The stories that have the most impact on me are the true ones—or at least the ones with the claim or illusion of truth to them. Somehow, reflecting on these flesh-and-blood authors actually participating in the tales they tell here adds an extra element of eroticism that makes the story all that more evocative for me.
So, when I considered the idea of composing my own stories, I was naturally and persistently compelled to draw from life. Leafing through my black book, I felt extremely fortunate upon realizing that I had enough encounters to constitute a body of work, more or less. For the fact is, and this is neither a boast nor a complaint, I've just been something of a hound these last couple decades. Don't get me wrong; I'm a nice enough guy, and have a great, great deal of respect and affection for women. One might even say veneration. But they get into my head from time to time—the smart ones, the beautiful ones, the creative ones, the shy ones, the tempestuous ones—and I get an overwhelming desire to fuck them. That desire often turns into an outright ambition.
Somewhere along the way, and without really being conscious of it, I became somewhat adept at what is commonly called "the art of seduction." That's a rather hackneyed phrase; I don't know if it's an art, but it may qualify as a skill. Some women at particular points in their lives are more susceptible to being swept off their feet, as it were, but most are not. The key to seduction, then, has always been patience. Most women have a large emotional stake in sex, but a sense of trust seems to be the most critical quality that one has to establish with the seductee—enough trust to slightly temper the danger of what they feel themselves growing inclined to do. And with many of these partners, there was definitely an element of danger involved; many of them were married, with boyfriends, or lovers, and sometimes more than one.
As I said, one rarely runs across an object of desire when they are entirely free of some kind of romantic complication or other. But to me, that's been part of the beauty and the challenge, not to mention a large part of their allure. The player on the make, looking for a boyfriend or fuck-buddy, inevitably lacked the kind of passion and abandon that many of these women demonstrated once they recognized their own desire and ultimately gave in to it. Sometimes, admittedly, it was even more than I bargained for. I began to understand at some point that so many women lack something in their lives though quite often without being entirely aware of it. Not all, of course. I have a number of very good female friends who, I could tell from the outset, were very content and secure in themselves, and had no need or interest, not even a repressed one, for me to insert myself in their lives (or in them) in that way.
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Most likely none of the women in these stories, on the odd chance of coming across them and recognizing themselves (which I will naturally take the proper pains to prevent), would not be pleased or flattered to find themselves portrayed here, however flattering my version of affairs may be. Brenda would perhaps be the lone exception.
I once worked in the marketing department of a large consulting firm when Brenda joined the company. Though she was young, her jet black hair was shot with gray: very dramatic, something of a Susan Sontag thing going on. She was much more sturdily built, however, with full, round breasts (as best I could tell from the conservative business outfits she wore) and a bit broad on the bottom—the classic pear shape. She had bright, clear gray eyes and, I thought, a wonderfully plump, sensuous lower lip. She seemed somewhat shy at first, natural for a newcomer, but was friendly and enthusiastic. Almost too enthusiastic, I thought; there seemed something a little false or contrived about it. But I learned a long time ago to avoid judging people too quickly; all people are ultimately unknowable, and always far more complicated than one could ever surmise.
We had some brief occasions to work together, though nothing too involved. Work projects are usually a good way to get to know a woman fairly quickly; sharing a common goal and common effort is a bonding experience. You get to know a lot about a person in fairly short order. I hadn't really thought about Brenda in a sexual way at all upon first getting acquainted with her. I even considered that she might be gay. Mostly because, as I said, of her very conservative appearance: far more conservative that the other women in the office. She wore lots of long, heavy skirts, fussy pleated blouses, big jackets. She complained that none of these business clothes really fit her very well because she had recently lost a great deal of weight, and I was inclined to believe that might be true. I've known several people who were once heavy and even after losing a lot of weight still camouflaged themselves in oversized, unflattering things.
We both found ourselves working together at a client site, and so began to drive back and forth together from our office to the customer's, and that's when I began to know her better. She liked to talk about herself, the things she was doing, her various non-work enthusiasms, and I was glad to let her. My contributions were usually jokes, observations, random opinions, and the occasional bit of flattery. She was pretty, and I began to think she was hiding something behind all those bumptious outfits.
That particular project ended and she went off to work with a different customer while I returned to my office, but from that point we kept in touch somewhat regularly by e-mail. She would write to me asking for help, advice, or information, and I would always respond quickly and usually include pleasantries, remind her of some joke we shared about someone, a bit more flattery that was a little flirty. She'd respond in kind, and sometimes the thread would go on throughout an afternoon.
Things became even more flirtatious, and soon our e-mail exchanges were rarely about work. Still, I really didn't know if I wanted to fuck Brenda. Flirting with her, and seeing how far that could be pushed short of crossing some line, was one thing. Also, I knew she had very recently started dating someone, and that's typically not the most opportune time to try to pursue a seduction. People in the early stages of a relationship generally feel good about themselves, and are unlikely to be too distracted.
I had recently quit smoking, and in addition to using the patch, I usually carried a pack of Life Savers with me to suck on during the occasional craving. One day, during one of our e-mail exchanges, Brenda asked me if I had tried Crème Savers, a creamy fruit-flavored hard candy. I wrote her that I hadn't; were they any good?
"I'm sure they are," she wrote me. "I always enjoy having something creamy sliding down my throat."
I honestly can't remember how I responded to her e-mail. I can remember that immediately after whatever I did write and send, I locked myself in the men's room stall and pumped a pretty substantial load into a wad of tissue. Suddenly the notion of Brenda sucking my cock, still somewhat occasional and abstract at that point, had become very vivid to me.
At the time I was somewhat farther along in the e-mail seduction of someone else (a later story in the series) and had been composing a very erotic letter—a fantasy I was having about this other woman, and one that I hoped to send her soon, as our exchanges had recently become very intimate and things were heating up. Brenda's forwardness with the Crème Saver e-mail, however, had caught me a little by surprise—a pleasant surprise. The very next day, when she wrote me to ask me what I was up to, I responded that I was bored with work and so was wasting the company's money and entertaining myself by writing erotica.
"Oh my God," she wrote me, "I write erotica, too! You can't tell me something like that and not share. You absolutely have to share."
What I had written so far was pretty explicit, but I figured, what the hell; she had already offered a fairly unmistakable innuendo, and she requested it, so it wasn't like I was forcing it on her. And the information that she also wrote erotica, so uncharacteristic with the early impressions that I had formed of her, was too intriguing not to explore. Most importantly, I also knew that once I sent her a sexually explicit story fragment to read, I would be in her head, if I wasn't there already. I would gain a sexual role in her imagination.
A couple hours passed after I sent her the story fragment before I heard back from her. I wasn't surprised by that. She may have decided not to read it at work (always a risk), or she may have read it and spent some time fashioning a response or, more likely, trying to decide whether or not she should send the response she fashioned.
"I was going to save this to read until I got home, but I just couldn't resist," she wrote to me. "Now I wish I had waited, because I am SO wet." Included in her e-mail was a link to a Web site where, to my surprise and delight, she had posted a number of her own stories.
