This Is What I Want. Megan Hart

a frenzy of gratitude. Hell, truthfully, knowing that somewhere he was refreshing his browser as often as she was, hanging on her every word, was a huge turn-on. For Puppetboy, she was a goddess.

      She traded a few back-and-forths with fellow sex blogger Lavender_whiskey, mostly good-natured taunts about the alternate uses for men’s ties. Lavender wrote more often about submission while Eve’s fantasies tended more toward being in charge, but both of them wrote about what they wanted.

      She hadn’t done ninety percent of what she wrote about, but that didn’t matter. That was the point of fantasy, after all. It didn’t have to be practical. She’d grown to think of Eris as almost a different person. Someone bolder. Someone worshipped.

      Loved.

      She was getting ready to sign off for the night when one last comment came through. She didn’t recognize the username, Tell_me, but there was nothing unusual about that. Through the wonder and glory of blog lists, Technorati and search engines, Eris’s blog got hundreds of hits a day.

      I like what you want.

      Tired and ready for sleep, she debated not bothering to reply, but it had become a point of pride with her that all comments, aside from the obvious flames, got an answer. She hated blogs that grandstanded and poked, demanding attention, but gave none in return. If you were going to blog-hop and pimp yourself, you should be prepared to reply to someone who took the time to leave a comment.

      Thanks for stopping by, she typed. It was a mild answer, neither encouraging nor insulting.

      It was past time for bed. She’d spent hours online, chatting and commenting and living her life as someone different, but her real life paid the bills, and her real life body needed sleep. The ping of her e-mail stopped her in the doorway, and like any true addict, Eve gave in and checked “just one more time.” It was Tell_me again.

      Do you really not care who I am? I think you do.

      She paused, fingers on the keyboard, debating. Was this a troll, or a sincere question? Readers like Puppetboy never dared question her entries, but constant praise meant nothing without occasional criticism to temper it. And the use of I…

      Eve hesitated. She wrote a sex blog. She didn’t cyberfuck strangers.

       What makes you think I mean you?

      Two minutes passed with agonizing slowness while she waited for the answer.