Your heart skips a beat as you feel your phone doing that little buzz thing. You reach for it, look at the screen and see that it's indeed a notification indicating that you have a message waiting to be read. This is not the moment to read it, as you are not alone right now.
You look up from your phone, and your eyes meet the eyes of your friend. You hope she doesn't notice your blush, while you slide away your phone again. Two weeks ago you arranged to meet with her, and now you're sitting here, in this rather classy restaurant.
Even though she's your best friend you haven't told her about this weird online fling. About the man who is writing to you, messages you, who tells you he adores you, who tells you what he wants you to do. It started as a silly game, and maybe it still is silly or a game or both. Nevertheless it feels real, it makes you feel alive.
It's like you own this man. As if he's your private plaything, living inside your telephone. You sure want to keep him for yourself, and no one should know about him. Not even your friend, let alone your husband. Or does this man inside your pocket, inside your phone, as anonymous as you are to him, owns you? And then again, does it really matter?
The conversation with your friend continues, but in the back of your mind you wonder what the message on your phone entails. You realize that there is someone, this man, somewhere, thinking of you, right now, and not in the most mannerly way. It arouses you, but of course now is not the time to be aroused.
You excuse yourself and leave for the bathroom of the restaurant. There, alone, you reach for your phone again. But you don't want to skim through the message. Instead, you want to take the time, savor every word of it. He sure knows how to write.
And besides, this man, your private plaything, told you that you may only read his next message when completely naked. Silly? Sure. But you've learnt that when you play along with him, the reward is there. You can either laugh it off, or give way to your arousal and do as he says.
It's a choice. It's always a choice. A free fantasy world next to your day to day worries. If you want to live to see this secret world you have to play along. And oh, how you need this escape. You put the phone away, and start to unbutton your dress. Moments later, with all your clothes in one hand, you grab the phone again, and start reading his message.
"Charlotte, dear," he writes, and it is as if you hear his voice in your ears. A sound you made up, obviously, because he never spoke to you in person. But it sounds just like him, you are sure of that. No one calls you Charlotte anymore, yet this man does. And when he does so, it sends a shiver down your spine.
It is cool in the bathroom as the outside air comes in through a small window. But the summer evening breeze is not the main cause of your goosebumps. Your nipples harden and the initially hesitant tingles between your legs have now become persistent. They used to call you Charlotte when you were a little girl, but look at you now.
The discrepancy between this name, that is tied to the times of innocence, and your aching body, that now seems to have a life of its own, makes you dizzy. How can this man have such a ridiculous effect on you?
His calling you Charlotte makes you feel like the small girl you once were. When life was only play. You often relish these memories, but not without a certain sadness because those times are gone. Apparently, this man is able to dissolve that sadness through a wonderful trick. He propels you into the past.
With the authority of a grown-up he tells you what to do and what not. But that's not all. Somehow he makes you feel blissfully safe. There are no worries anymore, because this man, this grown-up is there to take care of you. You can trust him. In any case, that is what you choose to do. And it's precisely that feeling of letting go that makes you childishly happy and, confusingly, wet.
"The sheer thought of you reading these very words au naturel pleases me more than I can say. Forgive me for letting my mind's eye wander over your luscious body." You close your eyes, smiling. He is good. With your clothes in one hand and phone in the other, you endure his imaginary gaze.
It is not uncommon that people, mostly men, stare at you. Apparently, there is something, although you're not sure what exactly, that draws their attention to your appearance rather than your inner being. It wears you out to be disrobed by a stranger's eyes. But this man is different. You actually want him to look. He already touched your soul.
You peek at your phone again. Is there more?
"I want you to put your panties in your mouth for me. This assignment is very simple. Just stand for one minute, your legs slightly apart, your hands high in the air, your mouth gagged. That's all."
Without much thinking, you do as he writes. And there you stand, motionless, in this lascivious pose, slowly counting to sixty as the summer evening breeze caresses your bare skin. You hear some shuffling on the other side of the door. Is someone waiting there? Heavy breathing on your part, and a fine trickle of drool leaking from the corner of your mouth. Wetness. There too.
... thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four...
Your arms start to feel numb. It makes you even more aware of the sensations in the lower parts of your body. It's hard to stand still.
You always considered yourself to be a liberated woman, and you frankly despise the traditional role model that puts the man first. Except for this man. It's impossible to justify if not for this: submitting yourself to him, only him, makes your head spin. And your pussy throb.
One minute, an eternity.
... fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty.
"Now slip into your clothes again, Charlotte, but please forget about your undies. No bra or panties anymore today." You cannot help a nervous giggle. The word flimsy is not completely inappropriate for the material of your dress. His wish might turn out to be quite a spectacle considering the circumstances.
Of course, you could simply ignore this last request but that would break the spell of the divine and intoxicating mindfuck that is captivating you for almost six weeks now. You don't want this to end. Ever.
All of a sudden there is a knock on the door. "Charlie, are you all right?"
You nearly spit out your panties.
You must have been standing there quite some time, as your friend sounds worried. "Yes, yes, just a sec," you manage to utter with a shrill voice. With your heart racing you lay down your phone and after an incredulous look at your bra and panties you throw them out of the small window after which you step into your dress. While buttoning it up you flush the toilet.
You smile at your friend as you open the door. "All fine," you say while you leave the bathroom. "Good," she smiles back and goes in.
During your walk back to the table you only know too well what it is that now draws the attention of everyone, both man and woman, to your appearance. The fabric of your dress strokes your already swollen and sensitive nipples with every step. Your flushed face probably doesn't help either to move inconspicuously.
Then you make the worst mistake possible. You look down to see if the sight of your cursed pokies is really that bad. It is. And if any of the spectators wasn't aware of it yet, he or she is now, simply by following your gaze.
You nearly run to your table and when you finally seat yourself, you take a few deep breaths. Calm down now, Charlie. Let's continue with what should have been a relaxed evening with a dear friend. You take a sip from your glass, and try to lower your heart rate through some more breathing exercises that you remember from your guided morning meditation sessions.
In through the nose out through the mouth.
Fuck! FUCK! Your phone. A sinking feeling comes with the realization that you left your phone in the bathroom. Your heart starts racing again. Panic.
Someone puts a hand on your shoulder. It's your friend. She lays your phone on the table, face down, and takes the seat opposite to you. "You forgot your phone, silly," she whispers. Thank God. But when you pick up the phone you see it's not been locked. You must have left it that way in the bathroom, the messages still on full display.
You hardly dare to look at your friend, who tries to make a reassuring gesture.
"Did you...," you start. There's an awkward silence.
"I could not help seeing the screen," she says sheepishly.
