Don’t move, I texted him. That seemed like a good place to start. I could imagine it, too: Julian sitting in bed clutching his cell phone, the early stirrings of an erection straining at his boxer briefs. I hadn’t seen his apartment yet but I already suspected it was gorgeous, a small but beautiful one-bedroom in a historic Georgetown brownstone. Just him all alone in that square footage, idly playing with his dick as he waited for me to reply.
Or maybe he was at some bar with colleagues, sneaking glances at his phone while they discussed the markets. I had no way of knowing and it sent a shiver through my forearms, nerves tightening with thrill. It was easy to picture that, too: him standing in some cluster of finance bros dressed up in light summer suits and loosened ties. They’d have no idea what he was thinking, what he wanted me to do to him. Those preppy motherfuckers with their yields and dividends and all that terminology I couldn’t remember from my Econ 101 course taken eight million years ago.
OK I won..