Peter sits in front of his laptop, staring at the empty inbox. The cursor blinks with mechanical indifference, marking time in the silence of his little office. Outside, evening has surrendered to night, and night is now deepening into that peculiar darkness that precedes dawn... the hours when the World is holding its breath, when anything seems possible and nothing feels real.
He sent the email hours ago. A leap of faith. A message cast into the void containing details only she would understand. The dream. The beach. The moment before everything vanished. And then, at the end, almost as an afterthought, though it was anything but, that single detail: You have a birthmark on your left elbow. At least, the woman in my dream had.
Would she think him mad? Would she recognise herself in his words, or would she delete the message as the ravings of a stranger? Peter doesn't know. He only knows that he had to try, had to reach across the impossible distance between dream and waking, between one consciousness and another.
His eyes are growing heavy. The screen blurs. He tells himself he'll wait just five more minutes, then ten, then five again. But exhaustion is patient and relentless. His head droops. His breathing slows. The laptop hums its electric lullaby, and Peter drifts...
Ping.
The sound cuts through sleep like a blade through silk. Peter jolts upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. For a moment he doesn't know where he is, what time it is, whether he's still dreaming. His eyes find the laptop screen, now blazing in the darkness of the room.
3:45 AM.
And there, a new chat window's opened up, a gateway to another dimension. It contains a single message:
"I've been waiting for you."
Five words. That's all. But Peter stares at them as though they're burning into his retinas, as though the pixels themselves are alive with some kind of terrible, wonderful energy. The letters seem to pulse with their own heartbeat. I've been waiting for you. Implying she's been there, on that beach, in that different dimension on the other side of the screen. Waiting... for him.
His hands are shaking. He flexes his fingers, trying to steady them. Is this real? Is he still asleep? Peter glances around his office, at the shelves with their tools, the packed wardrobe, the boxes... everything exactly as it should be. And yet those five words on the screen feel more real than anything else in the room.
He types quickly, afraid she'll vanish if he hesitates.
"I'm here. Are you... is it really you?"
The reply comes almost immediately.
"Yes."
Just that. Nothing more. Peter's chest tightens. He wants more, needs more, but she's giving him almost nothing, making him work for every scrap of confirmation.
"So... you've had the same dream? You were there, with me, on that beach?"
A pause. Longer this time. Peter watches the screen, his entire being focused on that empty chat window. Then:
"Yes."
"And?"
"And you were right. About the birthmark."
Peter's breath catches. It's her. It's really her. The woman from the dream, the woman who vanished into nothingness, the woman he thought he'd lost to whatever strange parallel universe their shared consciousness had created. She's real. She exists. She's sitting somewhere... he doesn't know where... typing these brief, cryptic messages that are turning his world inside out.
"I can't believe this," he writes, his fingers stumbling over the keys. "I've been going mad trying to understand what happened to us. Was it a dream? Was it real? Are you real?"
"I'm as real as you are," she replies. "Perhaps that's the problem. Perhaps neither of us is quite real at all."
The words send a chill down Peter's spine. What does she mean? Before he can ask, she sends another message:
"But we're here now. That's what matters. We found each other again."
"Yes," Peter types. "Yes, we did."
"So," she writes, and Peter can almost hear a smile in the word, can almost see her fingers poised over her keyboard wherever she is. "Tell me something. Do you have a fantasy you've never shared with anyone?"
The question lands like a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading outwards through Peter's consciousness. He stares at it, unsure how to respond. It's so direct, so unexpected. His mind races. What does she want to hear? What is he brave enough to admit?
Whilst he's thinking, paralysed by the weight of the question, another message appears:
"Or aren't you all that adventurous?"
There's a challenge in those words. A gentle provocation. Peter feels something change inside him, fear giving way to boldness, to something that's been buried for too long.
He begins to type, slowly at first, then faster as the words find their own momentum. In a heartbeat he's shed all of his shame and anxieties. Perhaps it's the anonymity of it all, the barrier of distance, the safety of that dimly lit corner behind a screen that makes it so easy to cast out the blackest filth of the mind, to spill whatever he'd never dare whisper in the light of day. Here, hidden in his little bubble, with no-one to judge, the words are pouring out like sins confided to a machine that will never speak them back.
"I would like to be fucked up the ass. By a woman with a strap-on."
His heart is beating in his throat. Every word that appears on the screen feels dangerous, blasphemous even, like crossing into forbidden territory. By the time he’s finished that one line, his palms are damp, his breath shallow. The message on the screen seems to glow with unbearable intimacy. For a moment he just stares at it, astonished by his own courage, or is it foolishness, terrified of what it reveals. Then, almost involuntarily, his finger presses send.
The sound of the message leaving, a soft click, a flicker, feels like both release and collapse. What’s done is done. There’s no pulling it back now. And in the silence that follows, Peter sits frozen, pulse hammering, as if he’s just confessed to the void and is waiting to see if it will answer.
The seconds that follow feel like hours. Peter watches the screen, barely breathing.
What have I done?
The thought crosses his mind but it's too late. The total stranger, who he only knows from an absurd and completely surreal dream, has received the most intimate part of his soul and it cannot be taken back.
Then her reply appears:
"Hmmm... interesting!"
That's all. Two words and an ellipsis. But somehow they contain multitudes. Peter can't tell if she's intrigued or amused, whether she's drawing closer or preparing to retreat. The ambiguity is exquisite torture.
"Interesting good or interesting bad?" he ventures.
"Interesting," she repeats, and this time Peter senses something playful in the repetition. "Tell me more. Show me."
"Show you?"
"Yes. Show me. Open your cam and show me."
His breath catches. A sting of panic flashes through his body, like being caught naked in a dream. He’s terrified, but it’s not the kind of fear that sends him running. It’s sharper, alive, laced with something dangerously close to longing.
His hand hovers over the touchpad. Every instinct he’s built over a lifetime, like caution, restraint, self-control, is screaming at him to stop. But beneath it all lies the quiet truth: he’s wanted this. Not just the act itself, but the invitation, the permission to be seen. For years he’s carried this secret like a fragile ember, keeping it alive in the dark. Now, she’s breathing air onto it. She... the woman who found him washed ashore on that beach and who shared all of herself with him then.
But that was just a dream.
Was it?
Here she is, on the other side of this digital universe, sitting in front of a screen just like he is, asking him to reveal all of himself to her. He feels the rush of adrenaline, hot and dizzying. His pulse is thrumming in his temples. He’s standing on the edge of something he’s both dreaded and desired for as long as he can remember.
His cursor hovers over the small icon — that simple, terrifying symbol of exposure — and for a heartbeat, the room seems to disappear. There’s only the sound of his breathing, the wild thud of his heart, and the woman waiting on the other side of the screen.
He clicks.
The little LED next to his webcam jumps alive and he appears in a new window which pushes their chat to the right border of his screen.
He waits. Beads of cold sweat are running down his forehead. His whole body's trembling. He's overwhelmed with doubt whether he has the courage to do this. Who knows if this is all a trick, some cruel joke to...
Suddenly his cam window shrinks to the corner, and her image fills the screen, flooding his world with her presence.
There she is... the woman of the dream, the goddess who not only rescued him but who then climbed on top of him to ride his cock into oblivion. And she's lying on her bed. As naked as she was back then and her ocean-blue eyes just as penetrating through the long, black hair that drapes her face. She's spread her legs wide, her hairy pussy in full view of the camera, gleaming with long threads of her abundant juices. She tosses her head back and sends a part of the dark strands sliding away from her face while her hand moves in between her thighs and opens her swollen lips for him.
"Show me," she sighs, her voice rich with arousal and yet unmistakably commanding.
Peter doesn’t think. The laptop is suddenly in his hands, carried to the bedroom next door. He sets it down on the chair beside the bed, his breath unsteady, his fingers clumsy with urgency. The room feels smaller now, every sound amplified... the hum of the laptop fan, the creak of his mattress as he jumps onto the bed.He’s trembling from the enormity of the moment. His heart's hammering as he realises fully well what he's about to do. Every barrier that has kept him safe — the distance, the screen, the quiet anonymity — has dissolved into this impossible nearness.
He fumbles with the buttons of his jeans and the collar of his t-shirt, his hands shaking so hard he can barely manage. It isn’t lust that drives him so much as release, the same urge he felt when he was falling into that void, all those years of restraint tearing loose at once. Every layer feels heavier than the last, as though he’s shedding more than clothes. He hesitates a fraction of a second before pulling down his boxers, but the desire is just too much. And she's lying there, watching him, her fingers brushing her furry clit, her vagina so open and welcoming as it had been on that beach. In a sense he's filled with pride to show her how her divine body is turning him on, how his cock is pulsing just as painfully hard.
By the time his boxers have landed on the floor, his breathing is ragged, his heartbeat a drum in his ears. He sits there on his knees for a moment, dazed, as though he’s been caught in a storm of his own making, stripped bare not just of what he wears, but of who he’s pretended to be, his big cock proudly standing tall and ready and it provokes a lustful sigh in her.
"Your cock is even more beautiful than I remember," she compliments him. "Now show me how you want me to fuck you."
He lies down, completely exposed in body and soul, his heart thrashing like it’s trying to escape his chest. The light from the screen spills across him, unreal and electric, and for a suspended heartbeat he can’t believe that he’s doing this.
He pulls is legs up, knees by his chest, and spreads his ass cheeks with his hands, offering her the rosebud that's hidden inside. Then, he starts swaying his hips, slowly, pretending that she's there, sitting between his legs and bent over him, dominating but in a protective way, with her strap-on pushing against the most private part of his body.
"Is that all?" she asks almost with disappointment. "I thought that you were going to show me for real."
For a moment, Peter freezes. Her words hit him like a slap in the face... sharp, almost teasing, but beneath it, something unsettlingly knowing. His breath catches. A prickle of cold rushes down his spine.
How could she possibly tell? He’d already done it, there in the dimness of his room with the dildo that's deeply buried under sheets and blankets in the bottom drawer of his cabinet. But the way she said it, with that quiet certainty in her tone, makes him feel suddenly transparent, as though the walls around him have vanished and every secret impulse lies exposed to her gaze.
He stares at the image on his laptop, overtaken by a terrifying mixture of fear and lust. For the first time, he’s not sure who’s really watching whom.
"What do you mean, for real?" Peter tries with feigned ignorance.
"Don't tell me you've never... given it a try?"
She throws her head back and raises her legs just as much as his, then slides a finger inside of her own ass.
"Hmmm... Doesn't that feel incredible?" she whispers with a voice that curls through the air like smoke from a candle just blown out... so soft, impossibly intimate, the sound of someone who knows exactly how to turn Peter's resistance into dust just by breathing.
"Don't be so shy. Show me," she repeats, and Peter can only obey.
He rushes to his cabinet, opens the drawer and pulls out the dildo which he once ordered on an anonymous site together with a bottle of lube. The silicon penis looks painfully realistic, yet slim enough for its intended purpose. Alessia's eyes fly open, excitement lighting her face. She leans in towards the screen, a smile of delighted anticipation curving her lips.
"Now that's something!" she exclaims in a way that expresses elation rather than ordinary contentment. "Quite adventurous after all!"
Peter resumes his very explicit position on the bed with his legs pulled up as he's putting some lube on the dildo, then brings it to his entrance.
"Oh Peter!" Alessia's cheering him on, eager to watch it go inside. "Go on! Do it! Think it is me..."
With one hand Peter opens his little hole as much as he can whilst applying gentle pressure with the dildo. It slowly slides inside for about an inch. He pauses, pulls back a little, then pushes a bit further.
"Yes!" Alessia cries out of excitement. "Deeper!"
Once the head inside, the rest follows smoothly. Peter lets out a sigh of thorough abandonment, pushing the dildo all the way in up to its silicon testicles.
"God that feels..."
"Good, doesn't it?" she interrupts him. "Now imagine that I'm fucking you with it. Slowly..."
Peter starts sliding the dildo in and out of his little hole, as if absorbing every signal from every nerve ending.
"Fuck yes!" Alessia spurs him on whilst her own hand begins to rub her soaked little slit in wide circles.
And she doesn't seem to feel any shame about it whatsoever. She pushes her pussy so close to the camera that Peter can make out every single hair, every single goose bump, the very depth of her vagina with its entrance pulsating, so hungry for his cock.
For a moment, Peter almost forgets to breathe. The air around him feels charged, unreal. What he’s doing should fill him with shame, yet what he feels instead is an overwhelming sense of release, of stepping across a threshold he’s spent his whole life orbiting.
Every movement feels like the shedding of another layer of fear. He can hardly believe he’s doing this... not in secret this time, but openly, witnessed by her. The woman on the screen is still little more than a flicker of pixels and light, and yet he feels her presence with an almost physical intensity, as though the distance between them has dissolved.
A tremor runs through him, part terror, part exhilaration. All the years of silence, of suppressing what he truly longed for, seem to converge into this one suspended instant. He’s baring not just his body but his soul, showing her the part of himself he’s kept hidden even from his own reflection.
He starts fucking himself with more determination now, raising his hips to meet his own thrusts, pumping the silicon cock in and out with reckless abandon. It’s forbidden, yes — intoxicatingly so — but it also feels right. For the first time, he isn’t pretending. He isn’t performing. He’s simply being himself, liberated, and the realisation is almost unbearable in its beauty.
"Ah... ah... ah... You are so stunning! Please... more!" Alessia gasps, her fingers now also sliding inside of her eager cunt.
Something in Alessia’s eyes... the calm, unwavering way she's watching him... begins to melt the ice around Peter's fear and shame. With renewed bravado, he suddenly takes the initiative and rises to his feet, squatting in front of the camera, knees wide, the edge of the dildo resting on the mattress whilst he begins to ride it, unashamed, free, his hard cock and testicles dancing with every sway of his hips. He grabs his shaft and rubs it in languid strokes, with confidence and in the knowledge that he's living the one perfect moment with her, that moment in which everything seems possible and the limits lie beyond imagination.
His movements grow surer, even more deliberate. The shame that once shadowed his most private desires has dissolved into something sacred that only they share. What began as fear becomes connection, and what was once hidden becomes an act of courage.
"I love you!" He exclaims as he feels the pressure building inside of him to unbearable heights.
"I love you too!" She screams with almost despair as she feels the dam breaking and her pussy's flooding with a mixture of liquids she cannot even identify anymore.
Also Peter cannot hold it any longer. He moans, he cries out, his cum spraying across the sheets in front of him. They shudder together, the World narrowing to the rhythm of their shared breath and the exquisite tension unspooling from every fibre of their bodies. Time bends and stretches; a trembling avalanche of release crashes through them, leaving them gasping, quivering, utterly undone. Eyes squeeze shut, muscles tighten and then loosen in waves of electric fire, and for a fleeting, suspended eternity, nothing exists outside this overwhelming current of sensation and connection.
The rush slowly ebbs, leaving them trembling in the quiet aftermath. And then reality intrudes with its usual harshness, so sudden and impossible to ignore. They are utterly exposed, not just in body but in spirit, having shared something so private, so intimate, it feels sacred in every way. The magnitude of what they’ve just given and received presses in from every direction: two strangers, bound by a dream neither could have anticipated, brought together by coincidence so improbable it seems fated.
Peter’s eyes trace every curve of her, from her abundant breasts to her hips, every nuance of her expression, and he is struck anew by the fact that they’ve touched each other’s souls before even truly knowing each other. She feels the urge to close her legs and cover heself, but then she catches his gaze, and in it, he sees the same incredulity mirrored back: wonder, astonishment, and the spark of something far beyond simple desire. He slides the dildo out but doesn't hide himself. He sits down on his heels, knees still spread, his penis still hard and throbbing and he keeps showing himself as if this is what he was always meant to do with her. And in his gesture, she finds the truth that she doesn't need shame in his presence either.
The night hangs around them, thick and still, and the first hints of dawn are brushing the sky. Their whispered confessions, “I love you,” still echoing between them, fragile yet undeniable.
They lie there, no longer unsure whether to shield themselves or simply remain as they are. They've become unafraid, stripped of pretence. Exposed, not merely in body but in soul, they find a kind of perfection in this suspended, impossible moment, a closeness that no time, no world, could have prepared them for.
For a long moment, neither speaks. The fading night feels impossibly still, as if even the air is holding its breath. Peter’s fingers twitch, hesitating, unsure whether to reach out to the screen again or to simply let the silence stretch. Alessia’s eyes meet his, wide and luminous, and in them he reads the same mixture of disbelief and awe that's coiling through his own chest.
Finally, she whispers, almost afraid to break the spell.
"Did… did that really just happen?" Her voice trembles, fragile and small, yet charged with a kind of exhilaration that matches his own.
"Yes," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, raw with the weight of what he’s feeling. "I… I don’t even know how, but… it did. And I…" His throat tightens. "…I’ve never felt anything like it in my life."
She smiles, a small, tentative curve of lips that lights up her entire face.
"Me neither," she admits, her words filled with wonder. They hover in the air, impossibly delicate, yet each syllable hums with truth. "It was as if I was... beyond myself, floating in a space where no restraints were necessary."
They inch closer to their respective screens out of a need to feel the presence of the other in the waking world, to anchor this impossible intimacy in reality. In that fragile, trembling instant, the enormity of what they've found in each other begins to settle inside of their hearts. It’s still impossible, still surreal, they haven't even met in person, but it’s theirs. And somehow, just knowing that, is enough to make their hearts beat a little more steadily in the approaching dawn.
"You write it for me," she says, "write this story about us. The fantasy. Let me see how it unfolds in your imagination."
Peter's heart is racing now. A woman he met in a dream — or was it a dream? — , who he then met online by chance, whom he then spent the most intimate moment of his entire life with, is asking him to create something with her, to build a bridge between their minds using nothing but words on a screen at almost six in the morning.
"Where do we start?" he asks.
"Where do you want to start?"
Peter closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, he begins to type. He writes about two people meeting in a space that exists outside of time, outside of the ordinary world. He writes carefully, sensually, building tension with every sentence. He describes anticipation, the electric moment before touch, the way awareness sharpens when you're completely present with another person.
She responds with her own additions, her own details. Her messages are still brief, but they're perfect, like small touches that shift everything, that add layers of meaning he hadn't anticipated. They're writing together now, creating something between them, a shared fiction that feels more real than reality itself.
And as they write, as the words flow back and forth across whatever distance separates them, Peter feels himself transforming. All his doubt, all his despair, all the crushing weight of loneliness that had been suffocating him... it's dissolving like morning mist. He's not alone anymore. He's never been less alone. Somewhere out there, a woman is matching him word for word, thought for thought, desire for desire.
Could she be the one? The question blazes through his mind like a comet. Could this actually be it? The connection he's been searching for his entire life? The person who understands him without explanation, who meets him where he is without judgement, who's brave enough to step into this strange space they're creating together?
Peter doesn't know. He can't know. Not yet. But as they continue to write, as the story unfolds between them like a flower blooming in time-lapse, he feels something glowing in his chest. Hope. Something stronger even. The hope of someone who's been lost in darkness and has finally glimpsed a light that doesn't vanish when he reaches for it.
The sky beyond his window is beginning to lighten almost imperceptibly. Dawn is coming. But Peter barely notices. He's entirely focused on the screen, on her words appearing like gifts, on the dance they're performing together. Every message is a revelation. Every response is a promise.
"I have no idea where you live," Peter says, "but I'd like to offer you a coffee. And breakfast too."
"I'd love that," she replies.
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