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 fuck, 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.
Hell, I'd be having second thoughts about me.
Her writing was perfectly normal, though.
Our characters were traveling to a port city in search of information to help Lana harness her powers. I could feel my character falling for Lana as we wrote. I tried to steer him away from it, but Hannah wrote the girl in such a clever, engaging way. She was quirky and strong, a lover of laughter, by turns tomboyish and then disarmingly feminine.
Hannah. Lana.
I began to make connections.
She described Lana as buxom, short, and curvy. An hourglass figure. Was Hannah writing a thinly veiled version of herself? And for that matter, was I? Like me, Cal was tall and fair-haired, cynical in the extreme, and neurotically secretive.
I booted up my laptop a week after the bathrobe incident with the intention of continuing our story. Or maybe with the intention of chatting with Hannah. I missed her.
That's when I saw the email from [email protected].
The email with her picture.
The picture that made me hard.
Subject: Come back...
Sender: Hannah Catalano
Date: Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Time: 11:15 PM
Matt, hey. I really hope you read this. You haven't replied to my post. I miss the story. And I miss talking to you.
I can't stop thinking about what happened.