They had spoken at length of their needs; online at first, that safe bubble of anonymity permitting; no, insisting upon candour, feeding that focus. Firing their imaginations to dream up fantasies, to deliver dark shards of need unbidden, disturbing in their intensity. That typed paragraph flashing up like a thought bubble causing a fillip of joy that both knew reality could not match...had not yet matched.
Phone calls followed, the next logical step; ironic that logic should be a factor in the most illogical of worlds that is cyber power exchange. Their voices pleasing one another, a soothing balm each to the other; so reassuring that on screen erudition was replicated vocally. Cyranoic misgivings appeased and real emotions borne witness to; experienced. The searing highs and raw hopes conveyed in syllables heavy with lust and depravity; creamy undertones of empathy painted in thick eroticism.
They decided to meet, both knowing that their perfect bubble may rupture, that they could fall, tumbling from the pinnacle of perception into a mire of disappointment and despair at reality found wanting; into a deeper trough than ever before. Disabused forever of belief in utopia; that perfect amalgam of desire, respect, need and intellectual parity that paves a solid foundation for deep love sliding further away. Wavering on the cusp of paradise promised, the delicious prospect a reality only as long as the spell holds. Yet both knowing that they can't not do this.
She waits in the coffee shop that he has chosen, near to the railroad station, a strange town to them both. Neither willing just yet to break the reverie and allow the mundanity of the familiar to tarnish the shining phantasm of their optimism. She is dressed just so, that he may recognise her, sitting alone with her back to the entrance as they had agreed. Her gaze resolutely forward and yet all other senses attuned to feel the cues of his arrival she grips a glass of iced water, grounding herself in it's cool solidity.
A rush of air then a sense of enclosure, strong hands rest lightly on her shoulders, the vibrating heat of his engorgement pressed firmly against her spine. Her heart races and her mouth dries, such an introduction; their first touch a reinforcement of the dark thread of need that runs through all they are to each other. Ten fingers tightening momentarily against yielding flesh and cold glass, he releases her, moving swiftly to sit opposite. Her eyes downcast, unable to voluntarily break the spell, unwilling to risk defeat.
She knows he approves of her appearance, their arrangement being that if he was disappointed in her physical presence he would leave without making himself known to her and thereafter not contact her. Her act of fateful cowardice seen by him as a gift. Yet she clings tight to the fantasy him and gazes at her glass, following intently a single bead of moisture sliding down the exterior. His hands on the table, fingers splayed; those slim strong fingers she has imagined, pictured in her mind's eye a thousand times as the consummate tools of her pleasure, her undoing, her becoming.
He orders tea, his voice so familiar to her and yet sounding fresh to her ears outwith the filter of telephony. A rounded resonance, previously undetected, warming her. His tea arrives, the waitress silently retreats and she watches as he engages in the ritual of making it to his taste. Her eyes risk roaming a little higher now taking in his strong forearms, tan and sparsely thatched with dark hairs as he deftly pours his drink.
"Look at me little one" a command not a request "the time for trepidation is past, give me this last piece."
