Night Owl(2)

I, a successful and very taken twenty-eight-year-old man, had become the equivalent of a horny fourteen-year-old. Real smooth.

Little.Bird: Matt, I said trust me. You are -not- a creeper. You're like the anti-creeper. That's why I laughed. It's like suddenly Mr. "I'm not looking for friends so don't piss me off with details about your life" wants to know what I'm wearing. Do you still want to know?

My blush of embarrassment was rapidly turning into a flush of anger.

Night.Owl: Yes, I still f*cking want to know. That's why I asked, so either tell me or drop it. I don't need you to make me feel like a dipshit for asking.

Little.Bird: Okay! I'm sorry. Don't get angry. I'm wearing a blue bathrobe.

Night.Owl: A bathrobe...?

Little.Bird: Yes. It's a soft fuzzy blue bathrobe. Hits me about mid-thigh.

Night.Owl: Is that all?

Little.Bird: Yes.

I felt a throb between my legs. At the time, I had no idea what Hannah looked like, but that fact didn't seem to matter to my dick. I slid the laptop off my thighs and onto the mattress. I pressed a hand to my sex. And I waited. Where was this going?

Little.Bird: Do I... get to ask what you're wearing?

Night.Owl: Lounge pants.

Little.Bird: Is that all?

Night.Owl: Yes.

Little.Bird: Yummy...

Night.Owl: Hannah. You should let your robe hang open.

Little.Bird: Alright.

My mouth gaped. My erection pushed against my palm. Alright? She took my order so calmly and without hesitation. Was she really doing it?

I conjured up an image of a young woman seated at a computer desk, her small robe hanging open and her full breasts bared to the screen. I shoved my pants around my hips and freed my shaft. My whole body was tingling.

I needed to tell Hannah to stop and that I wasn't single and that we were going to ruin our pleasant anonymous online friendship.

Night.Owl: Describe your body. Spread your legs. God, my heart is pounding.

Little.Bird: Mine too. I spread them. Telling you this stuff is making me wet.

Night.Owl: God, Hannah.

I began to pump my cock with one hand, pausing to swirl my thumb over the head. I could feel the lean muscles along my thighs and arms locking up—tensing in excitement or else willing me to stop. I needed to stop.

Little.Bird: My breasts are... big. 34DD. They sit high on my chest for natural breasts. My nipples are dark pink. They're really sensitive. I'm curvy. Hourglass figure I guess.

I was ready to come. Already. I let myself moan into the silence of the apartment and rocked my hips into my hand. Oh god oh god oh god. I groped at the laptop keyboard.

Night.Owl: Help me come.

Little.Bird: I shave my legs all the way up. And I'm... really tight. And wet. So wet. I'm making a mess.

Night.Owl: God you're a slut Hannah.

Little.Bird: I am. My legs are spread so wide it hurts. I wish you were pounding into me right now.

My orgasm took me by surprise, the pleasure unfurling all at once. I gasped and sat up sharply. I came into my hand with a groan.

I'm making a mess.

I wish you were pounding into me right now.

I collapsed against the pillows. My chest was heaving. A rivulet of sweat trickled from my dirty-blond hair to my jaw.

What just happened? I stared at the laptop and waited. I couldn't log off; I had to say something. Thanks? Sorry?

Night.Owl: I should go.

Little.Bird: Wait. That was alright, Matt. If you're going because you feel awkward, don't. We don't have to talk about it.

Finding the words "I should go" had been difficult enough. I had nothing else to say. I needed to think, or not think. I most definitely needed to get away from Hannah.

Little.Bird: Listen. I don't normally do this. I don't want you to think I'm like that.

Night.Owl: No. Neither do I.

Before Hannah could type a reply, I closed Skype and shut my laptop.

I didn't log back on for a week.

And what a week it was. Thoughts of Hannah invaded my mind. I woke up thinking about her, often hard, and I went to sleep thinking about her. I thought about her in the shower. I thought about her when I tried to work, my latest project open on the computer screen and my head locked in a daydream.

Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.

Over and over I turned the few details she had given me. Large breasts, a curvy figure, a tight cunt.

A friend took me out to lunch on the weekend.

"What do you know about Seattle?" I asked, striving to sound nonchalant.

"Seattle? Why?"

"I'm putting it in a story. Figured I'd ask. I've never been, no idea about the place."

"Well, I've been to the pacific northwest a few times." My friend chewed and watched me thoughtfully. I stared at my plate. I had hardly touched my meal, but under his careful gaze I shoved a forkful of risotto into my mouth.

"Tons of hipsters," he said. "All that unflattering facial hair. And I'll tell you what, it's depressing as f*ck, the weather out there. It's gray. I mean if you like that kind of thing, it's great. But it's wet, Matt, it's basically wet all the time."

I slammed down my fork. I nearly choked.

Wet. So wet. I'm making a mess.

Hannah emailed a story installment after two days. Usually she replied within hours. Maybe she was having second thoughts about me.