The Forbidden Alley

Tonight's not business as usual here. Oh no.

If you've read me before, you know how it goes. Trauma, erasure, loneliness. Every painful emotion of what my life actually looks like. But you're not on that side of the street anymore.

This is the first of many to come. Wanting like this? Never allowed. These are the thoughts that leave your skin hot and your mouth dry. Chills running down your spine. Heat right between your thighs. And I know just picturing it has your face burning, legs pressed together, trying not to squirm. Don’t bother. Let it happen.

Let’s not play innocent. You want it, or you wouldn’t still be here. In the alley, nobody blushes alone. If you’re not wet, you’re not paying attention.

WELCOME TO THE FORBIDDEN ALLEY

These are not stories from my real life.

These? These are the dirtiest, darkest secrets one could have. The ones that sneak out when you're up late, hand under the covers, telling yourself "Just this once".

No confessions. No advice. Just the fantasies you'd never say out loud. Except maybe here. With me.

There's not going to be any hope or healing on this side.

I do have a question for you. Just one.

How far are you willing to wander down my alley? You've made it this far. Don't stop. Not now. No one's watching.

Take a walk down the Forbidden Alley. I promise that disappointment is the last thing you'll feel.

                                                                                                                                                                       

  

Someone Like Her

I stared at the empty message box longer than I wanted to admit.

Thumb hovering. Screen too bright in a dark room. My chest is doing that tight drum thing it does when I’m about to do something I can’t take back.

I didn’t plan the line. My thumbs moved before my brain could catch up, like muscle memory with bad intentions.

“Someone like you.”

The words turned to silence.
Not the quiet kind. The kind that hums in your ribs.

I pictured her phone lighting up wherever she was .  Kitchen light, shed light, I didn’t know. Her eyes narrowing just a little the way they do when she’s deciding if something’s worth touching. I wanted her to answer and not answer at the same time. I wanted an out and a door kicked open. Both.

My hand was already warm around the phone. My other hand didn’t know where to go. I swallowed. Waited. The cursor blinked like a pulse I couldn’t slow down.

When her reply hit, it wasn’t a shutdown. It wasn’t a joke. It felt like air after being under too long.
I got braver than I am in real life.

I typed slow, thumbs clumsy:

“When I first started imagining you like that, I felt excited and nervous all at once. You walk in and see me, and I’m embarrassed, trying to cover myself, but you come over, sit on the bed next to me, and tell me it’s okay. That you liked watching.”

Send.
Regret tried to rise and got drowned by heat. Blood moving fast. Breath uneven. My palm slid under the sheet without asking permission.

She didn’t tell me to stop. She asked a question that read like stepping closer.

“And then what?”

God.

I could see the room like I was outside of it, watching myself. The glow from the phone painted the walls in blue light. My chest rising too quickly. Her in the doorway like she belonged there. Bare feet. Calm face. That look that says she won’t flinch.

I told her more, because there was more, because it wouldn’t shut up in my head.

“Then you start taking your clothes off. Slowly. Deliberately. Like you know exactly what you’re doing to me. You climb into bed with me, your body pressing against mine. I can feel your heartbeat, your breath on my neck. You kiss me, your tongue exploring my mouth, and I’m lost in you.”

Everything in me answered. My body deciding what my hands needed to say.

I didn’t need to see her to see her. My mind filled in what the phone couldn’t: her mouth a little open, her fingers hovering above the keys, that tremor you try to hide when you’re pretending you’re fine.

Heat crawled through me. I palmed myself, slow without meaning to, breath catching when the image hit again: her catching me. The way my hand would freeze. The way her eyes wouldn’t. She’d stand there and make me feel seen and foolish and lucky all at the same time.

I typed because I needed her inside the moment with me:

“You’d start at the bottom of the bed and slide up to me, slow.”

The bed shifted under my hips. I squeezed harder than I meant to.

I got carried away.
Typed faster than I should’ve, painting the picture too vividly, too soon. The kind of thing you can’t unsend.

Then nothing.
Just the little “seen” at the bottom of the screen. No reply. No typing bubbles.
My stomach dropped.

I started second-guessing every word. The detail, the pace, the assumption that she’d even want to picture it. My thumb hovered over the next message before I even thought it through.
“I’m sorry.”

Send.

It looked small sitting there. Weak. Like the opposite of what I really felt. Truth was, I wasn’t sorry. Not really. I just didn’t want her to think I’d disrespected her.

The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then came back.
Her reply hit slow, one message at a time.

“Don’t be.”
“I wasn’t complaining.”
“I was thinking.”

My breath caught somewhere between my ribs. That wasn’t forgiveness. That was permission.

I hesitated, then pushed the question across the line neither of us could un-cross.

Typing with hands that didn’t feel steady anymore:

“If it wasn’t far… would you?”

The send button might as well have been a detonator.

Her answer was the cool kind of yes, the kind that pretends it’s a shrug, not a confession:

“Probably. Why not.”

Three casual words that hit like a full body jolt.
Surprise punched first. Then arousal so sharp it made me exhale like I’d been hit. I hadn’t let myself believe she’d want me like that. Older, married, whole life in motion — and here she was, saying the quiet thing out loud without spelling it. I read it again just to feel the way it landed inside my chest.

Don’t be.
I wasn’t complaining.
I was thinking.

Thinking.
It read like kissing with words. Like we were both standing on the same tile, pretending the floor wasn’t hot.

And fuck if that didn’t light every nerve I had.

I couldn’t stop now. The phone felt heavy and perfect in my hand.
I built it for her the way it plays in my head when I close my eyes:

“You’ve got me thinking about it all now. My imagination’s going crazy.”

And it was. Not noise detail. The weight of the blanket on our legs. Her hair falling forward. The way her knee would brush my hip as she crawled up. The quick check in her eyes to see if I’d pull away. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

She asked for more without typing the word more, and I gave it like confession.

“I try to hide myself and apologize not knowing you were there. But you tell me it’s okay and not to worry and that you actually enjoyed watching it. You ask if I want help, and me being attracted to you, of course I do.”

My hand moved with the picture. I wasn’t even pretending anymore.

“The part that keeps replaying,” I typed, thumbs stalling only to drag breath back into my lungs, “is the first part. You come into the room and ‘catching me,’ the start of it. It gets my blood pumping so much and so fast anytime I think about it. I’m instantly ready to go.”

I could feel my heartbeat in my wrists. I swallowed hard. I imagined what she was doing with her body on the other side of the screen and had to close my eyes.

I didn’t need her to say she touched herself. I didn’t need proof. The wanting was enough, the way her sentences stretched, the way her timing matched mine like we were listening to the same rhythm. If there was rain where she was, I swear I heard it under everything.

I pulled air through my teeth and slowed down so I wouldn’t come too fast. I wanted the build. I wanted to write and feel at the same time. I wanted the ache.

I typed, pausing between lines to breathe and not fall apart too soon:

“Just thinking about it makes me want it even more. The way you talk, the way you look—yes, please.”

My thumb hovered over send. I pressed it before I could second-guess the nakedness of that.

The sheet was hot against my skin. I changed grip and let the picture loop: her sitting on the bed like she owned the space, her knee touching mine, her voice low, telling me not to be embarrassed. The first kiss. The sound I would make into her mouth. How slow she’d take me just to watch my face come apart.

I typed like prayer:

“I can picture you walking in, your eyes locked on mine, a slow smile spreading across your face. I can see you undressing, taking your time, teasing me, torturing me with anticipation. I can feel your hands on me, your mouth, your body pressing against mine.”

Send.

My thighs tensed. I edged myself away from the end because I wanted to sit in it longer — wanted to memorize it in my muscles so the morning wouldn’t steal it.

The phone buzzed in my hand. Her words were short but heavy enough to tilt the room.

“Then tell me. I want to imagine it all.”

I did.
Like we were breathing into each other’s mouths without touching. Each pause stretched like the second before a kiss lands. I could hear my own breath in the quiet. I imagined hers matching mine.

I don’t know when the light changed, only that it did — the blinds gray-up instead of black-down, a soft lift at the edges that told me it was morning. I was loose in my body and strung tight at the same time. The kind of spent that still hums.

I checked the thread again from the top, the way you do when you want to prove to yourself it really happened. It read like we built the same scene from opposite ends and met in the doorway.

She wrote something that made me grin into my pillow — not clever, just honest. She said she was still thinking about it. She didn’t apologize for wanting. She didn’t dress it up as a joke so she could walk it back later. She let it sit there.

I lay there with the phone cooling in my palm and felt no shame. No regret. Just a clean ache that said something had been switched on, and I didn’t want it switched off.

When my breathing finally evened out, I turned the phone face-down and stared at the ceiling, replaying the same exact frame I always do: her in the doorway, catching me. The way my hand stops, the way she doesn’t. The look on her face. The yes, we said without saying yes.

My mouth shaped the words even without the screen:

Someone like Her.