An Audience Of One Pt 01

She'd never written an email to an author before, but something about the story resonated deeply. She could feel him lurking in the margins and hiding between the lines. There was something there: a truth, a vulnerability. His characters didn't feel like puppets acting out his will so much as humans trapped in amber, struggling to break free.

Dear Mr. Jones,

I feel silly calling you that because I know it's not your name. I feel silly anyway, writing a fan letter like an infatuated teenager. I read a lot of the stories on this site. You can imagine for yourself why. My husband and I haven't had sex in over a year. You get the picture.

Anyway, are you the character Simon from your story? God, I want a man like that so badly. Just for a night. Just for one night I want to feel beautiful and desired and wanted.

Never mind. I don't want to know. Just know that you made one woman very happy, and you can imagine for yourself what that means.

Love,

SpentWife

She counted to three, then hit the send button. It was done. The television echoed down the hallway as she crawled into bed alone again. She slipped her hand into her panties and imagined Simon.

***

The next morning she awoke with a bad case of buyer's remorse. What if her husband checked her sent mail? What if Mr. Jones thought she was foolish? What if? What if? What if? She logged on to erase her footprints, and was greeted by a response:

Dearest SpentWife,

Thank you so much for taking the time to contact me. Writing is a very lonely business. Sometimes I feel like I'm trapped on an island, stuffing notes in bottles and setting them adrift. Occasionally I get a reply, but more often than not they are critical. But enough: You were kind enough to write me, and I shouldn't waste your time with my complaints.

I'm terribly sorry to hear about the situation with your husband. Whether the problem is physical, emotional, or psychological, there's no need for you to be alone. Humans need love, kindness, and touch.

At risk of embarrassing both of us, I'm pleased to hear that I could at least bring you touch, even if by your own gentle hands.

Thank you again,

Mr. Jones

She felt her face flush and her red ribbon of a mouth unraveled into a broad smile. Her skin tingled and her nipples hardened beneath her tee shirt. Between her legs her sex beat in time with her nervous heart.

Throughout the day she returned again and again to Mr. Jones: his email, his author profile, the few stories he'd posted on the site. The way he wrote about sex-fearless, yet feminine. She wondered whether he was really a woman but decided he was really Simon. Simon Jones. Simon would not ignore her. Simon wouldn't criticize her. Simon appreciated her. Simon adored her. Simon would take control, but he would give it back, too. Simon.

Mr. Jones,

Thank you so much for your response. Yes, you embarrassed me but you caught me red handed, or at least wet handed ha ha. I'm sorry, that was really inappropriate. You must think I do this all the time, but I swear I've never written one of the writers on this site before. I just feel like I know you or something. Can I tell you a secret? I'm touching right now.

Please tell me—are you really Simon?

Janice

The thrill of it, of confessing something so intimate to a total stranger. She hadn't felt like this in years: butterflies, nervousness, the urge to keep checking for a response. Only three messages between the two of them, but she lay on her side and reread them again and again, hand trapped between her rocking thighs until the rush came.

The front door opened, and the sound of her husband's heavy feet grew closer. She closed her laptop and yanked up her yoga pants. "What are you doing in here?"

"I just woke up from a nap," she said, and she rubbed her eyes.

"Really, Janice? Was your Starbucks run too strenuous today?" he said.

"Why are you home so early, Paul?"

"I swear to God, I was going to fucking kill somebody in that office if I didn't get out of there," Paul said. He sat on the edge of the bed and rambled about his job while he took off his shoes. He stood and rambled some more as he changed from his dress clothes to a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, then he slipped his wallet back into his pants and grabbed his keys.

"Where are you going?" Janice asked.

"Fuck, get off me. Do you have to know where I am every minute of the day? I just got off work, give me some space."

"I'm sorry, baby. Have a good time," she said.

"Later," Paul said.

***

Janice ate dinner alone that night, a little music and the glow of social media to keep her company. Online friends bragged about their spouses and their children, posted photos of their exotic vacations and their fancy dinners. She knew them, yet they didn't seem real: plastic people trying to convince her of their exciting lives. Or maybe not. Maybe they were trying to convince themselves.

She read Simon's story again. The way he wrote about sex, desire, women. His fiction seemed more real than her friends. And then she checked her mail again:

Oh, Janice,

You do know how to catch a man's attention, don't you? I'm glad that you feel like you know me. The world can be a miserable place, can't it? Finding that connection with someone, even a total stranger, sometimes is all we need to make us feel better.

And don't ever feel embarrassed for being who you are. Sex is fun, even alone. Don't be shy; in fact, if there's anything I can do to help I hope you will let me know.

With increasing blood pressure,

Simon

That night Paul crawled into bed fully clothed and grabbed at her breasts. She pushed his hand away, and he brought it back, pinching her nipple. "Ouch, stop it," she said.

"You bitch that I never fuck you, and then you bitch when I do," Paul said.

"You're drunk."

"So what? I'm hard."

"I'm going to the guest room," Janice said, and she pulled her t-shirt down over her ass as she walked away.

***

Dear Simon,

Would you be good to me? Would you be gentle? Would you pay attention to me? I know you would. I know who you are. You are beautiful.

Janice

***

Janice,

I would love to accept your adulation, but I'm just a writer. They are just words. I fear I would be a great disappointment to you.

S

***

Simon!

Don't say that! I know you better than you think! They aren't just words! They are your words and that means you feel those things. You see women that way. I know you're a good man.

Sometimes when I'm touching I think about meeting you for coffee. Your face is so kind and you look at me instead of through me. We sit on the couch and talk and we're so close that our legs touch and I feel tingly all over. I know it's stupid.

Janice

***

What happens next?

S

His question stopped her. She was cheating on Paul, but was she? And what would Simon think of her clumsy attempt to write about sex? Was she getting a lost in a fantasy? Did it matter? Her whole body felt like it was vibrating. The anticipation, the tease, the newness, all of it struck her dead center. She reached into her pants and slid a finger between her lips. When the soft pad of her fingertip brushed across her clitoris she shuddered. "Can you Skype? I'll show you," she typed.

***

That evening when Paul came home, he changed into jeans and a t-shirt and grabbed his keys. "Aren't you going to ask me where I'm going?" he said.

"No."

"I had a bastard of a day."

"I'm sorry," Janice said.

Paul opened the front door. "I'm going out with some guys from work," he said.

"Okay." She watched his car back down the driveway, then listened until the growl of the engine disappeared. Janice rummaged through her lingerie drawer like Goldilocks: too hot, too cool. She wanted to look sexy but casual, everyday but dressy, not contrived. Buried beneath her daily things she found a lacy white half cup bra, the only color a tiny blue bow between the cups. Simon always mentioned bows in his stories.

She pulled her sports bra over her head and fastened the pretty lace bra around her waist, and then she pulled the straps over her lean shoulders. At the end of her closet rod hung the white silk blouse that she used to wear to the office. That seemed like a lifetime ago-her old job, old house, old life. Next off were here yoga pants, replaced with a delicate pair of lacy white panties and a sensible skirt.

She sat at her desk and pressed the "Video Call" button. Her mouth felt dry and her hands shook slightly. It seemed like forever, but finally a face emerged on the screen.

"Janice?" the face said. He didn't look like Simon, but he did. He was older and his hair thinner than the Simon she imagined, but just like in his stories she could see her Simon beneath the surface. It was his eyes, the way he looked through them-his mouth, that kind little smile. The real Simon was softer, older, gentler, but then again not. Something lurked behind those eyes.

She adjusted her camera upward so that he couldn't see the effect that he was having. "Simon? Is that you?"

"I told you you'd be disappointed," he laughed.

"Not at all! I'm just glad I caught you. I got home later than I expected."

"Busy day?"

"Very. I haven't even had time to change. I walked in and came straight to the computer," she said.

"I'm honored."

"So what about you? Busy writing today?"

"Of course," Simon said. "Every day. It all runs together, but I don't want to talk about work. Let's talk about you."

"What's to tell?" she laughed. She missed this: Getting to know someone, the newness and excitement. They talked about everything and nothing: favorite foods, music, movies. She piled on the compliments regarding his writing and he brushed them aside, always turning the conversation back to her. They even talked about Paul, and how lonely she'd felt.

"You must have a lot of friends at work," Simon said, and she blushed and looked away from her camera.

"Can I tell you something?" she said.

"Sure."

"This is kind of embarrassing, but-"

"Oh, come on. It can't be that bad."

"I don't have a job. I used to. It's a long story. Anyway, I changed into this for you."

"Really?" Simon said. "That's the sweetest thing I think I've ever heard." He moved closer to the camera and whispered: "But listen, you don't have to pretend you're anything for me. I think you're perfect."

Janice laughed. "Stop it. You hardly know me, Simon."

"Well, if you put on that lovely outfit for me, shouldn't I get to see it?" he said. Her smile vanished. They stared silently at each other for a moment, and then Janice reached and tipped the camera downward. Her nipples pressed against the delicate silk, a glimpse of flushed skin peeking from her collar. "How beautiful. Let's see the rest. Give us a twirl," he smiled.

She returned his smile, and then she stood and straightened her skirt. "Oh, I love that. So tasteful," he said. "Will you be my secretary?"

"I'll be whatever you want," Janice said.

"Careful. I haven't told you the job description."

"I'll do whatever you want," she said.

"Will you proofread this for me, please? Over here, on my desk?" he said. Janice leaned forward and placed her palms on the table. Her blouse fell open. She could see her cleavage on her camera, and Simon's expression on his.

"Give me a moment, sir. I'm a slow reader," she said. He couldn't take his eyes off of her breasts, so soft and round. They looked as if they'd spill from the half cups of her bra at any moment. And that sexy little bow-she really was a reader. "I like what you have here, sir," she said, and she unbuttoned her blouse. "It makes me feel tingly." She rubbed her hand across her belly and she heard Simon sigh.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he said.

"Neither should I," Janice replied. "But here we are." She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor.

"You are amazing," Simon said.

"Will you show me?" she asked, and it was Simon's turn to blush. He pushed his chair away from his desk. She could see his erection through his trousers. It made her feel wanted, strong, powerful. "Please, Simon." He unfastened his pants and there he was, naked and vulnerable. She wanted to touch him, to taste him. Even just holding him would have been enough. "Do you want me?" she asked.

"I do."

"How much?"

"Very much."

"Those stories—were they for me?" Her thumb brushed across the cup of her bra.

"Yes."

"But you didn't know me."

"Yes, I did. You're my audience of one. You're who I write for."

Her hand traced a path along her torso, fingers exploring around the lace edges of her panties. "Simon?"

"Yes, Janice?"

"Will you show me how you touch?"

"Of course I will," he said, and he wrapped his hand around his erection. He didn't do it like Paul, like it was a race or a chore. He made love to his hand, rocked his hips against the chair, teased the thick droplets of precum from his cock and smeared them over his sex until it glistened, red and hard.

She sat and spread her legs, and with a quick gesture pushed her panties aside. Janice imagined their wetness combining into a slippery mess. She pictured his cock sliding into her pussy instead of his own hand. "I want to taste you," she said, and Simon's cock twitched.

"I want to taste you, too," he said. "Will you do something for me?"

"I'll do whatever you'd like."

"Will you taste your fingers for me?"

She buried her fingers deep inside her, then brought them to her face and licked the saltiness from her fingertips. Simon pumped his cock harder. "Am I really your audience of one?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Then show me."

"Show you what?"

"Show me how the story ends."

Simon's jaw clenched and his pace quickened. She watched his body tense and the hot streams erupt from his swollen cock. His semen looked so bright against his black shirt.

Janice adjusted her camera and lay down on her bed. She wanted him to see, to share her pleasure. She pushed her panties down and let them hang around one ankle, just like the woman in Simon's last story. With one hand she spread her lips, and with the other she rubbed her clitoris faster, faster, until the floor of her vagina pulsed and her body clinched.

There was no guilt, only joy and sweaty satisfaction. Paul would be home soon, or maybe he wouldn't. It didn't matter. She'd found something that she thought long dead, something primal bursting out of the hardened amber inside of her.

Tomorrow Simon would share another story with his audience of one, and for now that was enough.