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well. He nodded, breathless himself.
    “Yes. Yes, pet. Come for me.”
    My fingers snapped to my clit, trapped it between middle and ring finger. Sparks went off behind my eyes. I rubbed harder, squirmed and spasmed there in full view of the camera.
    “Now, pet,” he growled. “Come now.”
    And so I did. His name was on my lips. Paul. Paul. My beautiful Paul. I howled it, and gasped it, and then it was over and I lay still while my cunt grabbed at the emptiness inside in pulsing contractions.
    He groaned softly, a small, choked sound and I cracked my eyes open again, saw him reaching for a tissue, and smiled. I was jealous of that piece of paper, of his hand, stupid as that sounds. We smiled at each other, each still too far gone to speak.
    He was inside of me, and I inside of him. Just a second, two, as we stared at each other's faces. For one moment there was no distance. We were one. But the orgasm faded, and like the tide rolling out, we were left apart and alone.
    His arms weren't around me. His breath not on my skin. And as the afterglow cooled off, he wasn't there to keep me warm.
    “I miss you…” I whispered. His eyes narrowed tenderly and he took a breath so deep I could see his chest extend all the way through the little screen.
    "I'm almost done with this script," he said, "maybe you could get some time off... come be with me."
    We had talked about this every time we phoned, but his voice sounded more urgent now. I found his eyes on the screen; I could hardly see him now, the lighting had gotten worse and everything felt a little blurry in my post-orgasmic haze.
    "I want to," I breathed, knotted my brows. "There's this project I'm going to be running the next few weeks, but..." I didn't have to finish. He nodded; he knew. I would try.
    "Hey you could... you know, you could come here?"
    He looked up, and nodded. I think we both felt the aching, hollow feeling more starkly now.  
    It wasn't the same on the phone, however hard we tried.

IV

    There were days when it felt like Paul and I were living in different time zones, different universes, maybe, like time simply passed differently for each of us. His time went slower, or faster—I don't know which one, but it didn't pass like mine.
      Once, he sent me a text: My sweet pet, I'm thinking of you. Tell me how you're wearing your hair today.  
    I'd been in and out of meetings all day, had never even looked at the phone until it was almost time to go home. That was still early in this strange construct of our distance D/s dating experiment, and I knew him even less, couldn’t gauge his reaction or the gravity of my screw up.  
    The shock ran through my entire body; he had addressed me as pet, not Iris. The latter usually indicated a normal, casual conversation, but the former had already taken root in my body as a precursor to the harder voice, the commanding nature he could weave so effortlessly. And I had made him wait—not just a little bit, but almost all day.
    I immediately texted back an apology along with my answer, then hovered over the phone for the last hour of my working day. I didn’t get anything done after that, just drummed my fingers on the desk, carried my phone along everywhere, even just to the kitchen to get some tea.
    On the tube, I drafted a second text. Another, more serious apology. Still no answer. Then I spent the rest of the evening waiting, nervous and feeling indescribably and disproportionately guilty.
    Nothing came. I finally fell asleep around two o'clock, and spent the next day tired and frustrated, exploding at the intern at least twice. That night, I called him, but he didn't answer.  
    Finally, I sent a quick email. I had to force myself to stay neutral and nice. At this point I no longer felt guilty. He was the one making me feel bad for no good reason, I had apologized. It had been an honest oversight.
    He emailed back a few hours later, said he'd forgotten about that text he had sent me and wasn't even sure where