Content warning: It is a nonconsent story and there are some things that might be considered harder fetishes. I didn't want anyone upset and want it to be enjoyed, so I thought I'd put a forewarning. Have fun!
Ever since I was little, I wanted to be a physicist and I wanted to own a gaming store. I chased both of those and somehow the end result was even better than expected. My life was a dream and I got to meet the most interesting people, got to play the most interesting games. But sometimes I wanted things a little more interesting.
I didn't know his name. He was an online foray of mine that I indulged in during the darkest hours of the night. After hosting a Dungeons and Dragons session or a Magic the Gathering tournament, I would get home to my laptop and see the tab open for his messenger on a kink website I explored. He used the user name Flatline9 and he lived 30 minutes away from me. We hadn't traded addresses, nothing like that, although one time I let slip my name when telling him a story. Not that my name gave much about me away. It was Tuesday. Tuesday Holter, but he didn't even have the last name.
And that was another thing. He flirted with everything, even mundane work stories. Those were his favorites, even, and he would have me blushing within moments while he turned something innocuous and boring into something filthy or profane.
The night when things started to change, when we went from flirtatious messaging to the next level of playtime, started no different than any other. I walked into my cozy apartment after a boring day. No MTG tournaments or campaigns since it was midweek. I had merely been sorting merchandise and selling, but when I walked in, turned my laptop on, and saw the message notification on the website that was so frequently logged on my history, my heart sped in excitement. I didn't even walk to my bedroom to strip out of my work clothes. I did it right in my small apartment's equivalent of a living room, the first room when you walked in. I stood naked as I leaned over my desk, tossing my bra to the side and typing.
Hi. Are you still there?
I waited, eager and hoping. I looked forward to these naughty little conversations way more than was probably healthy. It occurred to me that this might be becoming a flirting addiction of mine, but I didn't care enough to stop doing it. I went to my room and put my pajama pants on while waiting, grinning and scurrying when the chime sounded from the laptop. It came before I could even get to my shirt, so I just left it off.
Yes. It's been a few days.
I bit my thumbnail before I answered, wondering what dirty place he would go to this time, wondering how he would get there. Every time was interesting and creative. He played such wicked games, filthy in their strangest way, and I had displeased a customer today, something that never felt okay to my pleaser's personality, so I wanted something to make me blush and forget with someone else's pleasure.
It has, hasn't it? They've been a boring few days, too.
Oh, no. No fun games to keep you entertained at work? Whatever could you have done to pass the time when you had it, Two?
He loved using the number Two for my name, though my handle was Masokissed. Because he liked using any moment he could to remind me of my slip, that he had my name and I didn't have his.
Nothing much. I mostly read and made sure the store was in order.
I giggled and bit my fingertip, taking my laptop to my favorite recliner and curling into it, waiting with a sense of excitement for his answer to that. And I wasn't disappointed.
I bet you're lying or at least being coy with me. I bet the books you read are filthy BDSM fantasies and you like to go to your back room and find a way to rub something against your clit to get off when you're bored.
My skin turned hot in arousal. Maybe the attraction was all in my head since I was relegated to pure fantasy and imagination where he was concerned, but I wasn't sure, hadn't thought about it in depth to be honest. This was a fun little pastime for me and it didn't need to be ruined with overthinking and bullshit.
Maybe. But if I did that, say, yesterday in the dead hours of the afternoon it wasn't from reading.
I got up to light a candle by the chair and then fetched my bottle of cheap wine from the fridge, drinking from the bottle and going back to curl in my chair for his answer. It could barely even be called wine since it tasted more like grape juice. Which is why I bought it when I could afford whatever struck my fancy. Grape juice tasted nice and this one got me drunk.
Filthy fucking girl. What was it then? What made you such a greedy wanton that you had to go to a back room like a little whore to get off?
I fucking loved his dirty talk. He was degrading in all the best ways and he'd jumped all over it when I confessed to my filthy moments, when I got aroused and went to the storage room, rubbing my pussy either through my jeans or going to my employee bathroom to do it out and out. Most of the time I would feel myself get worked up and start to fantasize until I reached the point where I could give my clit a few harsh strokes over my clothes and go off, so needy that it was that easy. It took hours of fantasizing to reach that point though and it was more like climbing a razors edge of arousal that it was a gentle finish. One night after a few glasses of boxed wine, I confessed that to him and he'd been more than a little delighted by the fact, loved to bring it up.
But I knew things about him as well. Fantasies he had told me over our months of online flirting. And I knew his favorite fantasy. I dreamed about his favorite fantasy actually. And when I masturbated to it? Holy hell, it made me see stars.
Maybe I was daydreaming of being watched or followed while taking the subway. Maybe I was thinking about having a stalker see me when I thought I was alone and bored.
What he loved playing most and the hottest word sex scenarios we wrote to each other? They were the ones where we played out something pure animal, something twisted and elaborate, things that were sick and sadistic and depraved. We talked of how hot kidnapping scenarios could be wherein I would play out my unwillingness. We talked of boundaries and I really didn't have many. We talked of desires for the borderline psychopathic and ways to make them as close to real as possible. In one conversation, we talked of how it would definitely be hotter to have more of the fear element.
For instance, the safe way to play a kidnap scene? That would be to let me know his face, to meet beforehand, and then let me know I wasn't in real danger. But we talked of two other possibilities. Like how hot it would be if I didn't see his face and didn't know I was okay until a little further in the game than most others would be comfortable with. We talked of a second, head fuck scenario where I would know who he was but wonder at every turn if I was still playing a game or if he would break the pre-agreed rules to the kidnap game.
Edgy. Dark. Fucked up. There were lines between fantasy and reality and I had played in those lines for so long because it was all most people were ever comfortable with. But when I spoke of blurring the lines and the hidden desires to know what it was like to be so filthy, he had gotten it. He had spoken of feelings that were kin to mine.
Maybe that was another reason why I could orgasm so fucking hard to my fantasies of him.
The ... indicator of the message appeared and reappeared while my heart went crazy with thoughts of his intensity and my stomach turned delirious somersaults. No matter how boring the day or how emotionally cold I could sometimes feel, whenever he wanted to play I knew he would make me wild, make me warm again, and make me forget.
Such a fucking tease. You do like to play with danger, don't you? Tell me, then, since you want to be so hard tonight. Did you leave the door cracked so that you could be watched and imagine that someone stopped to see you be such a slut in your back room? Did you have to bite something when you came so you didn't make a sound?
He knew. God, he knew all of those answers by now. Anytime I talked about how bored I had been at work, he turned it into something wild, something that was starting to make those dull moments disappear.
Yes! My wrist. I had to bite my wrist. And I spread my legs on the spare table while facing the door, hoping the wet spot on my jeans would be visible if someone were watching me.
Not someone. Him. It was always him I fantasized about.
Christ, you left a wet spot while thinking about it.
Yes. After I took my panties off midday to feel my clit hood ring rub against my jeans.
