Chapter 1 #2
We would never know each other's real names or see each other's faces.
Through text, we could be anything we wanted.
I loved that freedom.
And since we are still texting, I still do. Now more than ever.
I shake my head at myself. "Fuck, you're so pathetic, Lola."
From that first day, it became natural to just text once in a while.
He would let me know when he had dates, I would tell him to wear a silly piece of clothing or give him outrageous advice.
I guess somewhere in the past few months, it changed. Became more frequent, more daring. We would tell each other things—tiny things, big things—it didn't matter because it was just two people who would never meet.
Even when it became dares and flirting of the red flag kind, I went with it. The texts are a great distraction from everything else going on.
He's so easy to talk to. And I have enjoyed the slow build of flirts to the sexy dares...
I don't want to meet, even though he once suggested it.
I check the time.
I have to go back to work soon, but I read his text again.
WN
Are you wearing underwear?
What if I just reply to this one message?
He is probably working and won't reply until later, so it should be okay.
Me
I'm hardly even wearing toothpaste or coffee.
Within seconds, my phone pings.
WN
You know I love it when you wear your toothpaste. Hawt.
I can't contain a giggle.
Me
I know. All the men think so.
WN
Don't torture me with other men. You know that breaks my heart ;) Now, are you wearing underwear?
I grin like a maniac.
Me
No. I like working naked.
WN
I didn't ask if you worked naked, I asked if you were wearing underwear.
Me
Naked tends to mean no underwear.
WN
Unless you're a freak. You could be in day-glo orange crotchless ones.
Me
Not naked.
WN
Technically, it is.
I shake my head, a smile glued to my face.
Me
Underwear firmly on.
WN
Way to crush a man's fantasies. I have got a thing for gals in day-glo orange panties. Crotchless. Day-glo yellow for granny panties.
Gran...oh, Lord. But I wrote back,
You will live.
WN
Describe them.
Me
A girl needs some mystery.
WN
Mystery schmystery. Go on, give a man a break. I will start. I'm wearing boxer briefs with hot rods all over them. You?
Me
Hot rods don't do it for me.
WN
C'mon…
I grin.
Me:Just panties. With little roses on them.
WN
Pic?
Me
Hot rods first.
WN
At. Work.
Me
I'd like to sit around eating bonbons all day, sipping Scotch, but I'm at work too.
WN
Material? Silk?
Me
Cotton.
WN
Dream crusher.
I giggle, pressing my thighs together.
WN
How about a dare? Take them off, send a photo.
This is where my bravado goes out the window. Not because I don't want to, but because I don't think I can.
Me
No.
WN
Go to the bathroom, slide them off, and take a photo and then...
And then? Who ends a message like that?
I'm afraid to even ask, but my fingers are moving before my brain fully registers it.
Me
What?
WN
Go commando.
That is so far out of my comfort zone that it is not even funny. Still, my treacherous fingers type away. Except what I type is not the "no" that should be more than expected.
Me
For how long?
Why did I send that? It is not like I will do it...
WN
The day.
Nope.
I'm not going to do it. Not a chance!
I have flirted for him, ordered made-up drinks with racy names. I have even sent a cleavage shot—in a bra and low-cut top.
But this?
This is taking it to the next level.
It doesn't matter if I'm wearing a below-the-knee pencil skirt, someone is bound to notice the lack of a panty line.
I stop.
Shit. Does that mean the office is staring at my butt? There are a lot of guys...
But that would mean I'm worth staring at. And I'm not.
Text Lola is a total ten and a bombshell. Me? Not so much.
Could I spend the day commando?
WN
Go. Take off your panties.
I breathe and press my thighs together.
My fingers start typing.
I swear they have a life of their own now.
Me
I will show you mine if you show me yours.
The bubble comes on.
Then stops.
Then on again.
My hands start sweating.
I have no idea what I want his answer to be. Or if I even want him to answer.
The bubble stays off for a while, and I have no idea if what I'm feeling is relief or disappointment.
I set the phone down and look at the work waiting for me.
I guess this is it. Time to get something done.
Ping.
My eyes fly to my phone, and I reach for it. Not a fast grab and look—more like reaching for a scared kitty, waiting for it to hiss and scratch me.
I go to the message thread.
WN
Just to be clear. We're talking underwear here, right?
I don't respond because heat rises in my cheeks.
How can I work knowing I'm panty-less? Knowing he knows?
Even if I don't know him.
Oh, God. I think I might start hyperventilating.
WN
Since you stopped replying, I'm thinking this is too far out of your comfort zone. Maybe I should give you something easier.
He is calling me a big wuss.
Shit. Fuck. Hell.
I stand, putting my phone on the top of the porcelain toilet cistern. Then I wiggle out of them and snap a photo.
I hit send.
There is a photo from him. A pair of black boxer briefs in a drawer in a desk.
WN
Cheating. Snap them for me in the office.
Me
Ass.
WN
Do it.
I huff.
Whatever.
I bunch them in my hand and go out to do just that.