Puretaboo
Ana Foxxx, Michael Vegas Pic(s)
The screen cast a sterile blue glow across his face, a cold substitute for the warmth of another’s breath. His fingers traced the digital outline of her smile, a phantom touch that left his skin aching with a profound emptiness. The scent of his own isolation, a mix of stale coffee and disinfectant, was a poor imitation of the perfume he imagined on her neck. Every whispered word from the speakers was a delicate torture, a promise of intimacy forever held at bay by the unyielding glass. He could almost feel the weight of her hypothetical hand in his, a ghost limb tingling with desperate need. The silence of the room between her sentences was a vast, hollow space echoing with everything they could not do. He leaned closer, as if proximity to the monitor could somehow bridge the impossible distance, his own heated exhalation fogging the cold surface. It was a cruel ballet of almost-touches and nearly-there sensations, a dance choreographed by absence. This was the new intimacy, a connection filtered through wires and waves, leaving him more alone than if he had never logged on at all.
Black Hair | Ebony | Feature | Sci-Fi
