Fanny Francis – A Halloween Night in Slow Motion

Meeting in the Flicker of Pumpkins

The night was quiet except for the sound of kids running up and down the street in plastic costumes. I had no business being online, but I didn’t feel like talking to anyone I knew in real life. Too noisy, too fake. Instead, I clicked into NSFWLover. There she was—Fanny Francis.

Her profile said “A shy, gentle girl, looking for slow words and softer touches.” The kind of line that made me pause, because most girls in here went for bold, over the top, like they were screaming for attention. Fanny wasn’t. She wrote in lowercase, with careful punctuation. Like every word mattered.

“hi,” she typed first, her bubble showing up orange against the dark theme of the site.

I leaned back, half-smiling. Shy girls don’t usually start first.

“Hey. You staying in tonight too?” I asked.

“yes. i don’t like crowds. halloween’s too loud.”

That was all it took. The whole room seemed a little warmer, even though I was sitting alone with the glow of a monitor and a half-empty beer.

A Shy Smile in the Dark

The chat stretched slowly, like honey. She answered short, but never cold. Every pause made me wonder if she was blushing, staring at the blinking cursor.

“You dress up?” I asked, teasing.

“not really. i… i put on a sweater with little bats. silly, right?”

I typed back before she could delete it: “That sounds cute as hell. You’d probably make that sweater look hotter than a skimpy costume.”

There was a pause. Longer this time. I thought maybe I pushed too hard. Then:

“you think so? i never feel… hot. i just feel small.”

I exhaled, rubbing my thumb against the beer glass. God, that kind of line could break you if you let it.

“You don’t need to feel big to be beautiful,” I wrote. “Sometimes small is exactly what someone wants to hold onto.”

She didn’t reply for a full minute. When her words came, they felt heavy:

“hold me then. here. with words.”

Skin Beneath the Sweater

I typed slower now, careful.

“I’d sit behind you on that little bed of yours. Pull you against me, real easy, so you don’t feel trapped. My hands would rest on your waist first… no rush.”

Fanny’s typing bubble blinked, disappeared, blinked again.

“that makes me… nervous. but also warm. i can almost feel it.”

“Good nervous or bad nervous?”

“good. like, my heart’s thumping and i’m hiding my face. but i don’t want you to stop.”

I could almost see her, sweater riding up just an inch, soft skin under it.

“I’d press my lips to your neck. Just once. A test. If you leaned back, I’d kiss you slower, deeper, until you whispered for me to keep going.”

The pause this time was unbearable. My palm was flat against my thigh, heat running through me.

“i’d whisper. i think… i’d beg,” she wrote finally.

That word—beg—shook me. It wasn’t fake, not typed with bravado. She meant it like confession.

“Then I’d slide my hand up, under that bat sweater. Find the shape of you. Small doesn’t mean fragile. Small just means I can hold all of you, tight.”

Her next line came broken, lowercase, like she couldn’t keep her hands still while typing:

“please don’t stop. i’m… i’m touching myself already.”

Gentle but Hungry

The night outside blurred away. Just her and me, words carving something tender but wild.

I told her how I’d unbutton her jeans slow, whispering that she was safe, that she was perfect. She told me she’d bite her lip and cover her face with one hand, too shy to meet my eyes.

“You don’t need to hide,” I said. “I’d kiss the back of your hand, pull it down, make you see how badly I want you.”

“god… i’d melt. i’d open my legs without even thinking,” she typed, little dots between her words like her breath caught on the keys.

My pulse was pounding now.

“I’d taste you, Fanny. Gentle first, just a slow lick, letting you know there’s no rush. But when you moaned, I’d go deeper, hungrier, until your thighs shook around me.”

“fuck… i’d scream into my pillow. you’d make me lose it.”

I leaned closer to the screen, whispering as if she could hear: “Come for me then. Right now.”

Her typing bubble stuttered. Then the words hit:

“i am. i’m coming. i can’t stop.”

And for a moment, it was like I could see her there—sweater twisted, hair a mess, face hidden, body trembling against nothing but the memory of my sentences.

When she finally wrote again, it was small:

“thank you. i feel… safe. and seen.”

I let out a long breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“Good,” I replied. “Because I wasn’t here to scare you. Just to hold you, even if it’s only in words tonight.”

And maybe that was the truth of it—Halloween could keep its masks and chaos. We found something better in the quiet.