A Story for You

We met when we were both in-between - that period of limbo between relationships, when you aren't sure what will come next, or how long you might be in-between. Her husband had lost interest in her after she had put on a few pounds - while he himself had put on more than a few. One night she came home after work to find him gone.

I, too was separated, and had moved to New York to not only take a new job, but to start over. We met by accident online one late evening - I had worked all day and was aimlessly searching the web, wondering how to meet people in the concrete jungles of Manhattan, and she had a night off from her work managing the swing shift at a large hospital.

I couldn't tell you exactly when or how our conversations grew more intimate. We went from hanging out in a chat room to exchanging emails, and then, one night, to phone calls. We never actually set any ground rules, but seemed to just understand that our relationship was based upon courtesy and respect, even at arms-length. She told me that the anonymity and distance made her feel safe, that they were buffers that allowed her to be herself without worries.

Her worries, although they loomed large in her mind, were perfectly normal - she wanted to be reassured that she was attractive. And yes indeed she was. Smooth pale skin, a full chest, and a passionate, sultry voice that would make my blood race. But what made her even more attractive was that she let me into her fantasies, offering a level of intimacy and trust that I'd never felt before. She told me how she liked the idea of being watched - her ultimate fantasy was to make love to her partner while someone she knew watched, and enjoyed the scene that unfolded. And in a funny way, while her fantasy itself didn't particularly interest me, the fact that she shared it with me was enough to draw me in. I'd delight in our time together when she'd tell me her desires, I'd encourage her to tell me more, and eventually her crashing orgasms would sizzle from my telephone speaker thru my ear and down past my stomach.

Our relationship carried on - first for weeks, then for years. There were times when months would pass and we wouldn't be in touch - work, family obligations - and then we would reconnect as if it had only been a day. It was during one of these gaps that I first wrote her a story. I knew what she craved, what she longed for, so one night, missing her - a woman I had never met - I closed my eyes and imagined. I imagined the glimpses of her I had seen from pictures, I imagined the sound of her voice, I imagined how she had told me what she wanted. I placed her in the middle of the story, right where she always wanted to be and let my imagination sail, and before I had half finished writing the story I had an aching erection which I sent to her immediately, before I had second thoughts.

Her emailed response troubled me at first - it simply said "we need to talk." I thought I had overdone it - something seemed to be wrong. She answered the phone, and I thought I heard a tremor in her voice. "Did you write that just for me?" I told her I had, as I hoped she could tell. "I've never been more turned on in my life. Read it to me." I fumbled with my computer, and in a few moments pulled up the text and started to read as I heard her breath in my ear.

As the months went by we found a new way to share and explore - she'd tell me her fantasies, something about her day, her daydreams - and I'd write them into erotic stories which I'd send to her, and then read to her if she liked them. And when I would read her stories I would hear her soft sighs, her breathing, the small things she would tell me at just the right moment - "I'm soaking right now" - until at just the right moment she would let herself go, crying out into the phone and making me want her even more. Eventually we had a small library of stories, each a different theme, topic, scenario, and when she'd whisper through the phone that she wanted me to "read her a bedtime story" I'd feel an instant twitch between my legs.

Then one day, with no warning, I got an email from her. It seemed to break all of the rules that governed our secret world. Short but simple, it just said "I'm coming to NY." My mind began to race at the thought of meeting her - part nerves, part excitement, but I tried to stay grounded and imagined meeting her, simply for a drink, nothing more, in a crowded New York City bar.

We met at her hotel - the big one in Times Square known for its revolving bar overlooking the hustle and bustle. I arrived early, sat down, and ordered us both drinks - she had long ago told me the kind of wine she preferred. I took in the surroundings - it had been years since I was in this neighborhood. I saw her come in and talk to the hostess, and recognized her instantly, as if I had known her forever. Her brown hair framed her face and caught the light, and her dress - a perfect shade of blue - stopped several inches below her knees. I stood up from my chair and waved to catch her eye.

I watched her walk to the table, looking at her in the eye - but watching all of her, the slight sway of her hip, the tiny shake of her chest, hearing the click of her heels on the marble floor. She leaned in and offered me her cheek, saying simply "It is so nice to meet you, finally, Mr. Storyteller."

We sat and sipped at our drinks as we talked. Her trip had been unexpected - a first for her, some type of work-related conference. I suppose I should tell you something that I learned about her at that moment as we talked - that she was taller or smaller than I had expected, that her perfume smelled like heaven, that her eyes were like jewels. In fact her eyes were blue - I know because I could not stop looking into them, the eyes of a woman who had enchanted me for so long. The rest - she was just there, filling the screen with the details blurred, and when I tried to recall those details later they never seemed to have entered my mind.

I lost track of time, but as we were starting our second round of drinks - my only frame of reference - she looked at her watch. "I have to join my colleagues for dinner tonight, I'm afraid - but I did want you to read me a story." I was puzzled by this - here? As I stammered in confusion I told her that I'd have to make one up, and I needed some time to think. "That's OK" she said, "I have a copy of my favorite - the first one you wrote - in my room."

I followed her from the bar onto the elevator, unsure where this was going, my mind bouncing around as she opened the door to her room with her key card. The hotel had given her a suite, and in the sitting area there were chairs and a couch around a cocktail table - upon which sat several sheets of paper. "I've got it all here for us. "Get settled, and I'll be right back." With that she turned and headed for the bathroom.

I sat down and picked up the story, smiling when I recognized it. It was about her, the fantasy she had first confided to me - a story where she had been visited by her lover at work. She returned from the bedroom suite and sat down across from me. "Should I start?" She nodded and closed her eyes.

I started to read, letting the story unfold as it established the setting - her place of work, a conference room with a broad, sturdy table in a nearly vacant building during the overnight shift. As I turned to the second page I heard her sigh; I looked up and lost my place. Her eyes were still closed, she was cupping her breast, and her dress had ridden up her thighs - so that I could see the tops of her stockings, and the garters holding them up. I lost my place in the story, and when I paused she seemed to lose her reverie. She opened her eyes - simply to say "Is something wrong?" "No, not at all..."

I looked back down to the page and started to read again. I described the main character - her - as she met her lover, and led him into the conference room in the office building where she worked. At this point, though, I could hardly follow the words on the page. She slipped off her heels, using each foot on the other, and placed her feet on the cocktail table, apart, in front of me. She had pushed her dress up higher, and I could clearly see that she had left her panties in the bathroom. She was wearing bright red fingernail polish, and it was as if the tips of her fingers had lights on them to attract my attention. As I struggled to read and watch she pulled down the front of her dress to expose a lacy bra cup, which she then slowly pulled down over her breast, her bright red fingertips drawing circles around her stiff nipple, which she pinched as she squirmed ever so slightly in the chair. I could feel my growing erection in my pants, against my thigh, and knew that she needed me to finish her story.

I turned to the third page and continued, even as I saw her hand start to move back and forth between her legs. I read more, describing the setting further - a large conference room, one built for formal presentations with an audiovisual booth at the rear, a booth with a glass window for technicians to manage sound levels, the lights, the equipment. I continued reading: in the story the main character was now pressed against the conference room table, the polished wood smooth and cool on her bare ass as her skirt hiked up, and as her lover buried his face between her thighs she turned her head to see herself in the reflection of the glass window. Thru the glass she caught a glimpse of someone watching her, her fantasy coming true as she grabbed her lover's head by the ears and pulled him more tightly against her.

I read on for her - the part of her story where her lover licked her to orgasm on the conference room table as she saw herself being watched - and, as I read her more of her fantasy story I could barely see the words I had written. Her dress was now up around her waist, and she was moving her hips as her hand fluttered back and forth, the sounds of her wetness tickling my ears as her fingers danced. I could hear her whimpers and soft moans, and then saw her red fingernails disappear as she fucked herself to build her orgasm. I watched her hips rise up off the chair as she cried out and her body shook as she came over and over as I read on, her fantasy coming to life, almost, in her mind.

I stopped reading and just looked at her. I watched her chest rise and fall as her breath came in long pulls, and watched her as she opened her eyes and looked around the room, as if she had never seen it before, as if she expected the hotel to have disappeared. She had a beautiful relaxed smile on her face, and giggled softly, with just a hint of that Southern drawl I'd hear on the phone sometimes.

"That's what I needed" she said - or at least that's what I remembered, but I wasn't thinking too clearly - my cock was so hard it was a painful distraction, throbbing in my pants, and I could only think at all with great concentration. "I've wanted you to read me a story just like this for years now." She got up, and pushed the coffee table aside. I watched her, still mesmerized. She walked over to me, leaned forward, her gorgeous pointed breasts hanging down, and kissed me. "I want you to write me another story" she said as her blue eyes sparkled.

She slowly lowered herself to her knees, and began to tug at my belt. She pulled my belt from the buckle, and I raised my ass off the chair so she could pull down my pants, then my shorts. She wrapped her hand around my cock, a warm, soft, and perfect hand, looked up at me, and said "write me a story about this" as she swallowed me into her perfect mouth and my toes began to curl inside my shoes...