lousynickname
05-17-2005, 09:33 PM
"My husband is out of town all week. Would you like to come over tomorrow?" I read her words on the screen over and over again. The time of night had to be affecting my vision.
We had known one another for a short time. We met, innocently enough, in an Internet chat room. Well, that isn't quite true: there was very little innocent about it. My first introduction to her was by way of a photograph she had taken of herself while in the midst of a romantic encounter. She was stunning in the photo. I couldn't see all of her body, but what I saw... Oh, my. Her skin was an exquisite: a warm, exotic shade of olive, and flawlessly smooth. Shapely rounded hips... A firm stomach, which gently dipped to her small navel.... And her breasts! I have never seen such a pair in my life. Two perfectly formed mounds of soft, sweet flesh. Her nipples were small and dark: they stood proud and erect, like black cherries on a caramel sundae. She was splendid! My hands shook as I typed my first message to her in that chat room. I didn't expect her to say anything to me. Women like that rarely talk to men: they don't need to. A few seconds later, though, much to my surprise, I received a reply. By then, my pulse was racing.
It continued to do so as we talked, far too late into that first night. She was initially a bit shy, almost hesitant, but we had a connection. It wasn't long before she admitted to me that she secretly enjoyed being with men other than her husband. She called it her "wild life." She described how she had seduced a couple of other men while her husband was away. I could sense that she was blushing, but she continued for several hours, as I gently probed her with my questions. She possessed a warmth and an excitement which, coupled with her shyness, made her as marvelous to talk to as she was to see.
Tonight, though, I was in a fog, hardly able to think straight. I just barely managed to write back. Yes, of course, I could meet her: I'll pick up a bottle of champagne to share over brunch, and would meet her by mid-morning. Oh, and could she please let me know her address? I wasn't even quite sure which city she lived in...
The night did not pass quickly. I had to write a list of things that I needed to do, to make sure no detail was overlooked. Select my favorite shirt. Polish my boots. Feed the dog. Find a map of Wyoming. Remember the champagne. Call in sick to work in the morning...
The drive to her place the next day was no better. My mind was still spinning, and I'm not sure that I was in the proper condition to be behind the wheel. I was motivated, though: nothing would stop me from seeing her, especially an accident, so I drove as safely as I could. Her image filled my imagination, just as it had filled every dream since we first spoke. I tried to distract myself by listening to the radio, but it was hopeless. The image from that first photograph... Her back slightly arched, her arms outstretched, her body completely open to her lover... I missed the exit from the interstate, and had to double back.
After seeing a bit more of Wyoming than I had intended to, I finally arrived. Ten thirty. Mid-morning, just as I had said. At least this much was going well. After nearly locking my keys in the car, I found my way, champagne bottle in hand, to her step. One more deep breath, and then the knock…
The door opened slowly, and there she was. She wore a thin, silky robe, tied at the waist. The robe, wrapped modestly around her, formed a "V" at her throat that just barely hinted at what lay beneath. The loose sleeves covered her arms to her wrists, but for the first time, I saw her hands and fingers in person. Even her fingers were lovely! I was instantly at ease. The nervousness I had felt for the last 18 hours vanished when she smiled meekly at me, standing in her doorway. The sudden sensation of calm and peace was almost, but not quite, enough to startle me all over again.
As I stepped in, she shut the door, taking care to lock it. She turned, smiled more broadly, and took me by the hand as I followed her. From behind, I was able to catch a few brief glimpses of her calves, uncovered by the robe, and bare feet. As my gaze worked its way slowly upward, I could discern the shape of her rear end, wrapped in silk: a package waiting to be opened.
Brunch proved to be exotic and a bit mysterious, not unlike my hostess. She had laid out an assortment of ripe fruits, pastries, and some other items (which I presumed to be Asian in origin) that I didn't recognize on a small table in front of her couch. I was able, after the rush of calm, to loosen my death grip on the champagne bottle, and poured two glasses as we took our seats next to one another.
Over the next hour or so, we ate and drank, talked and laughed, exchanged furtive glances and flirtatious comments. She identified the unusual items for me, and held up a small bite of each for me to taste. Whether by instinct or conscious decision, we were gradually leaning in closer to one another all throughout. We "accidentally" brushed up against one another several times. Each brief contact caused me to be simultaneously more relaxed and more excited. She emptied her champagne glass, and set it on the coffee table. As I leaned in to refill it, she slid in close to me and placed her hand on my thigh. I nearly spilled champagne on her carpet.
I managed to recover with minimal mess, and turned to hand the glass to her. She demurred, and placed it back on the table. As we sat facing one another on her sofa, she started to massage my shoulders. I watched her face as we continued to talk, but she wasn't watching mine. Her eyes were lower. She moved them slowly across my chest, down my torso, and then back upward, until she fixated on the third button of my shirt, the highest that was fastened.
"Here, lean back a bit," she offered, as her fingers slid down from my shoulders. I took a deep breath, expanding my chest, and complied. As I reclined, she seated herself beside me, her fingertips moving in slow, small circles on my chest. I could feel the warmth of her hands as she slid them toward the button. Two of her fingers slid inside my shirt as she unhooked the 3rd button. Then the fourth. Then the fifth.
My chest was now exposed to her. I delighted in her soft, warm hands against my skin. As she massaged my shoulders again, this time without the intervening fabric of my clothing, i noticed that the "V" of her robe had worked its way lower. The view of the cusp of one delicate breast must be akin to a sailor's first glimpse of land on the horizon after months at sea.
Sixth button. I had momentarily lost track of her hands. They must have moved lower as I was enjoying the scenery. Seventh button: the last one. I watched as a tiny smile formed on her face as she pulled my shirt loose, uncovering my navel. "That's much more comfortable, isn't it?" I had to agree: it was. She lifted her eyes and smiled at me again. Her hands, though, were still preoccupied. Having mastered all of the shirt buttons, they now unhooked my jeans. Her fingers were placed mischeviously near my formerly fastened belt and her eyes sparkled as she asked "shall we go to the other room?"
(More to come)
We had known one another for a short time. We met, innocently enough, in an Internet chat room. Well, that isn't quite true: there was very little innocent about it. My first introduction to her was by way of a photograph she had taken of herself while in the midst of a romantic encounter. She was stunning in the photo. I couldn't see all of her body, but what I saw... Oh, my. Her skin was an exquisite: a warm, exotic shade of olive, and flawlessly smooth. Shapely rounded hips... A firm stomach, which gently dipped to her small navel.... And her breasts! I have never seen such a pair in my life. Two perfectly formed mounds of soft, sweet flesh. Her nipples were small and dark: they stood proud and erect, like black cherries on a caramel sundae. She was splendid! My hands shook as I typed my first message to her in that chat room. I didn't expect her to say anything to me. Women like that rarely talk to men: they don't need to. A few seconds later, though, much to my surprise, I received a reply. By then, my pulse was racing.
It continued to do so as we talked, far too late into that first night. She was initially a bit shy, almost hesitant, but we had a connection. It wasn't long before she admitted to me that she secretly enjoyed being with men other than her husband. She called it her "wild life." She described how she had seduced a couple of other men while her husband was away. I could sense that she was blushing, but she continued for several hours, as I gently probed her with my questions. She possessed a warmth and an excitement which, coupled with her shyness, made her as marvelous to talk to as she was to see.
Tonight, though, I was in a fog, hardly able to think straight. I just barely managed to write back. Yes, of course, I could meet her: I'll pick up a bottle of champagne to share over brunch, and would meet her by mid-morning. Oh, and could she please let me know her address? I wasn't even quite sure which city she lived in...
The night did not pass quickly. I had to write a list of things that I needed to do, to make sure no detail was overlooked. Select my favorite shirt. Polish my boots. Feed the dog. Find a map of Wyoming. Remember the champagne. Call in sick to work in the morning...
The drive to her place the next day was no better. My mind was still spinning, and I'm not sure that I was in the proper condition to be behind the wheel. I was motivated, though: nothing would stop me from seeing her, especially an accident, so I drove as safely as I could. Her image filled my imagination, just as it had filled every dream since we first spoke. I tried to distract myself by listening to the radio, but it was hopeless. The image from that first photograph... Her back slightly arched, her arms outstretched, her body completely open to her lover... I missed the exit from the interstate, and had to double back.
After seeing a bit more of Wyoming than I had intended to, I finally arrived. Ten thirty. Mid-morning, just as I had said. At least this much was going well. After nearly locking my keys in the car, I found my way, champagne bottle in hand, to her step. One more deep breath, and then the knock…
The door opened slowly, and there she was. She wore a thin, silky robe, tied at the waist. The robe, wrapped modestly around her, formed a "V" at her throat that just barely hinted at what lay beneath. The loose sleeves covered her arms to her wrists, but for the first time, I saw her hands and fingers in person. Even her fingers were lovely! I was instantly at ease. The nervousness I had felt for the last 18 hours vanished when she smiled meekly at me, standing in her doorway. The sudden sensation of calm and peace was almost, but not quite, enough to startle me all over again.
As I stepped in, she shut the door, taking care to lock it. She turned, smiled more broadly, and took me by the hand as I followed her. From behind, I was able to catch a few brief glimpses of her calves, uncovered by the robe, and bare feet. As my gaze worked its way slowly upward, I could discern the shape of her rear end, wrapped in silk: a package waiting to be opened.
Brunch proved to be exotic and a bit mysterious, not unlike my hostess. She had laid out an assortment of ripe fruits, pastries, and some other items (which I presumed to be Asian in origin) that I didn't recognize on a small table in front of her couch. I was able, after the rush of calm, to loosen my death grip on the champagne bottle, and poured two glasses as we took our seats next to one another.
Over the next hour or so, we ate and drank, talked and laughed, exchanged furtive glances and flirtatious comments. She identified the unusual items for me, and held up a small bite of each for me to taste. Whether by instinct or conscious decision, we were gradually leaning in closer to one another all throughout. We "accidentally" brushed up against one another several times. Each brief contact caused me to be simultaneously more relaxed and more excited. She emptied her champagne glass, and set it on the coffee table. As I leaned in to refill it, she slid in close to me and placed her hand on my thigh. I nearly spilled champagne on her carpet.
I managed to recover with minimal mess, and turned to hand the glass to her. She demurred, and placed it back on the table. As we sat facing one another on her sofa, she started to massage my shoulders. I watched her face as we continued to talk, but she wasn't watching mine. Her eyes were lower. She moved them slowly across my chest, down my torso, and then back upward, until she fixated on the third button of my shirt, the highest that was fastened.
"Here, lean back a bit," she offered, as her fingers slid down from my shoulders. I took a deep breath, expanding my chest, and complied. As I reclined, she seated herself beside me, her fingertips moving in slow, small circles on my chest. I could feel the warmth of her hands as she slid them toward the button. Two of her fingers slid inside my shirt as she unhooked the 3rd button. Then the fourth. Then the fifth.
My chest was now exposed to her. I delighted in her soft, warm hands against my skin. As she massaged my shoulders again, this time without the intervening fabric of my clothing, i noticed that the "V" of her robe had worked its way lower. The view of the cusp of one delicate breast must be akin to a sailor's first glimpse of land on the horizon after months at sea.
Sixth button. I had momentarily lost track of her hands. They must have moved lower as I was enjoying the scenery. Seventh button: the last one. I watched as a tiny smile formed on her face as she pulled my shirt loose, uncovering my navel. "That's much more comfortable, isn't it?" I had to agree: it was. She lifted her eyes and smiled at me again. Her hands, though, were still preoccupied. Having mastered all of the shirt buttons, they now unhooked my jeans. Her fingers were placed mischeviously near my formerly fastened belt and her eyes sparkled as she asked "shall we go to the other room?"
(More to come)