“Fire. There is a fire in the kitchen. Please leave,” a timid voice stuttered after she opened the door to our cubicle. I looked at Molly, she looked back at me: we both stared at the embarrassed privacy intruder and waited for the punch line. I looked beyond the member of staff towards the café’s window. There, I saw the reflection of the flames in the kitchen. This was no joke.

Molly and I abandoned our drinks and snacks in the cubicle. We made our way towards the usual exit. En route, we caught a glimpse of the fire in the kitchen. It was quite bad: the flames stretched from the gas hob to the running extractor. The staff were unable to extinguish the fire themselves; it got too big.

The chef was already evacuated to the street below and receiving first-aid for burns. A crowd of onlookers gathered at the bottom of the first-story café. The residents living in the block above the café were only beginning to evacuate, to the sound of distant sirens.

Out on the street, Molly made our first ever physical contact by hugging me. I believed that it was more from shock than love. However, the hug felt comfortable and it soon morphed into an embrace. At that point, I said to myself in my head: ‘She’s mine’.

“Molly,” I felt bold, invigorated by the physical contact so I made a suggestion, “would you like to come up to my apartment?”

After a short while, she responded with: “Okay.”

My apartment was two blocks from the café. The most efficient way was on foot, along the estuary’s promenade. The footpath was meandering, and of a regular sinusoidal shape. On our right, three-story apartment blocks with a side street every two buildings. On our left, was a body of brackish water, with black mud making up the shoreline, tiny waves, no higher than a few centimetres lapping at the shore. Behind us the sirens, blue and red lights flashing and a lot of commotion.

I had a smallish bachelor flat, on the third floor. Effectively, it was a single room with en-suite bathroom and an open-plan kitchen. The bed was folded into a sofa during the day. The view from the balcony was nice beyond the three bridges crossing the estuary. The closest rail-bridge ran just a few meters from the property's boundary. The rail bridge carried a triple-track long-distance standard gauge line. The two bridges beyond that carried the six-lane A2 highway, with a four-ramp, Parclo interchange biased to the west.

Beyond the transportation network was the nature reserve. I could see clearly the confluence of the three rivers into the brackish estuary. At the two o’clock position, was Claire River. At the twelve and eleven o’clock position two minor rivers. The minor rivers cut valleys over the millennia. The road, which had its interchange with the highway, climbed the hill in the distance. The street of the apartment crossed under both the rail and highways and ran directly to a gate of the nature reserve.

I made her a cup of herbal tea, with a dash of lemon and one sugar. We have been on three previous ‘dates’ at ‘Café Introvert’, so I had learned what she enjoys. Incidentally, her taste in tea matched mine. She went all quiet on me inside my apartment. I gave her time and space to get used to the new environment.

After twenty minutes, she still didn’t relax. She was still sitting on the edge of the sofa stiff as a plank. That’s when I lost it and said some nasty words:

“Relax! If I wanted to take advantage of you, I would have done so by now! You are more valuable as a friend than an elaborate fuck.”

“Thank you for your honesty. Good Day!” she responded with a sense of offence in her voice. After that, she let herself out of the apartment. I didn’t have time to apologise.

“Damn it! I blew it,” I said to myself lying on the couch with teared up eyes. My mind started to reminisce about how I met Molly:

I was a mediocre story writer with a vivid imagination for geographic locations. My personality leaned more towards the rational rather than the emotional. This was reflected in my writings, where the feelings were not described in any great detail.

Molly made a comment on one of my stories. She liked the descriptions and the extent of the fictional geography which I came up with. I responded with a kind “Thank you,” but for some reason, she found some sort of attraction towards me. Hence, we started to exchange private messages online.

We collaborated on stories: I would supply the world, she would supply the characters. She called me teasingly “cold and impersonal”, to which I replied: “warmth is your department”. For months, this was our running joke. Teasing aside, our collaborations were getting rave reviews online.

I had a fairly decent job as a software developer on the Dusty Continent. The company lost a significant contract and millions in revenue. I was made redundant, with about five months’ worth of pay. Job-hunting was not a full-time occupation: I only spent one to two hours per day scouring the internet. I had time on my hands; hence I drew maps of my fictional world. After each district, I wrote a short story set in that district.

One morning, I did my usual routine. One of the tasks involved checking last night’s lottery results. To my surprise, the app decided to circle all my numbers: Jackpot! I verified with an alternate source: the same result. Eventually, I called the number at the back of the ticket, and I was a millionaire.

Through my private messages with Molly, I learned that she wanted to study literature at the University of Tænnið Beach. It is the city where I was born; a city that I have plans to return to. I would be uprooting once again, and fleeing the brewing political conflict in my adopted home country. I would migrate, just like my parents did some thirty years earlier.

With money, not an issue, I could finally move away from family. In the adopted country, I was coerced into signing a bond on a house with the family. There, I was stuck (with ‘them’) for a number of years. With the lottery money, I bought myself out and was free to live the way I wanted.

An apartment on the edge of Tænnið Beach caught my eye. It was the right size for me, and me alone. It was overlooking nature, and transport networks. The apartment was in an affluent area, but not overrun by beach-loving tourists. It was located on a fairly quiet street, running along the estuary. It was sandwiched between the rail bridge to the north-west and the old main road to the south-east. A grade-separated interchange accessed the two-kilometre bridge to the town centre. Prior to the construction of the highway, this was the main route to the west.

Soon after moving in, I discovered ‘Café Introvert’. It was on the first floor, removing it from the hustle and bustle of the street. It overlooked the Claire River Estuary, at that point about two kilometres wide. The café offered introverts like me a quiet place to get away from the world outside.

Décor inside ‘Café Introvert’ was hipster-style. The café had lots of single-person seating scattered all over its floor area. Seating quality varied from couches and bean-bags to carpeted cubicles. There were many nooks-and-crannies to literally crawl into. They had a few multi-person cubicles where one could actually interact with other patrons. Most had Japanese-style sliding doors for added privacy.

Their economic model charged a modest fee per hour. In that hour, you were free to 'introvert' as you wanted. The coffee and biscuits were usually on the house, but ‘donations’ were welcome. Peace and quiet were demanded by all patrons. Patrons were expected to help themselves to all the items on offer, be it a book, a magazine, coffee or cake. Café was lightly staffed and policed by introverts. The kitchen provided hot meals to order; these were charged separately. Their food was wholesome, healthy and delicious.

Molly braved the visit to ‘Café Introvert’ only after a few invitations. I made it quite clear that it is a public place with privacy. We normally took the cubicle. There, we sat on the carpet and caught up with each other’s frustrations of the world. We never talked ‘business’ at the café; we used e-mails and social media for that.  

In total, we had three ‘dates’ there. Even though we spoke freely with each other over social media, I longed to meet Molly in person. She was quite tall, fairly slim. Her hips were not pronounced, but subtle. Her chest I estimated at a 34A, just the right size for me. Other men ignored her based on her small breast size; I was fine with that. Her long flowing brunette hair was her most attractive feature. Light glasses gave her a slightly geeky look.

On today's ‘date’, that fire broke out. At my apartment, our first fight broke out. I was saddened that a cruel slip of the tongue drove her away: “I made my move. She made hers. I don’t think she’ll come back”. I was just falling in love with her.  

A week later I receive a text message from her:

‘Thank you for the time to think. May we talk in person?’

I was gobsmacked. She still cared about me! With no hesitation to allow her back to my life, I replied:

‘Of course yes! Come on over!’

A half hour later, the doorbell rang. There she was. We were on opposite sides of the threshold when she gave me a deep embrace. At that stage, I didn’t care if any of my neighbours would see us.

‘She is mine!’ I said to myself as I allowed her to hold the embrace for as long as she needed to. Once she was done, I gently pulled her inside and closed the door to the apartment.

That time, she was far more relaxed than the first time. She went on to apologise for her behaviour on the previous visit. She simply wasn’t mentally prepared for a visit in a non-public environment.

With the formalities out of the way, I proudly showed her my virtual, fictional world. It was that same world that we had so many stories set in. She was awe-struck by the amount and quality of detail available on my map. She randomly selected items on the map, and I was able to justify them to her. She was quite impressed by it.

We spent about two hours outlining our latest collaboration. We debated ideas backwards and forwards. It was like a mental sparring match. It appeared we both enjoyed the process. Once we had ‘enough’ of each other, we hugged each other goodbye.

The next visit was on a Friday afternoon. She didn’t bother with social media or messaging. She phoned me. In the background I heard lots of noise; Molly was on the brink of tears. She wanted to study for Monday’s exam. Those ‘damn extroverts’ were having a birthday party for one of their more popular friends.

Thirty minutes later, Molly was at my door wearing a backpack. I set her up on the breakfast table, where she studied her material in peace and quiet. I converted the sofa into the bed. There, lying on my stomach, I continued to work on my maps.

Eventually, I got hungry. Molly moved onto the bed, with her books on her lap. I needed to use the breakfast table as a counter in order to prepare the meal. Eventually, the smell of the food lured her into the kitchen. Over that meal, we spoke for the first time during that visit. The timing was perfect, as we watched the sunset over the hills from the balcony.

After a short break, we resumed our individual endeavours. Both of us completely lost the concept of time that evening. I was back on the sofa-bed, while Molly was on the bar-stool in the kitchen. I watched her study; I didn’t have the heart to disturb her. She realised that she needed to go home at around eleven p.m. The last bus was at ten.

It was too late to return to the campus: she got locked out. Her dormitory had a curfew between eleven at night and five in the morning. No-one could enter, no-one could leave, barring for a medical emergency. We made a joint decision that she would sleep at my apartment.

I loaned her a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt. I had a matching set, so we decided it would be fun to dress alike. Molly even allowed me to take a picture with us, dressed exactly the same: grey t-shirt, red boxers.

It felt awkward to lie next to a woman: something I haven’t really experienced. Also, I already offended her once; I already told her that I wouldn’t “fuck” her. I just hoped that I could spend the night without touching her. She also felt uncomfortable with sexual contact.

Molly fell asleep within minutes. My mind was a hive of activity, envisioning various scenarios with Molly. Eventually, the scenarios in my head started to become twisted and weird. I was dreaming. If I’m dreaming, that means that I’m sleeping.

In the morning, we woke up at roughly the same time. Molly was a bit confused but managed to remember last night. I could see that she was relaxed, and had a good night’s sleep. I, on the other hand, had morning wood. Not really appropriate when sleeping with a lady whom you promised not to touch. Molly blushed when she caught sight of it through the boxer shorts. I made no effort to hide it; I acted as if it was all natural.

Outside, there was little traffic on the highway. We heard hundreds of soft conversations between the people doing their morning exercises. The estuary promenade and the nature reserve was a very popular place to take the morning run. I didn’t really partake in running, but I did enjoy a nice brisk walk along that path.

She felt too timid to take a shower; it was an unplanned sleep-over, and I guessed she didn’t prepare mentally. Also, I suspected that she didn’t feel comfortable being naked in my bathroom. She applied deodorant, got dressed in last night’s clothing. We hugged our goodbyes and she returned to the campus.

A week later, ‘the extroverts’ wound her up again. She tried to vent over social media with me. I turned her down. I asked her to write me a story and send it by e-mail. She came up with this beauty:

Jane’s frustration:

Jane is a quiet girl who likes a quiet environment. It is not that she doesn’t like people: she prefers time alone. Time alone to think, time alone to write, time alone to unwind, time alone to release her sexual tensions. Even though Jane has studied psychology, she still is unable to figure out why some people have a blatant disregard for the needs of others. Why do these so-called “Extroverts” think that everybody needs to have a friend twenty-four hours per day?

Jane wants to be left alone. She wants to be left alone for a few hours per day. Is that too much to ask for?! The university, run by extroverts, put two or three people per room. These two or three people are in each other’s faces all the time. Where is time alone? Where is the time to release sexual tension? Where is privacy?

These extroverts don’t realise that we – introverts – exist. That people who want to be left alone, on their own, actually exist. We, introverts don’t need to listen to the constant yapping. Are peace and quiet too much to ask for?

Jane just wants some time alone. Alone, as in with nobody else in the room. Jane wants an hour to release her sexual tension. Jane does not want sex with a random stranger on campus! Jane wants to do it herself! Jane doesn’t want one-night stands! Jane craves a slow and regular relationship.

Jane has a friend: a middle-aged gentleman (a gentle man) who lives alone. She hasn’t got the courage to ask him for assistance. Jane’s friend has an apartment on the other side of town. It has privacy! However, he is a friend, not a boyfriend. Jane doesn’t want to risk ruining the relationship with him by asking him for a sexual favour. What is a girl like Jane to do?

I was quite stunned by the revelations in her letter. I realised very quickly that she was referring to herself in the third person. In the spirit of the exchange, I crafted a response of my own:

Paul’s indecent proposal:

Paul was a man who lived alone. He had an acting girlfriend who lived on the university campus. He enjoyed her company; she knew how to treat him well. She was a fellow introvert; hence they had a sense of each other’s introverted needs. At that stage, it was a young relationship: a relationship which has not reached the sexual level. Well, not yet. Recently Paul received a letter from his acting girlfriend, where she expressed her sexual desires. Even though these desires were for solo activity, they did intrigue Paul.

Paul had an indecent proposal for her. However, he was too afraid of sabotaging the relationship with her. Paul has a great intellectual relationship with her; a relationship like that is extremely rare. There are signs of physical attractions too. However, going sexual would be too far. Paul does not want to ruin a great relationship by being perceived as a pervert who socially engineers his victims and takes ‘advantage’ of them. The proposal would have been worded as follows:

“You are welcome at my residence for the purpose of sexual tension release. However, I would like to propose a few wishes & desires: I wish for you to be wearing a t-shirt and skirt during your visits. It would be acceptable for you to travel in trousers, and change clothing once you arrive.

“I wish for you to be comfortable enough with me to touch your body. My desire is to remove your undergarments for you. Once you are comfortable only wearing a skirt and a t-shirt around me, then I would make another request. I would like to part your labia majora for you for the very first time on that day. Hence, I ask you not to touch your genitals prior to the visits. Once I have parted your labia majora, you would be free to masturbate as you please. I will give you the respect and privacy you require.

“I know that this may be difficult, but I would like for you to feel comfortable enough for me to participate in your masturbation. The decision is fully yours, and will not be questioned. As with all activities, both parties have the right to terminate without the activity if they do not feel safe or comfortable.

Review, edit. Review, edit. Review, edit, good enough, send. Wait for response.

Five minutes later: no response.

Ten minutes later: no response.

Fifteen minutes later: getting worried, no response.

Thirty minutes later: no response, no doorbell.

Forty minutes later: no response, no doorbell.

Forty-five minutes later: ‘Shit. I crossed the line, yet again.’

An hour later: Doorbell: It was her. She had done a spot of shopping.

It turned out that Molly did not own any skirts. In an effort to get the full experience, she went out and purchased one. I felt both embarrassed and honoured by her actions. She was simultaneously excited and nervous prior to our premier sexual encounter.

With her back towards me, I instructed her to remove her t-shirt, then her bra. Even though she felt uncomfortable, she complied with my request. I surprised her by asking her to put the t-shirt back on, over her bare breasts. The skirt went on over the trousers; trousers hit the floor afterwards.

I got to cuddle with her for a while. This was to get her used to me touching her. I gently ran my hands to her lower back, monitoring her body language for any resistance or protest. I whispered, “It’s time for your underwear” into her ear.

She got a little bit tense in the cuddle, as I inched her skirt up. Her breathing got heavier, but she didn’t protest. I touched her hips and felt the waistband of her underwear. Locked my fingers onto the waistband and lowered the underwear to the floor. Once I cleared her thighs, I allowed them to fall to the ground. I manoeuvred her away from the panties, still holding her in the cuddle. I allowed her some time to get used to not having underwear under her skirt.

“John, this is my first-time commando,” she confessed and confided in me.

“Molly, you’ll be okay, I won’t hurt you,” I comforted her, still in the embrace. By this point, she had her head on my shoulder, and I was stroking her long beautiful hair.

After a few minutes, we gently broke the embrace. She still was getting used to being commando-style. I encouraged her to join me in the kitchen as I brewed some tea. The distraction technique worked, and she was becoming more and more comfortable. I dared her to stand on the balcony for a minute or two. To my surprise, she took me up on it.

She was ready. I converted the sofa to a bed and brought out a guest towel.

“Just relax. You will be fine. We trust each other,” I comforted her as she lay down.

I sat on the edge of the bed. I could sense that she was definitely getting aroused. I could sense that she was sexually ready. She pointed her knees towards the ceiling and opened her legs. I got a good view of her vagina. It was beginning to ooze fluid, but she was not allowed to touch it. True to the ‘indecent proposal’, I gently parted her outer lips.

I held her lips parted for a good ten seconds or so. There, I saw that her clitoris was getting erect. Her vagina started to open up and was glistening with moisture. With my other hand, I reached for her hand. I guided her to her own genitals.

I saw that she was not comfortable with me so close to her. I moved away and allowed her to release her sexual tension solo. I sat at the stool at the breakfast counter watching her play with herself. I resisted the urge to whip out my toy and play with it. After all, we were still building a relationship of trust.

I watched her with a smile and an erection. I kept on watching her work her vagina, with the skirt lifted. She arched her back, indicating that she was close to the orgasm. I resisted the urge to go and see it close up. I heard the release, followed by heavy panting. Once her job was done, I approached with toilet tissue. I offered to wipe her vagina for her but was denied.

“I challenge you to get naked,” I dared her.

With a smile, she dropped the skirt and removed the t-shirt. I saw her naked body for the first time. I caught her looking at my crotch. I gave her a smile. She was comfortable taking a quick shower in my bathroom solo.

Next Friday came around, and so did she. Of course, we pre-arranged the meetup and the reason was obvious. She asked for her skirt, but I declined. Instead, I put the skirt over her hips for her. To that action, she said “kinky!” and let me drop her trousers. This time, she was far more confident when I removed her underwear. As a ritual, she stepped out onto the balcony, and gently parted her legs. The steady oceanic wind gently teased her privates.

I didn’t bother setting up the bed. I got out her towel and got her to lie on the couch. I positioned myself at her legs. I proceeded in bending her leg at the knee, exposing her genitals. I surprised her by not separating her labia; I inserted the finger straight into her vagina. There I gently massaged the roof of the chamber, spreading her own moisture.

I changed tactics and started to stimulate her clitoris too. Index and middle fingers were in the vagina, the thumb was on the clitoris. She seemed to enjoy that configuration. I kept on massaging her privates for a good half-hour, not letting up. The free hand would randomly touch her erogenous zones, continuously teasing her. I never told her what the next move will be.

After an hour of massage, she couldn’t take it anymore. I denied her soft request to remove my hand from her genitals. She contorted her body, but I kept on teasing. I forced her to have an orgasm with my hands inside her. It was a strange feeling having one’s fingers squeezed, almost like a hand-shake, but from a vagina.

My hand was soaking wet, after spending an hour inside a vagina. I dried my hand as she was recovering from the orgasm. I didn’t allow her to close her legs, as I wasn’t done with her yet. I gently wiped her vagina for her: it was something I dreamed about for a number of years.

Her Friday visits, often going into Saturday, lasted until the end of the semester. With each visit, we would get more and more adventurous. On her period days, she would do me. That was a welcome break for both of us. Otherwise, she was very satisfied with me masturbating her. She kept coming back for more!

She went home when the university closed for the recess. We continued to correspond via social media. We also maintained our ‘professional’ story-telling relationship.

Our lives changed again when the university messed up, and she didn’t have a place to stay on campus. Some computer error assigned her student number to another person. With that, that other person got her accommodation. Embarrassed, the university was completely unable to rectify the issue, as it had over-stretched itself with the accommodation issue. To us, there was an obvious solution…

Molly made a great girlfriend. Living with her was quite easy. To feed our introverted desire to be purely alone, we upgraded the studio apartment to a three-room (two-bedroom) unit. The couch-bed was purchased from the previous landlord. We made a rule that: ‘we don’t get physical with each other in our bedrooms, as those are for sleeping and introverting’.