David: Hey sexy. Have time for a convo?
Me: No. Husband's calling in 5 minutes. What's up?
David: I'd rather talk than text
Me: Call you in 30
David: OK beautiful
"Hello dear," said my husband, as he struggled to get his phone oriented correctly for our weekly video chat. "How's the novel going?"
"Great! It's really coming together. Hope you aren't too lonely down there."
"Nope. The aunts are keeping me busy," he said, chuckling. "Did you see your friends this week? Play any golf?"
"Yeah," I said, "but I'm spending most of my days alone at the cottage trying to finish the first draft."
Our conversation meandered around the same topics Allen and I always discussed in our weekly catch-up call. It had been almost 10 years since I had spent my summers in my hometown in Nova Scotia, and was so grateful he was fine with me starting up that tradition again. Allen had never been dependent on me, for anything, and never complained about the separation; he agreed our time apart made our reunion all the more special. But what Allen didn't know, and couldn't know, was there was something very different about this year's return to Canada that made me anticipate it far more than any in the past.
Over the previous year, I had been in a relationship of sorts with a super fan of my racy novels. It started innocently enough: comments on my blog, and then some emails bouncing ideas off of him, but it's not surprising the salacious nature of the material brought us closer in a way that Huckleberry Finn never could have.
David liked to push me to write subject matter that was just beyond my comfort boundaries. It typically came in the form of a question such as, "Did you ever kiss a woman?" or "Does Allen ever tie you up?" or "Ever been with more than one person at a time?" My answer was always no; I couldn't relate to any of it, because I hadn't done any of it, and so I was pretty sure I wouldn't be good at writing any of it. But over time, I became desensitized to David's persistent prodding, and I allowed my imagination to wander into those possibilities.
David: So a threesome doesn't appeal to you?
Me: I'd be nervous but I guess I could watch
David: Watch what?
Me: A man making love to his wife maybe? What about you? What do you like?
David: Women's lingerie
He told me he helped his wife on with her bra in the morning and off with it at night, just so he could get close to her heavy breasts. I thought that pretty mundane, kind of romantic and sweet actually, and I considered working it into one of my stories. But then he added some unnecessary detail: she hadn't been as available to him as she had in the past, and so that helping hand he was giving her frequently found its way to his groin.
***
One early morning in the middle of a busy work week, David pinged me during a meeting.
David: What are you wearing?
The question and the timing made me uncomfortable. Luckily, my coworkers were oblivious, complaining loudly about some idiot policy the CEO wanted to force down our throats.
Me: Red dress
And then . . .
David: I mean underneath
I turned as red as the dress itself, hoping no one noticed. I flipped my phone face down but it buzzed again in my hand. I vowed not to respond to whatever David had sent, but I took a quick peek. It was a picture of him from the waist down, stretched out in a lazy-boy chair, his zipper open, his thumb and third finger at the base of his veiny cock; it looked like it had been cast from blue steel.
And with that, our relationship escalated.
For the next eight months, we continued the back and forth, and by now I knew everything about him and his devotion to his family, and particularly to his wife Sue. But every few weeks, typically late at night when our spouses were sleeping, David would reach out to me, and for one express purpose.
The audio eventually morphed to video, and aware of his fascination with ladies' underthings, I would occasionally model various items from my top drawer. He had a particularly strong reaction to a pair of leopard print boy shorts - said he wanted to sniff them and wear them. And so, after pleasuring myself in them while he looked on, I wrapped the damp, fragrant panties in pink tissue paper, placed them in a satin gift bag, and mailed them to his office. It took awhile for the package to travel from Homosassa Springs to Halifax, but 3 weeks later, David pinged me with another provocative photo: same composition as the previous one, his fingers supporting his rock rigid Rodney, but this time in his office chair, wearing my undies.
Me: Are you still in your office?
David: Yes with the door locked. Your panties smell so good; they feel so good. DAMN baby, can you talk?
Me: No, but I can text
David: OK sexy text me good, I'm stroking
Me: OK imagine this . . . I show up at your office wearing a suit with a very low-cut jacket and a short skirt. . . pretend to be there on business . . . get on my knees under your desk . . .
David: mmmmmmmmm yesssssss
Me: Take that glorious blue steel in my mouth and choke on it while you struggle to carry on a phone conversation with your boss
David: Oh FUCK yeah!!
Me: I'm serious
David:???
Me: I rented a cottage in Lunenburg. I'm coming up there for the summer
And so it came to pass, just as I had suggested. What began in the lobby with a fake name and a firm handshake, ended behind David's locked office door, me on my knees under his desk, my suit jacket on the floor, my big bare titties in his lap, and a load of his high fructose porn syrup on my lips.
***