I see the picture. The tiny image on my screen. The arms. The abs. The smile.
Yes. Oh god, yes. It’s him.
“Holy shit,” I say to no one in particular.
There he is. Of all the people on this site. Of all the possible faces to come across my screen. His grin beams at me. The power of the internet.
And he sent me a message.
What does he mean by that?
I look at our statistics. We line up well. No, amazingly close. Almost the best I’ve ever seen.
He knows about my life. What I do after work, on vacation. He hears the stories I don’t tell anyone else at the office.
And he tells me his own secrets. What he and his girlfriend do on the weekends when a certain someone is in town. Or on vacations to beautiful beaches full of beautiful people.
Whenever we chat, I feel his gleeful face in my flesh. His laughs warming my loins.
The many things I want to do with him. The thoughts of all the things I want him to do to me.
But no. You don’t shit where you eat, right? Everyone knows that, don’t they?
And yet, he wrote me.
He is nothing if not a trickster. Did he seek me out? Is this just some fun little game of his?
No. He’s heard my stories, yes, but he doesn’t know my persona. My name outside of the cubicles. What people call me before they make me cum.
But now he does.
Should I answer? Play along?
What if this isn’t a game? What if he isn’t kidding around?
What if he’s thought about his arms around me? What if he’s wondered what my face looks like as I cum? What if he wants to feel my lips around his cock? See my eyes looking up into his as he fucks my face? Hears my begging? Tastes my tears? The power he’d have over me?
But what to say? How should I play this? What would he want to hear?
Indeed, I reply.
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