Hi hi. It is me, Dicky, and I need to confess something before you hear it from my door. Because my door is kind of famous in this apartment. It never quite closes. Not all the way. Not when he is home.
Let me back up and set the scene properly, because I have been setting this scene for weeks. He moved in three months ago, this tall, broad, quiet man who fixes things around the apartment and pretends not to look at me. Pretends. I see the looks, baby. I see them when I come out of the bathroom in my towel. I see them when I bend over the laundry basket in my little sleep shorts. I have caught him looking so many times that catching him stopped being an accident somewhere around week two. After that, I started dressing for the looks. Thigh highs under my jeans when we watch movies. The oversized tee with nothing under it for morning coffee. A girl, well, a boy like me, does not dress like that by accident.
Last night I left my door cracked with the lamp on and my music low, and I laid on my bed in my skirt and my stockings and I waited, touching myself slow, not quiet enough to be innocent, just loud enough to be an invitation.
It took him eleven minutes. I counted. The floor creaked, my door eased open another inch, and he was standing there in the hallway light with his heart all over his face.
"Dicky. What are you doing?"
"Waiting for you to stop pretending," I said, and I did not stop touching myself. That is the thing about being a femboy with a crush. Once you finally get caught, you might as well be honest. I told him everything. How long I had wanted him. How pretty it made me feel when he looked. How I left the door cracked every single night hoping he would be brave exactly once. His eyes kept dropping to my stockings and coming back up like he was apologizing, and I giggled, because he was still pretending, even standing there hard enough to see through his sweatpants.
"Come here," I said. "Tell me I am pretty first."
He told me. He told me in this rough, wrecked voice, cross-legged on my bed while I showed him exactly what all that cracked door had been hiding. He talked me through touching myself like he had been rehearsing it, and maybe he had, maybe we both had. Slow. Just my fingers. Now faster. Good boy. Pretty boy. By the time I came, shaking in my little skirt with his name all over my mouth, he was so wound up I thought he might actually cry, and when he finally touched me for real, with his hands instead of his eyes, it was worth every night of that cracked door.
We share a wall, a bathroom, and now a bed whenever I leave that door open, which is every night, just so you know.
Now here is my question for you, sweetheart. Is there a boy like me somewhere in your life, on your street, in your building, the one you keep almost looking at? You do not have to almost anything with me. I am right here on PhoneBuckFuck, and calling me costs a dollar a minute. A dollar to hear my giggle, my stockings, my whole soft little confession, live in your ear. Leave your door cracked tonight. I will be the one who walks through it.