't pink enough already, and it gives me the confidence boost that I needed. I look good. I look like myself. I feel like that too. If that is too much for him... Well, I guess one other thing I had in mind when getting dressed today was also how easy it'd be to undress me.

The café was only a short walk from my hotel. A deliberate choice to minimise commuting time, whether for a need of an escape or retreat. But also because these big American cities intimidate me so much. I've lived in cities all my life, I've been to even bigger cities, but as a European I find the American need to make everything so goddamn tall excessive. No wonder they're calling this The Windy City, the drafts caught in the tunnels these buildings are creating are amplifying whatever bit of wind may wander past into a gale. The less I deal with that by keeping my commute short, the better.

Once inside, I realise that I'm the first to arrive, so I order a tea and find two cushy armchairs that create their own private booth. Not that privacy is that needed - it's that awkward time in the afternoon where lunchtime people are long gone, the three people who came here to work are all solo and spread out, and the mothers catching up with each other on the way back from school run are now rushing to pick their kids back up.

From where I'm sat by the window I have a view of one side of the street (not very exciting, just the road and slate grey of the buildings mirroring those on my side), as well as the door and the people coming in and out. The few that do at this time. Still, it's peaceful. There's something immensely enjoyable about people watching, trying to guess their life stories whilst warming my chilly fingers around a large cup of tea. I wonder if any of them are trying to guess my story right now. And if any of them came even close to the truth.

It doesn't take long before he arrives. He's a little shorter than I thought (but then I am terrible at visualising people's heights even with an actual measurement) and it's been a while since we've exchanged a photo, but there's no mistaking him for anyone else. The casual 90s inspired jacket and jeans suit him a lot and I immediately notice that he's shaved. As much as I liked the moustache, this cleaner look suits the clothes more. My heart jumps, suddenly all nervous, but I ignore it and stand up smiling wide.

"Hi!" I say, hoping that it wasn't too loud for the other people in the café whilst simultaneously not caring about that one single bit.

"Hi!" His voice, which I'm only hearing for the first time, is warm and friendly, and it instantly makes me feel reassured because he sounds just as excited to see me. "It's so good to finally meet you!"

We close the distance between each other, both spreading our arms wide, then fall into a tight hug. Almost despite myself I notice how soft the fabric of his jumper is. And that he has been working out, like he's been saying he has.

"Lemme get a drink and I'll be right back with you."

I try not to stare too much whilst he's at the counter, but with how many glances I am sneaking in and with my refusing to occupy myself in the usual way of looking down at my phone, I may as well have done. So instead I focus on replaying his words in my head, listening to this voice and, more importantly, the accent. Two years of trying to guess are finally over and if I'm honest, I'm relieved that whilst the American influence is undeniably there, it's still broken up with the echoes from his home country. It's a lot more pleasant and somehow even a bit more familiar to my ears that way.

Soon enough he's back with a steaming mug of coffee, if the aroma is anything to go by.

"I still can't believe you're here," he says, big smile plastered on his face, as he sits down in the chair opposite me.

"Me neither. And I'm not sure which is more surreal, this," I gesture to the street outside, "or this," my hand flicks between the two of us.

"Definitely this!" His hand mirrors the latter gesture and we both laugh knowingly.

And just like that, the atmosphere of nervous anticipation relaxes. This isn't the first time I've met online friends IRL and this isn't the first time I've met with a guy whom I met online. There's an odd sense of familiarity that helps me ease into the conversation - though not as much as the good natured chat that he's driving forward.

Soon enough the remains of both of our drink are starting to dry up at the bottoms of the cups and we are still talking and laughing. Time stopped being something my body perceived, like every other time I've enjoyed myself to the fullest.

"You know," he says, leaning an elbow on the armrest and propping his chin up on his hand, "we should've used voice chat sooner."

"It was hard to coordinate with how busy you constantly are."

"And with the time difference."

"And with how inevitably one of us says something not safe for work or public spaces."

"We haven't now!"

"It's a new record."

We laugh the comment off and then he leans closer to me with a smile. However, it's the glint in his eye that signals the shift in tone, even before he opens his mouth.

"But how much more delicious these inappropriate things must sound with that cute British accent of yours."

It's at times like these that I desperately wish that I possessed the ability of lifting just one eyebrow. I still make an attempt; if I believe that I am the heroine of the story of my life who arches a brow in situations like this, then it has to become the reality, right?

"Oh? Is that so?" My voice lowers just a little, rounding those o's even more. I'm rewarded with that smirk growing on his face.

"It is indeed." He tries to copy my way of speaking and manages a good enough British accent. Except that his voice, also appropriately lowered, does things to my stomach that I haven't experienced in a long while.

"Why don't we go for dessert then? Seeing as we're done with our drinks?"

The cafe's counter is still pretty full with pastries and muffins left over from lunch. He catches my drift and with an approving smile, stands up whilst throwing his jacket on in what has to be just one motion, then gestures gallantly towards the door:

"Lead the way."

He gets to the door first and holds it open for me, a gesture which was already enough to make me swoon just a little. Then, as I walked past, his other hand brushed against the small on my back, sending a rain of shivers upon it and keeping my breath hostage in my chest, as he leaned to whisper in my ear:

"I wonder if you taste as delicious as you sound..."

Our eyes met and the air shifted under the force of the pressure vibrating in the tight space between us. Even the cold wind snapping against my face as we finally left did nothing to cool down the fire that was growing after those first sparks were thrown into the pit. Over the sounds of my heels clicking on the pavement, the only sound filling in the silence laden with determination, I told him:

"You know... I've been edging myself for a week now..."

I made sure that he was looking at me as I said this. Anyone could've heard, seeing as we were out on the street, but we didn't walk past anyone and I was feeling bold, flying on the wings of being incredibly horny, so I didn't care. All that mattered was that he realised what he's been doing to me, the thought of him on my mind every evening when I had indeed been edging. He hadn't asked me to do that, but we'd talked about that early on when our acquaintance first grew steamy. It burned an imprint in my mind strong enough that just the promise of seeing him was enough for me to fulfil my end of this unspoken bargain that I hoped he also remembered. Because he had his own end to uphold.

His only response to that admission was a half-smirk growing on his lips. He didn't slow down, he didn't touch me as we walked side by side, he didn't say anything. Only that one corner of his mouth lifting was my sign that he remembered our conversations from two years before.

It wasn't until we entered the hotel lobby that I felt his hand on my elbow, gentle, yet somehow possessive, a loud declaration that I was with him, not the other way around. No-one at reception as much as acknowledged us, which I was partly relieved about since I was a visible enough presence in my loud clothes that I didn't want any of the staff to suddenly be privy to my sexual escapades.

Whether by luck or because it was a time in the afternoon when people didn't go in and out of hotels much, the lift was also blissfully empty. The moment the doors shut in front of us, his hand wandered back to the small of my back, its warmth radiating across the rest of my body. The distance that was still between us felt cold.

"A whole week of edging, huh?" He finally acknowledged the comment, the warm voice weakening my knees. "I'm so lucky to have such a dedicated princess..."

Princess. The nickname he gave me pretty early on, one that elicited images of pretend innocence and the power dynamic that we ended up embodying in our play the most. Hearing it in that caramel voice of his, in his accent, tied knots in my lower belly that I couldn't wait to unravel, tempted all the more by the promises of pleasure this would bring.

"You should feel lucky," I replied, trying to sound cool. Never in my life have I accomplished that, but there was no harm in trying. At worst my bratty mouth might get me some pleasurable punishment, which I was more than up for. The lift rang to announce our floor right as I said: "Between that and not having had sex for over a year, I am ready to go feral."

Thankfully there was no-one on the corridor, else I would've very quickly regretted my bold choice of words and the lack of an indoor voice

I was in the middle of fishing my key card out of my jacket, when a hand on my elbow stopped me and turned me around. Gone were the smirk and the cheeky glint in his eye, replaced by something sincere and caring.

"You still want to go ahead with it? The way that we talked about?"

Prior to my flying out to America we discussed what we wanted out of this meeting. No detail was left out: our desires, our limitations, safe words, what we could expect from each other and our bodies, what to look out for. Every detail discussed and agreed upon, all left with the option of backing out at any time. It was the most talking I did pre-sex about sex with anyone and contrary to what mainstream culture might have you believe, it was exciting as hell.

Knowing that this was on his mind, that he wanted to check in with me at the very last minute if we still wanted to go through with this, swelled something up in my throat that I swallowed down.

"I would abso-fucking-lutely love to!"

A smile and a click of the key card reader later we were in my hotel room. The first thing that I did, before anything else, was hang the "Do not disturb" sign on the door. Just in case any housekeeping staff were around this late; besides, I've always wanted to do that. Then I kicked my heels off in the most chaotic way that I've ever done before falling into his arms for the closeness I'd been deprived of up until now. I was not about to be restricted in any way now.

"Aww, I liked those," he said, his hands snaking around my waist.

Without this extra bit of height I now had to stand up on my toes. And every part of me loved that I had to do that because it meant that I had all possible excuse to put my hands on his shoulders for additional support.

"There's plenty left for you to take off at your leisure." Without giving him any time to reply, I stretched even further up on my tiptoes, then right as our lips were about to touch I whispered: "May I kiss you?"

His chuckle warmed the skin around my mouth.

"If you don't, then I will."

The first kiss was slow, exploratory, as we tested how our lips felt when pressed against one another and how our tongues tasted grazing over each other. But the rush of excitement into my chest and head was like a burst of fizz when you open up a bottle of pop, and the kisses after that were hungrier, greedier. One of his arms embraced me closer, I could feel its strength as it supported my back, while his other hand wandered up, first to my jaw, then cheek, finally burying itself into my hair. I broke the kiss only enough to half-gasp, half-moan, but when I tried to go back, that hand in my hair held me back millimetres awat from his lips that already curved in that cheeky smirk that was crashing waves down below.

"Oh, you like that, do you?"

"Love it," my words came out more like an exhale than speech. "Please, do this more."

"With pleasure."

Leaning in for another kiss, he let his other hand join its sister in tangling itself up in my hair. The avalanche of sensations, from the electrified tingling caused by his fingers entwining themselves in my hair to the elated pleasure of his tongue dancing with mine and the kiss near literally stealing my breath, I felt like the only thing holding me upright were those hands.

Not for long, however. Bored from standing in the middle of the tiny entryway, he guided us further into the room, not breaking the kiss once. I'm not sure if he was just blindly guessing or actually remembered the room layout from that one initial glimpse. Suffice to say that when he pinned me against the empty expanse of the wall, we did not hit a single obstacle, big or small. Pressed between the cold, hard plaster and the hot, hard body, my lungs were fighting for every scrap of breath that this situation was depriving me of. We hadn't talked about any specific scenarios that we enjoyed, yet it seemed as if he was reading my mind, knowing exactly what to do to make me weak at the knees and then beg for more. Helpless in this position, the sensation of being physically overpowered rushed down my sternum all the way to my core, melting it and creating a mess of a puddle in my knickers. Even breathing, whatever bit of it I managed to do, heightened the pleasure soaring through thousands of nerve endings across my body. The rise and fall of my chest squished by his frame sent tingles all over my skin, the same ones that I knew so well as the screams of my body to be touched and caressed.

Rather than do it myself or place his hands on me to demand that physical attention, I opted for making myself as much of a nuisance as I could. With my own hands unoccupied, they could roam freely over his shoulders and arms, down his chest and back. Sure, all that I was feeling under my palms was the soft jersey of his jumper, with only some outline of the body underneath it, but it wasn't about satisfying my desire to touch him, at least not yet - it was about making him so hot and bothered that he'd take it off himself.

Some of my writhing must have worked because with a groan he pulled away to mutter right into my lips:

"Such an impatient princess..."

However, to my utter disappointment, he didn't take any of his clothing off.

But to my joy, and quickening my heartbeat even more, his hands slid out of my hair and grabbed my wrists before pinning them to the wall. The pressure of his weight on me wasn't much, just enough to remind me that he wasn't really trying and that I'd do better by obeying; that sufficed to make me forget my breathing and whimper just a little bit.

"I want to enjoy you first," he murmured, which sounded like a promise to my ears. Good thing that his hands kept me pinned to the wall or else I'd slide down it, my knees giving up entirely.

Lost in another kiss, I focused only on his lips. And a little bit on trying to arch my back as far as possible to create even the tiniest bit of friction on my chest, currently the part most desperate for his touch and attention. My breasts were such needy brats when I got horny, I couldn't help it and didn't want to help it.

Needless to say, my arching achieved very little. But then his kisses moved from my lips over my cheek, towards my ear, and from the moment hot skin seared the hollow underneath my earlobe and began a slow journey down my neck, I could only communicate my needs in moans. He kept the caresses gentle, which to my touch starved skin was enough to get me writhing and stretching in a wordless plea for more.