In the morning, we decided to spend the day hiking in the grounds, as the weather had become more benign, a light snow replacing yesterday’s sleet. I managed to make her promise to spend the night in her own bed, so I would be free to email Arlen.
Arlen Stewart: Dear Eirica, I'm really bad at this. Why would a woman want to hear a man's fantasy? And how can I tell you the fantasy in such a way that it doesn't sound ridiculous? What makes it worse, is that it is about a person you know, at least by reputation, if not personally. She may have contacted you. Amelia Solent is the source of many fantasies, I'm afraid, and none are particularly complex. My foot fetish can be traced to her, as well as many other peculiarities. When she was a first year, she caught my eye immediately. Having her as a supervisee put me in regular contact with her, too. I've told you about her dress sense, and I began to dream of her regularly, wearing clothing with a variety of open spots, often centring around her breasts. I'm not a breast man, but they were magnificent, just the right size and shape, pert and firm. I suspected that the cleft between them was a natural phenomenon, unaided by a bra. After a while I started dreaming (perhaps daydreaming) of her modelling bathing suits, again with portions missing, or portions that went clear when wet or dissolved in chlorinated water. In one fantasy, we modelled suits in tandem, each becoming more risqué. An exposed breast on hers was an exposed penis on mine. Some suits were various-sized mesh, through which nothing was hidden. We appeared from the changing room, embraced, swam a length of the pool to display each suit's special properties, embraced at the other end, and then debriefed before trying the next. The suits became progressively more risqué, and each phase of the fashion show more laden with the desire. The language of the debrief became more intimate and sexual. One final, innocuous pair of suits, was plain white at first, but was laced with an aphrodisiac. We almost couldn't tear ourselves apart after the first embrace, but the chlorine converted the entire suit to the aphrodisiac, which absorbed into our skin immediately upon contact with the air. Our second (nude) embrace was laden with desire. We couldn't separate ourselves as I was on her, in her, throbbing, thrusting until both of us were satiated. In the debrief, we had to describe what we felt throughout, and as the discussion became intimate, so did we, repeating our sex with a full commentary. The first time I had that dream, I awoke with a wet dream. Since then, I've tried to invoke the dream, but that never has the same result. Abandon is instead replaced by a refinement of detail, attempting to increase the passion. I never know at what point dream gives way to fancy, but trying too hard leaves me wanting. My dreams are generally like that: repetitive, like a theme and variations. Running becomes running through a forest, which becomes running to save Amelia, transitioning to having sex with her – endless variations until some facet of it wakes me, possibly an attempt to take control and push myself to the point of orgasm. Is that what you wanted me to write. It probably sounds childish to you. Or you think I'm a pervert. I just have an over-active imagination … but you already knew that. I'm sorry. Arlen
I wanted so much more. I wanted him to talk dirty, to savour crude words, to bring me to orgasm. I wanted him to describe every detail of his fantasy, but he stopped when he got to the good part. I wanted to share a piece of that orgasm. Begging for more wouldn’t work, and being crude myself might turn him off me altogether. And he didn’t mention the photo of Nipples. Disappointing. He was still a work in process.
Eirica Johnstone: Dear Arlen, That was fascinating. I would have been interested in some more detail, perhaps like the debrief at the end. What was it about that that turned you on so much? You say you aren't a breast man, but it seems like everything you have told me about your attractions centre around breasts. I don't have Nicole's erect nipples, nor Sandra's large aureole's, and you already know that mine aren't as large as Amelia's. You must find me so disappointing. Sadly, Eirica
His reply was almost immediate.
Arlen Stewart: Nothing to be sad about. I enjoy our discussions, and I don't find your breasts disappointing. (Forgive me fore being blunt.) I suppose they aren't what I find most attractive about you. That is your wit and your honesty. Physically, I find it hard to make a choice … your arse, maybe, your hips, they … no I should stop there. I like when you flip your fringe out of your eyes, and maybe the way you play with a lock by your right ear when you are bored. I shouldn't say more. That's too personal, and not what this is about. About the intimate details, I find them embarrassing. The language of explicit sex is a major turn off for me, and it is even worse when one replaces it with euphemism. It's not my cup of tea. A Eirica Johnstone: What's wrong with personal? Arlen Stewart: Nothing, I suppose. It just seems a little strange for someone old enough to be your father to be telling you what he likes about you. A Eirica Johnstone: It doesn't matter to me. Arlen Stewart: Nevertheless ...
He was quickly reverting to short choppy messages. I needed to open him back up.
Eirica Johnstone: You may tell me what you like about me. I won't take it wrong, or think you are a pervert. You may be a dirty old man, but never a pervert. What about me would send you spinning into your fantasy world?
His answer took a long time to come.
Arlen Stewart: I don't really know. Those moments catch me off-guard. Maybe a short skirt, or bare feet. English women don't have ankles. Scots are much nicer. Your friend Sinead has nice ankles, unlike most Irish women. They remind me of Aoife's. Amelia's are exquisite. French women have sexy ankles. Sandra's are very English, but she makes up for them in other ways. Enough of that. It's your turn. You promised a fantasy. A
I was avoiding that subject, hoping to distract him. Coming up with something was a chore, so I went with the truth:
Eirica Johnstone: Arlen, I have never been good at concocting fantasies. Every one is different and, unlike yours, do not burn themselves into memory through repetition. The ghosts of this castle provide many stories, and some are of a fantastic nature. That is what motivates our interaction, too. One of our ghosts is a girl. I've never seen her, but I have felt her stroke me with her hair. She is the first to come when I am aroused. Even now, I feel her hair bristling on my bare shoulders. (Remember that I often sit in bed naked typing on my laptop between my legs.) If I allow her to distract me, I feel the hair slowly drop down between my shoulder blades lower and lower to the base of my spine. She was the playmate of the daughters of a Laird, and taught them this method of seduction. Soon, her soft hair caresses my hands, discreetly tickling the inside of my arms as she aims for my breasts. I'm very ticklish under my armpits, and she is now making it almost impossible to type. I let her continue, as I know tickling me isn't her fancy. My breasts swell with her tender follicular caresses, and I want more, knowing that soon, I won't be able to resist her desire. My feet are also ticklish and I can feel her no matter what position I am in. I have never felt the caress of her skin, but her hair soon becomes my fetish as she slowly traces up the insides of my legs, aimed directly at the euphemism that I'll now avoid in your honour … She trained the daughters well in this art, but I don't know what became of them as the Laird married them off young. Her hair tangles in my now-sticky pubes before she parts my … that's the embarrassing stuff, which you clearly don't wish to read. I feel it all, and she never fails to leave me unsatisfied. I've had to resort to moving my laptop onto my duvet as my legs are too sweaty and moist, dangerous for an electrical appliance. To quote you, what she does to me is exquisite, but it is the same every time, as she is cursed to repeat her crime to eternity. The Lady of the Castle caught her seducing her husband in this way and battered her to death with an iron poker while the Laird watched in ecstatic horror, paralysed by his orgasm. … paralysed, as I was on my soaked duvet. Unlike the other ghosts, she brings me to a soft squeal during orgasm, hopefully not loud enough to wake Nipples. Speaking of her, we shared my bed last night. I could feel her nipples hard against my chest even through her thick nightdress. The ghosts scare her, but I think I have tamed them for her. My nocturnal nudity doesn't offend her, fortunately, and we are becoming quite comfortable with each other. More soon. Love, Eirica
Love. I had to add that. He had to think of love, to connect me with the idea of it, even if had gone to bed waiting for my story. He replied after a short interval.
Arlen Stewart: I hoped you would like Nicole. She has a neediness about her that is endearing, but she is strong in a way that I can't describe. She could be a true, loyal friend to you if you let her. I'm sure she and I will correspond long after she graduates. I must go to bed now. I look forward to more of your ghost stories. A
He didn’t comment on the story. Had it gone too far? Was I too graphic? I tweeted my dismay and poked around a number of my friend’s Facebook pages. That was when the barrage started. I received a number of new friend requests, all of whom were friends with Arlen, Amelia, Nips and Sandra, as well as each other, as the list accumulated. Four were in America, and one was in Hong Kong, Laura Liu. She was beautiful, with clear perfect skin, lovely eyes, and discreet, but well-formed breasts. She was young, too, perhaps a year or two older than Nipples. Her photo album was filled with arm’s length self-portraits, some seductive, many featuring those breasts while she lay on her bed in a variety of poses. As far as I could tell, she was unmarried, but was pregnant.
I Googled her, tracing her past her composer website to another site, one clearly dedicated to a man. There, the poses became more intimate, her breasts bared, a couple of full nudes. Her nipples were tiny purple circles gracing breasts that were firm but not large. Whoever the site was meant to impress must also have liked her tiny hands and feet. She couldn’t have been more than 5 ft tall, but one picture showed only her hand pressed against that of a man’s. His was large and hers barely extended past his palm, like a child’s hand.
If she was one of “us,” there had to be something that inspired Arlen: the feet, hands or eyes? Maybe. Certainly, she was obsessed with someone. Did she carry that same obsessive nature to other relationships? Is that what had snared him?
The Americans were all older. Several had families, but few exhibited a consistent set of traits that I could link to Arlen’s fetishes. One, Elizabeth Lamm, reminded me of a rough Amelia, with similar features, but dark hair like mine, shorter than me, but not overly thin. She played double bass in the Boston Symphony. There was nothing elegant about her, but I knew immediately what Arlen saw in her. She reeked of talent. I couldn’t think of another way to describe it. She was that block of coal that hid a diamond at the core. She had two children a few years younger than me. Her son reminded me a little of Arlen, being tall and blond. She clearly doted on her offspring, but her husband was remarkable in his absence, although she listed herself as married.
One of the others appeared matronly, with large breasts that she was unashamed to emphasize. She lived alone with her daughter near a beach in North Carolina. She had recently had a première with the Atlanta Symphony, so she was at least moderately successful.
As it was after 3 am, I decided to shut down, but there was one last request, one of Arlen’s undergraduates, Charlotte Weeks. I had to investigate. Like Laura, she was prolific with her camera and one-armed self-portraits. Otherwise she was the opposite of Laura: tall and gangly, quite flat-chested, with curly long red hair, often gathered in a ponytail. Less hung from her chest than from mine! That, I gathered, was due to her running, clearly her most avid pastime, and one to which she devoted another photo-filled blog. One of those was of her, scantily-clad, running beside who? Arlen. Yes, Arlen, who featured in many blog posts:
Running Lincoln with AS this year. He’s asked me to pace him this time, aiming for 47 min. That’s not much more than a jog for me, but I’d do it for him. Surely, he’s done enough for me.
She was what Arlen would have considered an exception. An English girl with ankles. Perhaps that was what attracted him. She swam, too. The site had a number of pictures of her in bathing suits: a wet suit (from a triathlon), a red backless racing singlet, and a red skimpy bikini, the last taken by Arlen in Nice. The caption explained that she was there attending a performance of Arlen’s Trumpet Concerto. In addition to composing, she also played trumpet. Was she the soloist? I couldn’t tell. Despite being under-endowed in the mammary region, she looked great in a bikini.
What disturbed me most was that she was awake and sending out friend requests to strangers (or friends of friends) after 3 am. She was still online, too, as she popped up in a chat box requesting a video chat.
Charlotte Weeks: You decent?
I hasn’t sure how to reply.
Eirica Johnstone: Not exactly. Charlotte Weeks: Doesn't matter to me. Wanna chat for a little while. I'm an insomniac. You must be, too. Eirica Johnstone: BRB. I need to put something on. Charlotte Weeks: Cool. You sleep in the nude?
I slipped my robe on, clicked on video, and adjusted the picture. “Yes,” I replied, whispering. “I’ve got a friend sleeping in the next room, so I can’t speak loudly.”
“Cool. I do too – sleep in the nude, that is,” she said as her video fired up. She was dressed much as I was, in a silk or satin robe hastily draped around her – red, in contrast to my deep purple one. When I said hastily draped, I meant barely covering her – her cleavage open almost to her belly-button, the shadows making it look like she actually had some.
“I live alone,” I explained, “and don’t usually have anyone around to watch. I’ve gotten used to it over the years. What’s your excuse?”
“I find it sexually liberating,” she replied bluntly, the left shoulder creeping off hers as she typed on her computer. I wondered what she was typing. “I hear you live in a castle. You’re some kind of Laird, or something.”
“Lady, technically. A Laird is male.”
“Cool. I hear you are an ace pianist, too.”
“I’m fairly good, I guess. You play trumpet, right?”
“I guess I’m fairly good, too, but I’m more interested in writing music.”
“I figured, since you are studying with Arlen.”
“How’d you know?” she asked.
“I assumed that’s how you knew him. He’s one of your Facebook friends. That’s why I accepted your friend request.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. Sometimes I think he wants me to stick to trumpet, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I think he feels uncomfortable teaching me.”
“Why do you say that?” Of course, he felt uncomfortable around all of “us.” Why should she be any different?
“I think he’s afraid to look at me, and he’s a little concerned about my philosophy of music.”
“In what way?”
“I often discuss my music in sexual terms. He’s a bit of a prude in that way, so I lay it on even thicker. You should see him freeze when I hug him.”
“You hug him?”
“All the time. He hates being touched, as if he is worried that the slight physical contact with a woman will give him an orgasm. Wouldn’t want that to happen!” she laughed.
“What do you mean by that?”
“He could stand a good screaming orgasm. He needs to let out his frustrations.”
“He just holds so much in. It’s cute. I think he would relax if he just had a good wank every once in a while. It’s healthy. I don’t think he’s getting any from his wife.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She just seems frigid to me … and she hates me.”
“She hates you?” I liked Charlotte already. “What makes you say that?”
“She refused to attend my première of his trumpet concerto.”
“Maybe she had some other commitment.”
“No she made a point of leaving just before I played, to go over some poetry with the dyke.”
“The dyke?” Again, I had to feign ignorance.
“Sandra, one of Arlen’s postgrads. I should have said fucking dyke. She tried to nobble me once, the bitch.”
“Yeah, fucking tarot. She tells you that you have an unusual admirer, someone who can smooth out the rough road for you, that it is a mystic, and once she has you by the short and curlies, she implies that the person might be very close by. She prefers to read her cards in the nude, and does her best to get you to take yours off, too. Before I knew it, she had one hand on my breast and the other between my legs.”
“What did you do?”
“I told her to go have a fucking wank with someone else.”
“That stopped her?”
“Screaming it at the top of my lungs in the digs helped, too. Fucking dyke.”
“You like that word, don’t you?”
“She shrugged. It bothers Arlen. My friends used to swear a lot, so I don’t even know that I do it. I think it secretly turns him on, though. I use as much explicit language around him as I can. He’ll complain once, but after that, he gets quiet. I think he is picturing it in his head. I like getting in his head, and that is why I keep studying with him. You should have seen me when I played his concerto in Nice.”
“Well, I described to him his concerto as a series of sexual positions. The first is a riding cowgirl, and he’s a bucking bronco, trying to bounce me off him …”
“I always explain it as being between us. That’s what the act of creation is. Anyway, he bounces me into a howling feral climax before we relax into the second movement. It’s a placid reverse missionary. I picture myself on top of him, as he throbs, accelerating to a delicate squeeze of an orgasm. The last one is him seeing me in a bikini, and he has to fuck me hard up against a wall. After the rehearsal, we went to a beach, and I wore the tiniest bikini I could find and demanded he take pictures of me.”
“I saw that one on your blog,” I chuckled.
“No you didn’t, wait just a second.” She sent a .jpg through. That one was topless.
“How’d you get him to do that?”
“It was a topless beach. Most of the other women there were topless, so I stood out until I took it off. That’s the best one, although it isn’t the one I sent him. That’s this one …” She sent it through, then four others. The first was her sitting across from him in the sand, legs spread, knees up, her right foot touching his ankle.
“I don’t think he’ll ever forget that one,” I admitted. This girl was playing the game better than I ever could.
“I won’t either. It’s the background on my laptop.”
“Can’t others see it?”
“I change it when I’m out of the house.” Her robe finally slipped off her shoulder, and she left it, barely concealing her breast while just clinging to her nipple.
“Do you ever forget?”
“Once in a lesson. Anyway, after the concert, he smelled of sex.”
“You mean he had his long-needed wank?” I asked, using her language.
“No. I meant immediately after the performance while he was giving me a congratulatory hug. He smelled as if he was sitting in his own soup, but there wasn’t an obvious spot. He hugged me again off-stage, and I could feel his penis firm against my abdomen. I wouldn’t let him go until he was rock hard and was forced to hide it behind his jacket for the next ten minutes as a queue of audience members shook his hand. I get horny just thinking about it.”
I was thinking the same thing as her robe released her nipple. Still she left it. I’d never before considered sex with another woman, not even Nips, but now I was feeling the caress of hair down my spine. My ghosts were assembling, but Charlotte wouldn’t know that. “Me too,” I whispered, unable to control my tongue.
The corner of her mouth curled slightly. “Do you ever accompany people?” she asked, drastically changing the subject.
“Um, not u-usually,” I stammered. “I’m more of a soloist.”
“Would you consider accompanying a trumpet if the piece was written for you?”
“Or Arlen. He’s writing a trumpet sonata right now. Would you perform it with me in London?”
That, I couldn’t refuse. “I guess, if you put it that way.”
“I would like to write you one, too,” she added.
“Arlen’s writing one for me?”
“That’s supposed to be for me, but he keeps talking about this young Scottish pianist who is so amazing. I think he means you. This piece is for both of us, even if he doesn’t admit it. What I’ve seen of it so far reminds me of the concerto.” She reached up and scratched her right shoulder, dislodging her robe again, so that it hung just at the edge of her shoulder-blade.
“It’s about the two of us having sex?”
She chuckled, glancing down at her keyboard. “No. It’s about honesty. It’s about intimacy. He doesn’t know that yet.” The robe slid off her shoulder. “It’s about nudity and naked desire.”
“At the same time?” I asked, trying to ignore the video stream. I couldn’t believe how lovely she appeared in the glow of her computer screen. She was seducing me … and succeeding.
“That’s the second movement,” she asked, slipping her robe off her torso completely.
Still ignoring her, I asked, “Is there a third movement?”
“Yes, and maybe a fourth, but I haven’t seen either.”
“Do you know what they are about?”
“I suspect that the third is about giving.”
“And the fourth?”
“Did you plan this?” I whispered, hardly able to breathe.
“Have you ever had cybersex?” she asked, ignoring me.
“No. Want to try it?” she asked.
“Yes,” the word was out of my mouth before I could even think about it. “I thought you weren’t a lesbian.”
“I’m not, but we aren’t doing it to each other – we are doing it with. I know you want it. Your nipples are showing.”
I chuckled, “Guess who’s in the next room.”
She cocked her head. “Who?”
She scowled, and then laughed, “I’ve never heard her called that! Thanks to you, I’ll never look at her the same again. You aren’t a lesbian, too, are you?”
“No … but you think she is?” I asked.
“Can’t tell for sure. My gaydar goes haywire with her. The dyke most definitely isn’t, although she thinks she is. She just wants to get laid by Arlen, and his wife is going to get him for her.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure of it. Nipples, on the other hand, likes boys, but I think she loves women. Take your robe off. I want to see you.”
“You might be right,” I replied, slipping my robe off my shoulders, baring my breasts. “I’ve heard that from elsewhere, too.”
“Who?” she asked licking a finger. “Do as I do, and I’ll do as you do if you go first.”
I licked the same finger and traced it down my sternum, following her. I could feel my ghost’s hair on my shoulders again. “Amelia.”
“You know Amelia?” She licked again, wetter this time, and circled her hardening nipples.
“Yes, just on Facebook, but I met her several years ago. I played a piece of hers at a competition.” I sucked until my mouth was full of spit and let it dribble out of my mouth.
“Cool. I just sent her a friend request. Arlen thinks very highly of her.” She followed my lead, and again, letting it drip down between her breasts.
“I know. She studied with him soon after he took his post at Leeds. Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked.
“Yes, why?” she replied, dipping a hand in the river of spittal running down her chest, and lathering her breasts with it.
“There are several here watching me – us. I would invite them to join in, but they can’t touch you there.”
“What do they do?” she asked, playing with her wet nipples again.
“They touch me,” I replied, pulling my robe off completely.
“Where?” she asked, doing the same.
“Everywhere. There is a woman who caresses erotically with her hair, and a few men who do other things.” I sat back, so she could see my bush, setting my computer down onto the bed between my legs.
Doing the same, she asked, “Why does the light dance around you? Is that the ghosts?”
“No. I have a fire in the fireplace. That’s the only light in the room other than from the computer screen. Generally, if you can see the ghosts, you can’t feel them.” As if on cue, I heard the heavy breathing of lovemaking emanating from the hallway.
“You can hear it?”
“Yes. Sounds like a woman, perhaps on top of a man.”
“Oh yes!” the ghost rasped loudly. “Don’t stop.”
“What makes you say that?” I hadn’t considered it.
“She’s gasping, but it isn’t laboured. What do they do to you?”
“They gang up on me when I’m horny. Sometimes I have to do something about it; sometimes they do it for me.”
“Are you horny?” she asked, lightly stroking her thigh.
“Very. They do that to me. One is stroking the other thigh right now, too. Like this …” I mimicked the ghost’s movement, so Charlotte would do it and feel it, too.
“What else do they do?”
“They lick me along the bottom of my pelvis.” I took another slimy lick of my finger and traced my pelvis for her.
“Eirica!” gasped a ghostly voice from the corner. That was the first time they had called me by name. The couple in the hallway increased in intensity, the woman moaning for more. “Faster,” she pleaded.
“Yes, I heard it,” she sighed. “You can call me Charlie.”
“Charlie, are you wet?”
“I’m so wet,” she gasped. “I have been since the moment I first saw you.”
“I don’t know why.”
“Charlie!” The voice in the corner moaned louder.
“Did you say that, Eirica?” she asked nervously.
I can’t describe the feeling of hearing her say my name: goosepimples, a rush of blood, a flutter of the heart. “No, Charlie. It was a ghost.”
The racket in the hallway progressed to a loud pleading, “Oh, yes, that’s it!”
“I want you,” hissed a different voice.
“Who?” she asked as we parted our bush in unison. The couple screeched in the hallway. They would climax soon, but I knew that was only half of it. The copulation would kill him and she would wail, but hopefully not until after we lost track of ourselves.
“Who?” I echoed for the ghosts, penetrating with a first finger, testing the waters.
“You!” came a chorus of ghosts. “Both of you!” breathed a clarifying hiss.
“Ah!” sobbed Charlie. Two fingers, deeper, faster, parting her legs wider.
“Ah!” I echoed. Deeper!
Charlie grasped her screen between her knees, and panted, her sweat glistening on her abdomen as she leaned back. Her tiny breasts seemed enormous, heaving in the dim light.
“We want you!” the chorus breathed louder.
“Charlie!” pleaded one. “Eirica,” gasped another.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Charlie as she pleasured herself. Deeper. Faster. Three fingers. I’d never pushed three in before.
“Oh yes!” screamed the woman in the hallway, unleashing the chorus into murmurings of our names, proclamations of desire, of need, even of love.
“Eirica … you’re … cheating!” Charlie grimaced.
“I’m a voyeur,” I panted, confessing my pleasure. I was as close as she was, and I, too, clasped my laptop between my knees.
“Eirica … Eirica … Eirica …” she panted, as if she knew what it did to me. She looked up, fixing her gaze on me.
“Charlie … Charlie … Charlie …” I wheezed in reply, faster and faster.
The woman in the hallway screamed in horrified terror, as we together convulsed in ecstasy. The man in the hallway was dead, but Charlie was still chanting my name, interrupted only by waves of pleasure. She had rolled aside, so I could only see her face and breasts still heaving, her mouth breaking into what she could manage of a smile. It was a disarming smile. I knew instantly why Arlen averted his gaze from her. It wasn’t her candour, her explicit language, her sex talk, or even her nudity. The smiles in the photos were nothing compared to the real thing, her sheer joy, and her love of life.
“Thanks,” she wheezed, finally. “I so needed that.”
“So did I.” It may have been my second orgasm of the evening, but it felt like my first ever.
“Was that you screaming?” she asked.
“Yes,” I lied. She didn’t want to know the truth. I hoped she couldn’t hear the ghost sobbing in the hallway.
“Can we do this again tomorrow?” Charlie asked.
“No.” I replied. “It won’t be as good if we do it too often. Besides, I don’t want Nipples to hear us. She’s a light sleeper, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we woke her. Why don’t we do it again after she leaves, after your term starts. Maybe you could talk dirty to me. I would like that.”
“If I say I love you, don’t take it as me actually loving you,” she said.
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
“I love you, Eirica.”
“I love you, too, Charlie.”
“But I don’t love you.”
“I understand.” I didn’t have the heart to say that I didn’t love her either.
“Goodnight Eirica,” she sighed.
I closed the connection, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to wait two weeks to tell me her dirty stories. I couldn’t wait to hear them either. The sooner the better … but long enough to keep it fresh.
This would never be repeated in the flesh.