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Dawn is teasing me about her Halloween costume—a French maid outfit. I helped her buy the accessories for it: fishnet stockings, lacy white gloves, high-heel spiked boots, almost. They would be  perfect if the heal wasn’t so short, she told me. I was just enjoying watching her walk around the store. Sometimes my feelings for her are that pure. I just want to watch her moving.

But tonight I want to touch her. She’s in her maid costume right now. She’s sending me messages. We’re talking in texts. We do this often.

I’m sure she looks terrific. She is with her boyfriend today. I will see pictures of the costume tomorrow.

I will post them on the internet for you tomorrow, she writes. How intimate, I tease her, internet pictures.

You just want to see me naked, she retorts. She loves that I want her so much. I never pressure her to satisfy my desire. I think she loves that more.

Not “just” but I do want to see you naked, of course. I smile while I type that. I smile as if she can see it. I won’t have sex with you unless you want to. I don’t need an obligation fuck. That would just hurt you.

She replies with thank you. She thanks me for a lot and often. She thanks me for not telling her how to feel. She thanks me for hearing her when she speaks her thoughts. Mostly, I think she thanks me for being interested in her complete self, and not just her vagina. I think she adores me for it.

And she makes love with text messaged words. I adore her.

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